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“Technically, it’s a fruit,” the chef helplessly corrects.
“Is this because I said I’d rather deep throat a plantain than eat one?”
“Colorful, Bryn,” my breakfast date criticizes under his breath.
“Honest, Bruce.”
“While I do stand by my decision to prove you wrong by preparing one to your liking before you leave the estate,” he good naturedly glares at the same time he steps away from the food-filled basket, the other in his clutches, “no. Avocado toast is simply taking its natural turn in the rotation – Wes prefers a steady cycle of cooking – and there is no booze in your morning beverage because the man beside you does not drink.”
I can’t toss Wes a sarcastic stare fast enough.
“It’s true.” His scarred, cut jaw briefly tenses. “After my parents died and Samantha left me, I abused alcohol to a point I’m not proud of.” He struggles to straighten his spine, shame ruthlessly trying to get the better of him. “I eventually got help, promised those I cared about I would no longer use it as a crutch, and swore to only drink for work purposes.”
“Wish I could drink for work,” is impishly interjected where only he can hear.
“Rarely do I have more than a sample’s worth of anything,” Wes nonchalantly adds, most likely to reassure the two men in our presence. “Most recently was the tasting of the winter lineup that J.T. and one of our distillery directors will be presenting to some chosen hospitality vendors in a few weeks.”
“Got it. I’ll do the drinking. You do the driving.”
Warm chuckles are attached to amused nodding. “Agreeable terms, Miss Winters.”
“For next time, Mr. Wilcox.”
It’s impossible to miss the hungry lick of lips that occurs prior to him practically growling, “For next time, little prey.”
Heat burning my cheeks leads to me redirecting my gaze to the water in order to prevent him from seeing the need his words sparked.
Truth?
I’ve never been anyone’s prey.
I’ve never wanted to be.
I’m like the animal that I’ve been in love with my entire life.
I do the preying.
I don’t get preyed on.
How Wes Wilcox has managed to turn me from the one who does the hunting to the one who can’t wait to be hunted is definitely another mystery at this estate that needs to be solved.
Chapter 13
Brynley
“I’ll move in.” My palms plant themselves firmly on the marble countertop in front of me. “Permanently.”
Wes releases another loud laugh as he slides onto the barstool in front of me.
“You won’t even know I’m here anymore.”
“I like knowing you’re here.”
“Then we both win because I’ll be here, just a little further away.”
“A lot further away,” he counters on an amused shake of the head. “And I personally prefer you in the main manor. Closer to me.”
“You mean closer to hand jobs.” Dark crimson instantly stains his cheeks prompting me to lean forward and coo, “You can have those anywhere you like, Mr. Wilcox.”
