Page 22 of One Wild Wish

“Rebel without a Schnoz.”

“The Naked Schnoz.”

I snorted. “The Schnozinator.”

He laughed then, a deep, rumbling sound that curled around me. My answering cackle wasn’t as smooth. I clamped a hand over my mouth, and he gripped my thigh. “Don’t hide that sound, Ray. Your laugh is a thing of beauty.”

And the way he said it? Ainsley’s husky voice made every giggle rich and sexy. Gwen’s humor tended toward the sarcastic, but her laughter was musical. My outbursts were unattractive. Then Jimmy touched my thigh, told me to embrace it, and a hazy calm trickled below my skin, as though I’d enjoyed a glass of wine.

Unfortunately, once Jimmy gripped my thigh, the bastard didn’t let go. His fingers tightened, and my blood rushed, a steady throb congregating below my skirt. This wasn’t the light buzz after a sip of wine. This was a shot of tequila, a lick of salt, and a splash of lime.

Feverish, I gripped my seat.

Alonzo walked down the stairs, and all chatter in the room vanished. Jimmy’s hand stayed put, tingles radiating from that point of contact. I was a hormonal mess.

Alonzo, with his goatee and gold rings, had an air of hustler about him, but he commanded the room, outlining the hour ahead. Few words registered. Jimmy’s hand inched up my thigh, and I shifted forward. I shouldn’t have shifted. I should have slapped his hand away and blurted my boyfriend story. My traitorous body did nothing. His focus was on our host, his fingers dipping between my thighs. Not touching me where it counted, but so, so close.

A sudden memory flashed.

Jimmy’s weight on me. Deep thrusts. My legs gripping his waist.

A hard floor.

Teeth on skin.

Me screaming in pleasure.

Him whispering how beautiful I am.

Holy God. My tailbone (and other parts) throbbed, the lingering bruise confirming the flashback’s authenticity.

But Jimmy pulled his hand away.

My thighs burned, followed by an urge to grab his hand and shove it up my skirt.

What was happening to me? I was a professional. A competitor in need of a freaking job. Not some sex-crazed woman after a quickie.

Warmth persisted from his touch and that memory. When he leaned in to say, “Number one happened against my bedroom door,” that heat turned molten.

The man wasn’t playing fair.

We each had a glass of water, and I gulped half of mine, catching Jimmy’s smirk from the corner of my eye. Seriously unfair. That level of flirtation implied he was after a second round. Not altogether unappealing.

But if I let that happen, I couldn’t pass out this time. I’d make sure I was wide awake for the entire show, which meant the aftermath would reach new heights of awkward. My no-strings, no-names rule would be toast. Twice a week we’d be in each other’s faces, my current level of distraction amplified.

Bad idea.

I focused on the tasks at hand. A bottle of wine and corkscrew were placed in front of each contestant. Three judges made the rounds, marking our ability to open a bottle. The Nose cut his foil in one smooth move, the cork popping out in a clean stroke. Jimmy also made it look effortless, his wrists loose as he maneuvered the lever.

I fumbled.

I’d opened hundreds of bottles, usually with my dad’s corkscrew, but I should have aced the test. Instead it took two swipes for the foil to come off, and I missed the center of the cork. Too many people were watching me—judging, wishing my failure. Performing under pressure was my kryptonite, a reason the jobs I’d burned through never involved crowds.

I fisted my hands on my lap, unsure what had made me think I could pull this off. Even if, by some miracle, I won, the position gained would be nothing but pressure and the spotlight, the event splashed across local papers, real sommeliers calling it a joke. How would I manage?

“Why doesn’t Alonzo just do one day of tastings to choose the winner?” Dragging out this torture was unappealing, the possibility of my birthday wish never coming true making it all the worse.

“They need the publicity,” Jimmy said. “They want to play it up. He’ll only cut a couple people each session. Give the papers something to write about. And don’t worry, a few on the far table messed up worse than you.”