Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 107710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“You said there was a wedding present waiting for me at home,” she said, bracing herself. “Is there a bucket of water inside, resting precariously above the door?”
“Even I am not dumb enough to ruin a woman’s wedding-day makeup,” he said, chuckling. “By the way, if you can drop the word ‘precariously’ into a sentence, you’re stone-cold sober.” He set the cat at his feet, gave the feline a quick scratch behind the ears, then unlocked the door, pushing it open. Natalie was too distracted by the streak of fur disappearing into the darkness to realize August’s intention—and then it was too late.
She was in his arms being carried over the threshold.
“This is highly unnecessary.”
“It’s tradition among the Adonis culture.”
She snorted and tried not to enjoy herself.
“Natalie . . .” He stopped in the middle of the kitchen, still holding her without any signs of exertion—which made her chances of coming out on top of the bet feel slim. “I got your present before you gave me mine. The picture of Sam. I was a little slow on the uptake and I didn’t realize . . . we were swinging for the fences, you know?”
“That wasn’t . . .” Her laughter was halting. “I wouldn’t call that swinging for the—”
“Yes, it was.” His tone was final. A tad rusty. “It was.”
Charged silence took up the air around them. “Okay.”
“And essentially, I got you a piece of paper.”
“A what?”
He finally set her down, but only so he could slap his hands over his eyes. “I’m a shit gift giver. I’m absolutely awful at it. When I was seven, I gave my mother a pancake for Mother’s Day. Only, I’d been planning ahead, so it had been wrapped in my closet for three weeks. I haven’t gotten any better.” He gestured to her room. The door was open and she could see a frame propped on the small nightstand. “I framed a ticket stub from Wine Down Napa—you know, the event where we met?” He shook his head. “You’d probably rather forget that night.”
Had she swallowed a fistful of feathers? “No. That was a good night,” she murmured, recalling the first time she’d seen him in his Kiss the Vintner apron, a head taller than everyone in the room. That booming laugh. “But you were an exhibitor at Wine Down. You wouldn’t have needed a ticket. Where did you find this one?”
He jerked a big shoulder. “I might have asked a few people.” He coughed. “Few dozen.”
Oh my.
“Let’s do the lift,” she interrupted, surprising both of them.
“Wow.” His voice went from surprised to gruff. “You really switched gears there.”
Hello, understatement. A few minutes ago, she’d been intent on redrawing the boundaries and battle lines of this relationship. Now she was throwing her common sense in the dumpster because of a framed ticket stub.
Maybe this annoying attraction to August had simply built to a fever pitch. Toss in the undisputed fact that Napa weddings could make a corpse feel romantic, let alone a warm-blooded woman, and her immunity to him was currently paper thin. Whatever the reason, she wanted an excuse to be touched by him and this was the perfect opportunity. Even if she ended the night on a gurney in the back of an ambulance.
You won’t.
You know you won’t.
August wouldn’t drop her. Ever. End of story. Was that why she wanted to do the lift? Did she enjoy the way he made her feel physically safe? Maybe. Yes. It was refreshing to have that confidence in another person. A rarity. So she backed across the kitchen, all the way to the far corner, to give herself enough running space. And then she went for it.
Ran right toward him in a wedding dress and heels.
The man didn’t even blink.
He simply caught her around the waist and lifted her up over his head, turning her in a slow circle, giving her a lopsided smile from below.
“Don’t say it,” she whispered. “Don’t ruin it.”
“Nobody puts Natalie in a corner,” he blurted, followed by that rich, abandoned laugh that collided with her groan. “It’s out of my system, I swear.”
“Too late, I’m already flooded with regrets.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No . . .” She sighed as he set her down, pulse beating a million miles a minute. “I’m not.”
Holy hell.
His mouth was close. Very close. The fingertips of his right hand traced her cheekbone, their lips gravitating toward each other until they were trading breaths. “I win,” he rasped, touching the tip of his tongue to the center of her upper lip. “Promise it’ll feel like we both did, though. Yeah, Natalie?”
Was she nodding?
She let him take her wrist and hustle her down the hallway, past the bathroom to his bedroom. He drew her inside, kicking the door shut with a definitive slam. And then they were making out. Although was that really the proper term for the way they were mauling each other? Hands seeking and clutching and exploring while his tongue swept deep in her mouth, turning her delirious.