Page 26 of Legs

There. Right there. That was when the hurt and betrayal resurfaced. Like she thought losing her had pushed me into a downward spiral. It had, for a while. No use denying that. As had my family’s actions. Until I stopped running on that hamster wheel. What she saw in front of her was the man I was supposed to be.

Dangerous? Maybe.

Pissed off at the world? Probably.

Someone who only relied on himself? Definitely.

Neither of us knew the other all that well in the end.

Rachel slid one hand into my back pocket, the other brushing my abs, just above my belt. “You must be Sophia. Jimmy’s told me a lot about you, and honestly, I’m so thankful you were brave enough to do what Jimmy couldn’t.”

“Excuse me?” Sophia curled her lip, a tic of hers I’d always hated.

“The proposal? Turning him down when neither of you wanted to take that step? We’re both grateful.” Rachel tilted her head and gazed up at me, locking me in her orbit. Her eyes were often expressive, indignation or excitement played out in shades of brown. Right now all I could see was love. My heart was pounding again, a syncopated rhythm, unfamiliar in its urgency, and I nearly crushed my mouth to hers.

Damn, was she good.

“Well, glad to see you’re happy.” The distaste as Sophia sneered at my new style said otherwise. She held up her left hand. “I got married six months ago. Rocco and I moved back to the area.”

Rocco put quite the rock on Sophia’s finger, but the jealousy I expected wasn’t there. No sting of longing. No urge to claim her, like when that guy had leaned into Rachel. Sophia had only ever wanted one thing from me, and when I’d lost that, she went digging for gold elsewhere. I was still pissed. Still wanted to scream and tell her she was nothing but a conniving bitch. That what she did had twisted my heart. But creating a scene wouldn’t be cool with our audience, and Rachel’s arms made the whole fiasco easier to bear.

“Congratulations,” I offered instead. “Like Rachel said, thanks for what you did. Everything worked out for the best.”

An insincere smile flitted across her face, then she moved on, a sway to her hips I used to love. Time healed some wounds.

Rachel pushed away from me, all looks of love gone. “Let’s get shopping.”

We grabbed spices, fruits, vegetables, and a few bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon, no physical contact between us, my mind spinning the whole while. Each time it returned to Sophia, I clamped my jaw and switched tracks. Without Rachel pressed against me, my spite resurfaced.

I never let myself think about Sophia. She’d used me, fucked me over, and I’d fallen for her crap. Suppressing my thoughts was survival, pure and simple.

Then there was Rachel. The adoration on her face before, although an act, buffed the hard edges I’d sharpened the past two years. I was happy on my own, had promised myself I’d never fall in love again. Leave no one to derail my life but me. Still, that look. I could live without my family, get along without the winery, but around her, my heart suddenly craved more.

Eight

Rachel

I must have been a glutton for punishment. The whole hour at Crush had been an Olympic effort to avoid Jimmy’s persistent gaze. My attention would slide over, and I’d force it away. I’d catch sight of his hand dragging through his disheveled hair, and my mouth would water. I’d recall his descriptions of orgasms one through six, and I’d cross my legs. Tightly. As soon as our time had been up, I’d lurched out of my seat, only to be leading him into my apartment now.

The space had never felt so small.

Or smelled so good. The air around him was rich with scents of leather and musk, his hair tousled from his motorcycle helmet. His attention was everywhere. On the walls, lingering on the motivational sayings I’d hung, examining my tidy recycling bin, the books organized by color above my desk. Probably judging the pillow at the head of my bed embroidered with the quote, “All our dreams can come true if we have the courage to pursue them.” ~ Walt Disney.

Even under his scrutiny, dealing with him in my place was preferable to returning to where my supposed orgasms occurred.

I unpacked our groceries—wine, fruits, vegetables, spices—my hands busy, my heartbeat erratic, my eyes unable to meet his. That’s how it had been since our little acting scene.

I’d never been a drama geek. Standing on stage in front of people resulted in hot flashes, cold sweats, and more words forgotten than remembered. Even earlier, popping a champagne cork, something I’d done numerous times (Ainsley liked her mimosas), had me all thumbs. Because I’d had an audience. Not so with Sophia. For a spell, when Jimmy first spotted her, he’d turned ashen, devastation in the hollow below his eyes. A need to ease his pain had possessed me, and I deserved an Academy Award for my performance: Best Actress in an Awkward Grocery Store Scene.

Problem was, I was having trouble shaking the role.

He tossed his jacket on a stool and whistled at my wine fridge, appreciation in the extended note. “Nice collection.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t glance up, didn’t know what to do with the sight of him in my ordered apartment, all that danger and chaos tied into a delicious package. One I hungered to consume. I washed the fruit and put the blackberries in a bowl, the green pepper on a plate. I lined up the black peppercorns and star anise and chocolate, keeping occupied.

When I wiped the counter for a third time, he gripped my wrist. “Rachel.”

God, his touch. I closed my eyes and exhaled.