Page 45 of Legs

“Says me. And why are you even in this contest? Why the hell would a Master Somm take part in such a farce?”

The knowledge still floored me. We’d explored each other’s bodies, had been sweaty and vulnerable in each other’s arms, but he’d neglected to mention he’d earned his title.

Resentment surfaced. Not that I had the right to be mad. I was the one who’d forced our relationship into the casual zone. A classification up for reassessment. I wanted to learn where he’d gone to school or if he preferred mustard or mayonnaise, reading or watching movies. I’d kept him at arm’s length, a self-imposed distance, but denying my curiosity was getting harder.

The gray-blue lines of his plaid shirt reflected his eyes. He blinked repeatedly, worry crinkling his forehead. “Because I knew you’d be here?”

I laughed, but he’d have to do better than that. “Seriously. I don’t get it.”

His hand was still on my back, his thumb rubbing the same spot. Like he was stuck in a thought pattern. His focus dropped to the floor, seconds dragging into minutes. Then, “The past two years have been about starting fresh. I didn’t want to do anything related to the old me and my family. I’d avoided wine until now, but when I read about the contest, I realized I missed it. It sounded fun. Just like being around you made me realize I missed having someone in my life.”

His honesty struck a match behind my breastbone, ribbons of heat tickling my ribs. He wants me to be his someone. If I gave in, he could answer all my unasked questions. I could stop lying awake, pretending he was at my side, holding me. Nights had never been so long, the days leading to our sexcapades tortuous. I kept thinking I’d kick my infatuation, sure this wasn’t the man I should date. I was existing on slice after slice of denial pie.

Unable to address my flurry of emotion, I focused on his absurd claim. “You probably studied countless hours to pass the Master’s exam, and you’re doing this because it’s fun?”

He shrugged. Shrugged, like it was nothing.

Unlike him, I didn’t have choices. If I lost, I didn’t have a fancy title that would allow me to write my own ticket at top restaurants and wineries. All I had was a drawer full of diplomas I’d like to burn, and a future job talking to dead people. I was destined to fail.

He nudged my knee with his. “I’d like to make it to the final round, but we could always break into a lab and spike the Schnozinator’s water with a flu strain. If we clog that nose before the last week, you’ll be golden.” When I didn’t smile, he dropped his voice. “You’re good at this, Ray. Great. Wine is in your blood. If you don’t win, we can figure something out.”

My heart skipped. We. He’d called us we. I wanted to wrap that word around my shoulders and nuzzle into its comfort. I wanted him, and us, and I was getting tired of my fear. Tired of floundering, my choices too often a reflection of those around me.

I faced him, our lips too close to be decent. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to Napa.”

He leaned back, taking in my face as though I’d offered him my kidney. “Glad to hear it. And that piercing threat? You can tug on them all you want.”

Such a bad boy.

* * *

Although I’d worked the morning at the gym, I hadn’t had a chance to exercise, so I left Jimmy and his dirty mouth to meet the girls. We’d been working out together for years. Or more specifically, I’d do basic exercises while Gwen would lift weights heavier than my body, and Ainsley would do eyelash reps, batting her mascara-laden lashes.

Grunting, Gwen dropped her barbell. “Ainsley, will you pass my water?”

“I could use my towel, too.” I placed my eight-pound weights next to Gwen’s bar, like a pea beside a pumpkin.

Ainsley fixed her ponytail. “When did I become the errand girl?”

Gwen blinked at Ainsley’s sports bra and leggings, not a drop of sweat marring the hot pink ensemble. “If you actually worked out, we wouldn’t use you as our gofer.”

Ainsley gawked and flung her arm toward the back wall. “I did the leg machine. I could crack a walnut with my thighs. And anyway, someone has to keep watch. There are dodgy guys here.”

The weight room was usually bustling with meatheads flexing for the mirrors. Not tonight. More women than men were working up a sweat, the few guys ignoring us. One of them dropped a weight, and the clang vibrated through the room. “I think you’re waiting for yoga boy,” I said.

She tossed my towel at my face. “Emmett isn’t a boy. He’s a specimen of manly perfection.”

Gwen sucked back water. “Who doesn’t know you exist.”

Ainsley swatted the air. “He’s playing hard to get.”

“More like you’re dying to get him hard,” I replied.

She fanned her face. “You have no idea. Have you seen him with his shirt off? The guy makes Chris Evans look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”

I rubbed my towel over my forehead, then used it to flick Gwen’s butt. We were both in capri leggings and fitted tanks—mine black, hers splashed with a CrossFit logo. We’d both worked out for an hour. Somehow her loose hair had that sexy, disheveled look, while my lifeless ponytail was plastered to my sweaty neck.

“It’s smoothie time,” I said. “Let’s call it a night.”