Page 51 of Legs

Always the competitor. I swished my next taste, and there, just there, was the candied sweetness she noted. “Apricot marmalade,” I said, then we alternated suggestions.

“Chamomile.”

“Brioche.”

“Green apple.”

“Quince.”

She scrunched her nose. “Quince? Nope. More apple than quince.”

“Shall we wager?”

She traced circles on her knee, scenting her wine periodically. “What’s on the table?”

I could have backed off, not pushed her to drop this charade and admit she was falling for me, but I was only digging myself deeper. Better to force the issue than wind up at a tattoo shop a month from now, covering the pain left in her wake. “A sleepover.”

She nearly spilled her wine. “If I’d dropped this on the blanket, it would have been grounds for murder.”

“I’d like to see that stand up in court.”

She clutched her glass to her chest. “Your house or mine?”

I picked up a square of dark chocolate and let it melt on my tongue. “I’m not picky.”

She looked at me, then at the wine, her gaze darting back and forth again. “Fine. Sleepover. My place.”

I’d have expected her to suggest mine, a location she could leave on a whim. Hers was even better. I’d make the wakeup so good she’d want to stay indoors all week.

I opened the quince spread and dipped my finger in it, bringing the jam to her mouth. “Want a lick?”

Her doe eyes flashed and she scooted closer, the board of delicacies between us. “Don’t mind if I do.” She parted her lips and took my finger in, rolling her tongue around as she sucked, releasing me with a drag of her teeth. And, fuck. My dick lengthened, jealous of my goddamn finger.

As she savored the jam, she repeated my move, dipping her finger in and placing the quince on my tongue. I groaned, the tease of her and the added sweetness sending my mind to her straddling my face and rocking her hips. I got harder. With a final lick and kiss, I released her finger. We sipped the Chardonnay next, savoring its complexity.

She huffed and dropped her head back. “You’re right, of course. I taste the quince.”

“I liked it better on your skin,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “I bet you did.”

I poured more wine, the two of us drinking and eating, alternating bites, talking about everything and nothing. One hour passed. Then two. I admitted I sang in my school choir. She confessed her teenage love for NSYNC, complete with posters on her wall. She grilled me about my rise to Master Sommelier, and I relived every detail, another reminder I was an idiot for denying that part of myself.

“I envy you,” she said.

I moved the remaining food aside and pulled her bare feet closer, the wine and conversation casting a lazy spell. “Because my life circled the drain and I work at a dive bar?”

She kicked my thigh. “No. Because even if you’re taking a break, you know who you are. You wanted to become a Master Sommelier, and no matter the hours or how hard it was, you went after it. You had a path.”

A path that had led me to a messed-up place, but she was talking about her life, not mine. “What was the job you quit, again? Before the contest?”

“Loan officer, which basically meant I was a telemarketer. Constant cold calling, trying to convince people to borrow money. It was soul sucking.”

“And before that?”

“Thai massage.”

“And before that?”