Page 25 of One Wild Wish

CHAPTERSEVEN

JIMMY

I’m not sure when I became such a dick. Maybe when my family ripped the ground out from under my feet. It could have been when Sophia left me. All I knew was a sweet woman, who’d been honest about her sexual desires and awkwardness, had gotten caught in the crossfire. And it wasn’t cool.

I’d clocked a lot of miles on my bike since our last session at Crush, pounded a punching bag within an inch of its life. My family’s Pinot Noir still lingered on my tongue. It tasted of nights watching my grandfather bottle wine and days helping pick grapes. It tasted of deception.

One sip had sent me for a spin.

The other thing that had my knuckles raw from rounds of pummeling a speed ball was the hurt on Rachel’s face when I blew her off. The woman who’d made me laugh, who matched my sarcasm blow for blow, didn’t deserve to be toyed with. She didn’t warrant my attitude. She was all long lines and soft skin, a little innocent and a lot of fun. All either of us wanted was another night, and I couldn’t even manage that.

But I could muster an apology.

I got to our next session early and waited, knee bouncing, fists clenching, hoping to see her. If she’d been eliminated, I’d have no way to get in touch. I’d have to live with the tightness in my chest. With a second to spare, she waltzed in, and I relaxed. She sat on the far side of the room, stoic. She didn’t spare me a glance. I deserved as much, and worse. All I could do was stare, guilt and frustration coiling.

We had to uncork Champagne, a tough feat for the uninitiated, and she struggled. If I were beside her, I’d have whispered some tricks. Angle the bottle at forty-five degrees. Rotate the bottle, not the cork. The blind tasting afterward was a sampling of Merlot, easy for me, but I watched her, apprehensive, worried she’d get cut. That I’d lose my chance to explain.

It was over too soon.

As Alonzo thanked us for coming, the man beside Rachel—his forehead as shiny as his dark hair—leaned into her side. He whispered to her and touched her elbow. He got as close as I had last week. She smiled at him, her nose crinkling in amusement.

Jealousy flashed behind my eyes. I wanted to capture that sunny smile. Bask in it. Hear her silly laugh, because it was real. As were her orgasms when I’d gone down on her. Knowing I’d been the only man to make her buck and moan with my tongue was a thrill. It made me want to pound my chest and growl, prove only I could reduce her to incoherent sounds.

The whole thing was a mess. I wanted her. For more than one night, maybe, but I’d already proven I wasn’t ready for a girl like Rachel. Where did that leave us?

Alonzo scrubbed his goatee as he addressed the room, his blue suit more mobster than restauranteur. “Like last time, emails will be sent with results, and two of you will be cut. Next session will be Cabernet Sauvignon. Since our numbers are still high, four will be eliminated.” He nodded. “Until next week.”

My gaze cut to Rachel, who went white as a sheet. The night we’d hooked up, and I uncorked the Screaming Eagle, she’d lamented her challenge with Cabs, complaining that she’d always struggled tasting the grape. She wouldn’t remember that confession, but there was no denying the worry in her pinched brow. Another four lost would take us down to twenty-two. She wasn’t sure she’d last.

Which meant my time with her could be limited.

She was up and at the stairs as I reached for my jacket, but a tap on my shoulder stopped me from following her. “Have we met before?”

I turned and searched the woman’s face. She had blond hair and narrow features, excessive makeup highlighting her blue eyes. Nothing about her was familiar. “Don’t think so.”

She studied me. “I just thought we’d met—at an event or something. I’m April. I pour wines for functions in Napa.”

The odds of her remembering me from an Offshoot Winery tasting were slim. Back then my hair was clipped short, my face clean shaven. I had no tattoos, not a thread loose on my jeans. The prospect of being recognized wasn’t pleasant. If Alonzo found out who I was, he’d plaster my name through the papers to up his publicity, and my plan would fall apart.

“Don’t think we’ve met,” I repeated. “I just moved to town. Must have a twin around.”

Her pink lips turned down, but she didn’t push.

I grabbed my jacket and spun for the exit, but my sights snagged on an Offshoot wine bottle. Our Cabernet, of course. Nothing but lies in sleek packaging.

My mind tripped back to the day my younger brother Dimitri and I caught our winemaker playing with our flagship Cabernet Sauvignon, blending in more than the twenty-five percent of other varietals allowed. We’d been on him to trim costs. His brilliant solution: pass off inferior—cheaper—grapes as Cabernet.

Dimitri had always been lazy, more corners cut than followed, and he didn’t bat an eye. I, on the other hand, was furious, could never have my name linked to such deceit. My father’s reaction was to list wine’s illustrious history, telling us of Pliny the Elder’s claims that most wines were adulterated, falsehoods wrapped in scents of black cherry and spice.

Neither of them gave a damn.

I’d sure as shit cared, but I lost the winery before I could make things right.

Now it was time. I was stuck in a rut, that lie tethering me to my past, and this contest was my best shot. Placing an anonymous call wouldn’t work. Laws weren’t as strict in Napa Valley as they were in Europe, and Dimitri had too many wine critics in his pocket. With the top experts in the field present at the final round, I’d work the tables, plant seeds and watch the gossip spark. The fire would catch before Dimitri could control it. They’d be forced to recall all mislabeled wines, and their reputation would nose-dive. It was unavoidable.

It was also tragic.

The winery my grandfather and I had poured our lives into would crumble, his legacy forever tarnished. My gut hollowed at the thought.