Page 8 of Wine & Dine

The thought makes me pause. Since when has sympathy ever come from Rusty?

Only disappointed I won’t get to taste your sweet—

I look away. Not exactly a romantic gesture or declaration of missing me.

“Whatcha doing?” The teasing tone curls around my ear, and I sharply inhale. Only my nostrils fill with the fresh scent of a male. Manly, bayberry, and woodsy. I might not have noticed him sneak up on me, but what I do notice is how close he stands. As if I could lean back, rest my head on his shoulder, and relax into him. Instead, I stiffen.

Why am I having thoughts like these about someone like him?

A leash. I choke on the reminder of our first meeting. Garrett Fox might be hot, but he’s a sex-fiend and obviously a player. Already have one of those, don’t need another, thank you.

“Nice language,” he mutters, and my eyes fall to the open screen on my phone with the text message on display. I press the home button and spin, only my arm knocks his chest, throwing me off-kilter as I balanced on the edge of the curb. My ankles give, and he catches me at the elbow.

“Whoa.” He chuckles, adding his other hand to right me. My cool palm comes to his firm chest, absorbing the warmth of his dress shirt. He’s wearing a suit without a tie. On reflex, I gently press the freshly starched material, feeling the firmness of his pec underneath the shirt. His eyes widen, a mischievous gleam in the sandy coloring.

“Hey.” His lip curls in the corner, and a playful grin grows. His cheeks hold more scruff than the day we met, and I’m rendered speechless like on that day. His eyes twinkle like multiple grains of sand—russet and copper and tawny. The expression on his face good-naturedly teases me. His handsome features literally take my breath away.

“Hi,” I squeak, removing my hand like I didn’t mean to touch him after awkwardly smoothing down his shirt. His hands still hold my elbows, but I lift my arms to release myself from his grasp. He takes the hint and drops his hand, slipping them into his pant’s pockets.

“Whatcha doing out here?” he asks again.

“I’m trying to figure out Uber.” I blink. “I mean, I’m waiting on an Uber.” I don’t want him to think I’m incompetent. What forty-seven-year-old woman can’t order an Uber? My shoulders fall with the thought. I hate admitting defeat, but I’m suddenly exhausted. Rusty’s text has me wound down. Maybe I’ll just go back to the condo and take a nap. I can get a warmer sweater or better shoes another day.

“Denton called me.”

“What?” I snort. “Why?” I should be infuriated with my younger brother for meddling, but a small sigh of relief fills my clogged throat. He’s trying, I tell myself. He wants to do nice things for me for some reason. I hate to question, why now, or feel like it’s too late. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, or maybe I just don’t want to think at all. For once.

“He asked me to direct you to a salon. Make her pamper herself, he said.” His eyes twinkle when he speaks.

“Oh, I don’t need pampering,” I say, waving a dismissive hand between us. Then a piece of my over dry hair falls in my face from the messy bun on top of my head. I don’t think I can afford a salon around here anyway. I’m trying not to abuse my brother’s generosity and only pay for things I know I’d afford at home.

Home. Georgia. I’m caught in this weird juxtaposition of wanting to miss it but not missing it yet.

“I’m heading into LA. I can drop you off at Nordstrom. I have a friend who works there.”

I bet he does. I bet he has many friends, I think, as I eye his sharp royal blue suit which makes his eyes look like whiskey. I could get drunk on those eyes. I blink and look away.

“I don’t want to trouble you. I just need a Target. I was going clothes shopping.”

His nose scrunches as if he smells something bad.

“Ah, yeah, I don’t exactly know where one is.” He reaches for the back of his neck and scratches. He did this the other day on the beach, and I’m curious if it’s a nervous habit. Or something he does before he wants to laugh at me.

I turn away from him and take a few steps before a hand covers my elbow again. With a sharp tug, I’m spun to face him.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“I don’t need your help,” I snap. He responds with a flinch of his head and a rapid blink.

“Okay,” he draws out the word. “But I’m heading to the city anyway. Don’t waste your money on an Uber. I can drop you wherever you need to go. You can Uber back here later.”

I exhale, and my shoulders fall. It does sound like a better plan than trying to figure out where to go or how to get somewhere on my own. Thinking of the noises coming from his apartment the other night, I can trust Garrett has no untoward intentions toward me.

“Fine,” I mutter.

“Perfect,” he replies too chipper, dropping my elbow and waving a hand forward for the garage. “And while we drive, you can tell me all about your boyfriend and the dirty things he says to you.”

“You are incorrigible.” I gasp. “And how do you know he isn’t my husband?”

“Is he your husband?” he questions, a brow rising while the expression on his face morphs into something I can’t read. I respond too quickly with a disparaging snort.

“I didn’t think so.” His playful grin returns, but I’m offended by the comment.

Why?Am I not marriage material? I’ve been told that and certainly felt that when James Harrington never asked me to marry him. He asked Evie instead.

“Why not?” I snap.

“No ring,” he replies with a shrug, forcing us both to look down at my long, empty fingers, the ones with chipped polish and veins sticking up the backside of my hand. I have my grandmother’s hands. Worker hands. “A woman like you should have a ring if she were taken.”

I want to ask what he means, but we stop walking, and I glance up at his car, forgetting about my naked finger.

Of course, it’s a Porsche.

Incredible.