Total pages in book: 183
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
“Lasagna really does sound perfect,” I say, and his second “authentic Italian” comment inspires me to vow to one day visit Italy and compare this meal to the ones I’ll enjoy there.
“All right then,” he says, sticking the menu back in the drawer. “Lasagna it is.”
He reaches over the arm of the couch, grabs the hotel phone from the end table and requests our order, the angle of his shoulder resting in a way that exposes a tattoo I can’t believe I haven’t noticed until now. Oh my God. It’s a paw print that reads “Tobey 1996.” This arrogant, powerful, impossibly good-looking and apparently successful man loved an animal to the point of tattooing his body with his memory.
“Twenty minutes,” he says, settling back down next to me, and surprising me by kissing me. “Do you like wine?”
“Yes. Who was Tobey?”
“My childhood dog. He died the year I went to college.”
“I love that you got a tattoo for Tobey.”
“He was a good friend. The best. Let me grab the wine.” He stands and crosses to a doorway, disappearing inside, and returning as he pulls on a white T-shirt, while I enjoy every second of the stretch and tug of muscles. “Do you have a wine preference?” he asks, hands settling on his hips.
“I have a wide palate for forty-dollar-a-bottle-and-under wines,” I say. “Anything is fine.”
He laughs. It’s a good laugh. Warm. Relaxed. Sincere. “All right then,” he says, crossing the room toward the built-in cabinet behind the chair where we’d played his game. Where he’d spanked me. I’m trying to understand this man who is rich, powerful, and kinky, but also has a paw print to commemorate his love for his furry friend.
“Do you have a dog now?” I ask.
“No,” he says, returning to join me with two wine glasses and a corked bottle of wine in hand. “Dogs deserve time and love that I don’t have to give.”
The same reason I don’t have a dog, I think, well that and I live in a closet. He sits down next to me. “This is a blend,” he says, joining me. “It’s smooth and easy, but I have a pinot and a merlot if you’d prefer?”
“Like I said, I have broad—”
“Forty-dollar-a-bottle-or-under palate,” he supplies, giving a chuckle and pulling the cork. “There are wines to taste and wines to drink. The expensive ones tend to drink like hell.” He fills my glass. “Try it.” He hands it to me.
“Is it under forty dollars?”
“You tell me. Taste it.”
“Why do I feel like I’m being tested?”
“Because you are. Most people can’t tell expensive wine from inexpensive wine.”
“But you can?” I ask, accepting the glass.
“I’m pretty fluent in wine.”
“I’m not a good drinker,” I warn. “You should know that before I drink, and you have to wake me up to send me home. I fall asleep because I—” I catch myself before I start talking about my schedule. “I just fall asleep.”
“I’ll do my part to keep you awake,” he promises, giving me a wink that does funny things to my stomach. “Try the wine,” he encourages again.
Feeling oddly shy, when shy is not my thing, I cut my gaze, and sip the rich wine, its slightly sweet flavor exploding on my tongue. “It’s excellent,” I say. “I like it.”
“But is it under forty dollars?” he challenges.
“No,” I say. “And I only know that because you’re you and we’re here in this fancy room.”
“You don’t know me well enough to make that statement. When you do, I’ll ask you again to sum me up.”
“When I do?”
“If you do,” he says, and before I can let the possibilities in the word “if” sink in, he’s moved on, “It’s fifty-five dollars. Close to forty.” He fills his glass and corks the bottle.
I glance at the bottle that reads “Maria’s Vineyards” and “Magnificant,” an obvious intentional misspelling. “Is it really fifty-five dollars?”
“It is indeed,” he says sipping his wine. “I discovered it a few years ago and I’ve been a fan ever since.”
I sip again and set my glass down. “When I was sizing you up at the bar tonight, I’d have called you a whiskey guy.”
“I like whiskey,” he says. “Scotch is my preferred drink, but wine is in my blood. My family owns a winery. Actually,” he corrects, cutting his gaze. “I own the damn winery.”
The bitterness in his tone is impossible to miss and tells me that he’s recently inherited and not just a winery. Problems. I know all about problems. “You recently inherited the winery,” I assume.
“It and more,” he says, and I get the impression the more might not be all good, a situation I can relate to far too well. “My father died a few months ago,” he adds.
More and more, I see the ways we might be drawn to each other, and I wonder if there is a kind of kindred spirit one knows by merely bumping into a person on the street. “And your mother?” I ask cautiously, aware that this might be as delicate a subject with him as it is with me.