“Maybe.” I step back, turning to the box on the worktop, half-filling the glass. “I just think what you put into your body should only be premium.”
I’m a Chateau Latife, and Drew is a cleanskin from the bargain bin.
I’m prime rib, and he’s fucking . . . tofu.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she demands. I quirk a brow as I pass her the glass, wondering if she’s down for angry fucking as well as the honest kind when she adds, “I know what you’re thinking, so please don’t think you need to elaborate.”
“I didn’t say a thing.” Even if dirty minds do think alike.
“You didn’t have to. What did you say you studied at college again? A master’s in innuendo?”
This time, I lean around her to reach the other glass, loving the fuck out of the sound she makes as I do—a tiny inhalation that’s not quite a gasp. “Ever considered you’re the one with the filthy imagination?”
A gasp that morphs into a sputtering response. “I do not!” But she’s smiling, so I’ll call that a win.
“You’re sure?”
“Maybe it’s the company I keep.” Her brow lowers as her gaze flicks over me.
“Still rivers must run deep,” I say, deliberately misunderstanding her. “Because Drew looks like the kind of bloke who couldn’t organise a root in a brothel with a fist full of fifties, let alone imagine that kind of thing.”
“Root?” Her brows take a lower perch.
“A fuck.”
“We’re not—”
Bingo, I think as her lips become a thin line that matches her brow. Two eyebrows, not a Frieda Kahlo deal, thankfully.
“No? Well, give me a shout if you ever fancy it.”
“Ha! Dream on.”
“Oh, I have. And I do.” I allow my gaze to roam over her, full of heat and unspoken promises. This time, she doesn’t tell me to stop.
“And we come full circle again.” Inching her head, she mutters under her breath. “What’s past is past, Roman, no matter how good it was.”
“I thought you said you didn’t remember?”
“Master’s in innuendo and a bachelor’s degree in twisting things.” She huffs and looks as though she’d fold her arms if it wasn’t for the glass.
“Agriculture, actually.”
Her expression flickers. “What?”
“I know, yawn. I have an agricultural degree and a master’s in marketing.” Neither of which are particularly useful in my current career. I’ve had a pretty solid gig as a runway model, but according to my agent, I’m just about to hit the big time. It’s amazing what prancing around in a mask and a tux can do for a career trajectory, especially when it comes to staring in a Tayla Sparks music video. She’s not the teen pop queen for no reason. Either way, I’m not short of cash as I also own a share in the family vineyard and wine business, Riposso Estates. And for that, I get to be their stupid brand ambassador. I’m not stupid. I just think the title is a bit wanky. But if it wasn’t for that title, and the opportunity to piss off my brother Byron, I wouldn’t be here in Oregon one last time. Anyway, I don’t say any of that because I reckon it’d be a bit much for her to swallow, instead responding to the expression she’s wearing. “You don’t believe me?”
“Why would I not? I don’t know you.”
That hook in my stomach from earlier? It digs deeper. Or maybe that’s just her twisting it like a knife.
“Yet you didn’t divorce me.” I tap my glass to hers before she can make her retort. “To good decisions.”
“I guess you must mean our imminent divorce.”
So much for heartfelt words, sincere looks, and the fact that I’ve managed to keep my hands to myself. Not that it matters anyway as she laughs at the face I pull.
“Jesus Christ. Check out the tannins in that.” Swiping my tongue over my teeth, I raise the glass to examine it.
“I take it tannins are a bad thing,” she says with a giggle.
Wow. I’d happily drink crappy wine for eternity if it made her laugh like this. Light and carefree and genuine, free from that put-on air of Roman antipathy.
“It’s just a bit green,” I say, trying not to smack my lips together like a pensioner with no teeth.
“Looks pretty clear to me.” She tips her own glass in examination.
“A bit astringent.” Like floor cleaner. Though floor cleaner is probably less bitter.
“Well, Drew liked it.” Still holding her untouched glass aloft, she slides her hand into her front pocket and shrugs.
“Can’t fault his taste in other things.” If my tone doesn’t convey my meaning, the way my gaze slides over her must. “Up your bum,” I add, raising my glass.
“Not in this lifetime,” she sing-songs in return. I almost quip don’t knock it until you’ve tried it but think better of it. “And how about you stop looking at me like I’m a juicy-looking mouse and you’re the cat.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding along the cabinets to avoid contact. She pads to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair on the far side.