Page 18 of One Wild Wish

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?

My necklace felt heavy, the cuff circling my wrist tight. I’d given that woman six orgasms and not one of them had left a mark. When I came up for air from between her legs that night, she’d grabbed my hair, pulled my face to hers and said, “You are a god. I don’t know what you just did to me, but you better do it again.”

So I did. With gusto.

And she didn’t remember.

The knowledge chafed at me, worse than if she’d faked every yes and more and don’t stop. She had no idea how good I’d made her feel. How hard she’d made me come.

I was pissed.

Alonzo collected the sign-in sheet and proceeded to place five bottles of white—Chardonnay, Riesling, Gewürztraminer, Sauvignon Blanc, and Pinot Grigio—in a line.

“Tonight,” he said, “is an elimination round. A blind tasting to separate those who are serious about their wines from those who are here for the show. If you don’t guess all five varietals correctly, you’re out. No second chances. The rest of you will be invited back. Each Tuesday and Thursday for eight weeks, we’ll test your skills: opening bottles, pouring wines, and table-service exercises. Each session will involve a blind tasting and an elimination. Those with the two lowest scores will be sent home each round. Are there any questions?”

As hands flew up, Rachel and the Colon slipped back into their seats. She sat perfectly composed. Too stiff to be natural. Although taking that photo had been funny as hell, and we’d had a blast taking it, she was obviously uncomfortable. I could understand her embarrassment. I hadn’t done something that ridiculous since college.

“I won’t mention it again,” I said.

She stared dead ahead. “You just did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“And again.”

“Are you high? I didn’t say a thing.”

A few people shushed us, a dirty look shot from the Colon, and she lowered her voice. “Actually, everything you’re not saying revolves around the one thing that’s banned from discussion. As far as I know, it was the worst sex of my life, and I’m here to listen to Mr. Adriano, not you.”

Worst sex? Of her life?

She may have been defensive about that photo, but she didn’t remember how she’d dared me to flash the entire street beforehand, or the kisses I’d trailed up her calves afterward, our laughter dissolving into breathy moans, all playfulness forgotten.

She didn’t remember a damn thing.

We sat beside each other, invisible bricks stacking between us. All I could do was review every detail from our night, and she was oblivious.

By the time the questions died down, all five glasses in front of us had been poured. The Colon sweated profusely. Rachel fidgeted beside me. I should have been calm; the tasting was a joke. Even my brother, with his underdeveloped palate, could discern a Riesling from a Chardonnay. It was child’s play. Except I was riled up, the only cures a long ride on my bike or a round with a punching bag.

I forced my focus on the wines. I knew each one by aroma alone.

Riesling: green apple, lime zest, a hint of petrol.

Sauvignon Blanc: asparagus, gooseberries, fresh cut grass.

The others were just as easy.

Rachel shifted and her skirt rode up, exposing her legs. Long legs. Sexy legs. Legs that had gripped my hips like iron.

When my grandfather first explained that the alcohol drips that clung to a wineglass were known as the wine’s legs, I’d giggled. When I got older, I understood how sexy that sweep of liquid was, tantalizing and teasing. Exactly like the distracting legs beside me.