Page 25 of Married to the Frenemy

“What’s that?”

“Wine. Can you ever enjoy a glass without it reminding you of work?”

“It’s not work for me. Sure, the tedious process of checking the soil and vines can feel like it. But tasting someone else’s finished product, knowing all the effort they put into making it…” He shakes his head. “There’s nothing better.”

My lips curve slightly in the corners as I take in the excitement in his expression. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak so passionately or animatedly about anything before.

“You love it, don’t you?”

“I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. I wouldn’t want to do anything else.”

“Then I’m glad I can help.” I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine.

The instant our skin makes contact, he darts his gaze toward our joined hands, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

This might be the first time I’ve felt his skin in years. Sure, he teased me the other night as he leaned into the crook of my neck, torturing me with the heat of his breath. But it’s been years since I actually felt the warmth of his touch.

And damn him for scrambling my insides even more.

“Here you go,” our server sings as she approaches our table, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses.

I quickly pull my hand away and straighten in my chair, acting as if Beckham’s touch hasn’t left me completely breathless.

I keep my eyes averted as she expertly removes the cork and pours a small amount of red liquid into a glass for Beckham to taste. After he approves, she pours more into both glasses, then gives us some privacy.

“To the future,” Beckham says, raising his glass.

“The future,” I repeat, clinking my glass with his before bringing it to my lips and taking a sip, savoring the delicious wine.

Once I return my glass to the table, Beckham peers at me expectantly. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know what the big deal is. That would go fine with tilapia.”

Beckham’s jaw tenses as a subtle growl tumbles from his throat, sending my girly bits aflutter once more.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BECKHAM

“Where should we start?” Haley asks after our server has taken our dinner orders.

As I expected, she tried to order pork, but all it took was one harsh glare from me, and she changed her order to the filet.

Years ago, I never could have imagined I’d be the one telling her to order the expensive meal at a nice restaurant. Haley grew up in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Lake Tahoe. To say she comes from a different world than me is an understatement. A fact I was forced to learn when I was eighteen, despite foolishly thinking it didn’t matter.

I was wrong.

And she paid the price.

“Start?” I repeat, taking another sip of wine.

“The whole getting married thing. Aren’t we here to make sure our stories line up?”

“Right. Of course.” I clear my throat, attempting to act as normal as possible.

Except there’s nothing normal about the way my body’s been reacting to Haley lately, especially tonight when I saw her round the corner into the lobby wearing a slim-fit black dress that has me wanting to gouge out the eyes of every man who looks at her any longer than I deem appropriate.

“We should probably start at the beginning,” she suggests, taking charge. “When was our first date?”

---