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Bean reached out to thump my thigh with the side of his fist. “You are the king of pestiferous behavior.”
“Yeah, I got a crown in my bag.” I jerked my scruffy chin at the six-pack cooler tucked behind my bike. “Anyways, it was like…I don’t know, I really don’t like the guy much.”
“If you’re kissing him, I’d say you like him. Did he hit you for kissing him?”
“Nah, he was right into it,” I replied, my thoughts drifting back to that dark garage and the thick, hard length of him pressed into my thigh. “Totally into it.” I sighed dreamily.
“Uh-huh. Well, it sounds to me like you two have some sparks flying.” Bean gave me a funny sideways look. “Was the kiss a good one?”
“It was fan-freaking-tastic,” I said, noting with some shame that I was doing a lot of sighing when discussing Henri. Henry. Henry. His name was Henry. And kissing him was like lip-locking a thunderbolt. Shit. Did I like him? No, I did not. Did I? “I mean…it was meh.”
“Uh-huh.” Bean chuckled. I decided he was being a putz, so I ignored his tittering.
I hunkered over my bike and pedaled my ass up a damn French mountain, trying to outrace the knowledge that I just might have the hots for a rich boy.
Chapter Eight
Henri
Honestly, my household had gone to the dogs.
And not the lovely sleek greyhounds my uncle raised, either. No, these were alley dogs, which were similar to alley cats only they were dogs, with no sense of decorum or sticking to schedules. I blamed it all on the head hound, Philip, and his knack for disrupting what had been a perfectly peaceful existence merely by being on the same acreage. Who else would I blame it on that I had to track down Barnaby to locate my leather boating shoes which, he had claimed, would be buffed and ready for the race today. Were they shiny? Who knew? He’d never returned with them while I’d been dressing and so here I was searching the chalet for my man.
I suppose I could have texted him, but it was so odd for him to not hurry back with my shoes that I wanted to find out what had delayed him in person. Probably Philip, who had been absent from the evening meals since that incident in the garage. Supposedly, according to Madame, who he had now introduced to his mother and aunts so they could swap recipes, Philip was spending time with his hockey friends now that they were dribbling into town. It seemed a bit rude to me to skip several days of dinners to be out with friends when your host had asked the cook to prepare her best dishes. Not that I wished to see the man. He upset me too much. Also, he talked through the entire meal and I preferred my supper to be a time of quiet reflection, reading, and perhaps glancing over the day’s business. So no, I did not miss his constant running on about this cousin or that aunt or this time he drove to Buffalo to see a hockey game and his current boyfriend got handsy on the way. Discussing such behavior at the dinner table was really not at all done in the Gaudion home. Kissing and fondling were things that refined people did in dark places, like garages, where they could rub up against each other and—
My cock began to plump. I cursed under my breath while stalking toward the kitchen. That was when I heard the now familiar theme song. It was embedded in my brain like some sort of monstrous alien creature. No matter when I passed near the kitchen, that song could be heard. I entered the massive food prep area in my socks, my thin summer trousers, thin belt, and Nordstrom light blue capri summer shirt. There by the island stood Madame and Barnaby, still holding my shoes, laughing madly at The Nanny. Madame had made breakfast and had the rest of the day off as Barnaby and I were expected at the Gaudion Wines Guest Tent at Watkins Glen Raceway for the race. Which I might have to attend in my stocking feet.
“Oh, this one is a favorite.” Madame giggled in her Parisian accent. “This is the one where Maxwell’s old nanny comes to visit and is aghast at Fran’s nanny ways.”
“Oh, I’ve not seen that one yet, but I do enjoy Cloris Leachman,” Barnaby replied, his gray eyes glued to the tablet propped up next to the light green KitchenAid mixer on the long marble counter. There were cups of coffee and a plate of fresh sable cookies that no one had thought to see if the master of the house might enjoy. That reeked of Philip Greco.
I cleared my throat just as Nanny Fine made a funny. Both of them glanced up, gulped, and then proceeded to look incredibly guilty.
“I hope I am not interrupting your cookie and coffee break, but I do need my shoes if I’m to go out today,” I said and held up one foot, giving it a shake.
Barnaby and Madame fell over themselves to rectify the situation. Within five minutes, my shoes were shined to perfection, and I had a few cookies to nibble on.
“I am terribly sorry, sir,” Barnaby said for the tenth time as we crawled along the main drag of Watkins Glen on our way to the raceway. I sat in the back of Papa’s darling, a 1965 Rolls Royce, black and silver, my sunglasses and a trendy straw Fedora Trilby sitting beside me on the padded seat. “Truly, I cannot grasp what it is about that show that enthralls me so.”
I smiled down at my hands resting in my lap. The windows were darkly tinted, so the glare was minimal.
“I would think it is because the lead is a charming, funny, lovely woman,” I offered as I toyed with Papa’s gold signet ring on my right ring finger. It carried the Gaudion family crest of a cluster of grapes with the words Gaudion Winery—Héritage, qualité, excellence around the grapes. Gaudion Winery—Legacy, Quality, Excellence. I was the legacy, and that weighed heavily at times.
“Perhaps I do think I find Niles just as attractive,” Barnaby countered as we crept to the racetrack, then, finally, through a gate for VIPs that freed us from the crush of the crowds. Stock car racing was quite popular in the United States. Papa had preferred Formula One, of course, and always cheered for Alpine F1 as any good Frenchman should. And while I enjoyed those races, the ones I watched here were just as exciting. Also, knowing one of the racers added an extra thrill to the running.
“Mm, well, he is a handsome man,” I said as I ran my pinkie finger over the raised Gaudion crest. I’d known for some time that Barnaby was attracted to both sexes. He rarely dated, which was sad, but then again, neither did I, so perhaps we were two lonely peas in a stylish pod.
“Indeed, and witty. I do so enjoy wit,” he added and then pulled off to park in front of the huge Gaudion Winery lounge. The tent was massive, deep red, with rolldown plastic to keep the air-conditioning in the dining area. We had a wonderful view of the racetrack with seating for one hundred special guests who were happy to pay a thousand dollars per seat to feast like royalty and drink my wine like Bacchus. I’d arrived late, but fashionably so, and the tent was already filled with several governmental sorts including the deputy governor as well as roving reporters. I smiled and nodded, keeping my glasses on for the sun was brutal today. Several people moved to me as soon as I entered to discuss various projects, the weather, the race, or this year’s charity: the Schuyler County Queer Film Festival.
Every year I chose a new LGBTQIA+ charity to receive half the monies raised by ticket sales to this tent. The other half of the proceeds went to pay for the workers, caterers, and servers who were here all day and to recoup a bit of the cost for hundreds of bottles of wine. I just about broke even, sometimes falling into the red a bit, but it was a popular fundraising event that people spoke of for months afterward.
I was deep into a conversation with a member of the local chamber of commerce about adding the new dock and wine cruise to the county website when it was ready next year when I spied the Gladiators team captain Carson with his boyfriend Criswell. They stood by a buffet table with Baskoro Huda, one of the young up-and-coming goalies, as well as several players who had filtered back into town. Most were allies, as they knew this was a fundraising event for the gay community. I pulled no punches. If you wished to eat and drink on my dime, then be prepared for your ticket money to go to a queer charity. If not, please move along to another tent and try to find wine as good as mine being served. I double dog dare you as the Americans were known to say. Actually, Philip might have said that a few months ago at a luncheon at the chalet I recollected as my gaze moved over the grouping of burly athletes, significant others, and fans to spy my suddenly invisible houseguest.
Speak of the devil.
Not really so much a devil but more the imp.
Do stop defending the scoundrel to me.
