Page 16 of Legs

“Since we’re both here for the contest, we can pretend that night never happened.”

Her face fell, but a beat later, she said, “Good,” nothing but ice in her voice.

I followed with “Great.”

She spat, “Fine.”

So much for stamping out the awkward.

Waiters began moving through the space, small measures of white wine poured into each glass. A reporter sat at the bar, snapping photos and taking notes.

“Besides,” she added, “we won’t have to worry about seeing each other once you’re eliminated.”

Hot, and cocky to boot. “You’re right, we won’t. You’ll be gone by week two and won’t get to congratulate me on my win.”

The same competitive streak that had sparked between us at The Blue Door resurfaced, along with a punch of lust heading south. That night, we’d played drinking games, sipping wine and listing the notes dancing on our tongues. Then, at my place, I’d tasted them on her. A dribble in the hollow of her throat. A splash between her breasts. A dab of Cabernet on her pussy.

I almost groaned at the memory, but rustling at the front of the room saved me.

Alonzo Adriano had just introduced himself, and I hadn’t even noticed him enter. He may have been a head shorter than my six foot two, his cufflinks and navy suit camouflaging him in this room of wannabes, but I should have been focused.

The group was rapt, hanging on the man’s every syllable, and here I was, fantasizing about a woman.

Alonzo gave a brief rundown about his two brothers and their restaurants, his dark eyes intent as he gestured to the wall of wine bottles, extolling the beauty of their collection, reverence in his voice. At least the man was passionate.

A final contestant hurried into the room, the man’s blond hair parted so severely, the edge of his scalp shone. He tightened his tie, distaste on his face as he judged my tattoos, but he slid into the chair opposite my dirty princess. Moisture beaded on his large forehead.

We sat in silence as a sign-in sheet was passed around. When it reached me, I didn’t hesitate. I printed Jimmy Leon, using my mother’s maiden name. If I’d written Giannopoulos, it wouldn’t be long before Alonzo sussed out that his Offshoot Winery bottles came from my family vineyard, and this whole ruse would be shot to shit.

The dirty princess rolled her pen through her fingers, her gaze lingering on the page before she wrote Rachel Kates. The letters were as neat and tidy as her appearance, but there was a wild woman beneath the surface. One I’d had grinding against my hips. My mind drifted back to that night again, to our sweaty bodies and her passionate cries, and my cock stirred.

Jesus. Next session, I’d need to find a seat away from her.

As she passed the page across the table, the latecomer made sure they brushed fingers. An obvious move. He thrust his hand toward her. “I’m Rufus. Looks like we’ll be spending the next two months together”—he eyed the sheet—“Rachel.”

She sat straighter. “Looks like it.”

Her hand slipped into his, and I barely refrained from slipping my arm around her shoulders. To claim her? To mark her as mine? The notion grated at me. A couple of women I’d been with frequented the dive bar where I worked. We’d have our night of fun, then I’d pour them drinks at Rudy’s Tavern and we’d make small talk and go on like it had never happened. Once and done. Here I was, jealous over some jerk with enough hair gel to lube a Slip 'N Slide.

His slicked blond head and three-piece suit were more her style anyway. Probably came with a lot less baggage, too.

Still, after their exchange, I couldn’t resist leaning over and whispering in her ear. “You know, if you marry him, you won’t be able to take his last name.”

She shivered, then craned her neck to check the sheet as he got up to pass it to the next table. A laugh exploded from her, the same bark of a cackle she’d let loose at my place, like an asthma sufferer on laughing gas. Annoyed glances shot our way, but I chuckled.

“It is a shitty name,” she whispered.

“Downright crap,” I agreed.

Rufus Colon probably had a hell of a time in high school.

While the Colon chatted up the next table, the tension between Rachel and me ebbed. Keeping things friendly between us might be a better tactic than avoidance. Labelling her as off-limits would only jack up my desire. Plus, if we talked about our night together, it might stop occupying my headspace.

But when I said, “Did you send that picture to your boss? Is that why you’re here?” she dropped her forehead to her hands. I winced. “Wrong thing to ask?”

Without moving her head, she said, “As far as I’m concerned, that photo never happened.” She pushed to her feet and leaned into my space, her angry whisper puffing against my cheek. “Since I can’t remember a single thing from that night, it’s easy to believe, as long as you don’t feel the pressing urge to bring it up. And yes, that photo is why I’m here. I lost my job because of it.”

She dodged the tables, her heels punctuating each angry step toward the bathrooms, and I was left…uncomfortable. She didn’t remember our night together? The sex on the floor? Or in my bed? Against the wall? I’d been reliving every glorious detail for weeks and she remembered nothing?