Page 32 of Rock the Chardonnay

I make pasta and don’t eat it, only because I’m not hungry. Do I stare at the groceries Declan brought over, remembering how he pushed me up against the counter? No. That would be wallowing, and I absolutely, positively do not wallow.

Picking up my guitar, I play through a few songs, trying to lose myself in the music. Outside, night finally falls. The late summer sun put up a good fight, but everyone eventually has to go to bed. A car rolls down the driveway, and I watch as Zoey Foster gets out of the driver’s seat and stretches her back.

Ten minutes later, the back door to the main house opens, spilling light across the yard. Declan in shadows saunters down the path to the wine tasting room.

Fury builds in my core and I wipe the tears from my eyes. How dare he be so casual when I’m over here, sleepless and definitely not pining? This isn’t fair. It isn’t right.

I slip on my sandals and leave the cabin. I’m not going to sit here all night wondering. I’m not drowning my sorrows in other men. Not this time.

I push open the door to the tasting room and all my resolve falls away.

Declan looks as heartsick as I feel. His handsome face with his crunchy line of jaw stubble is furrowed deeper than an eighty-year-old rancher who refuses to wear sunscreen. He looks up at me from where he’s packing a box of wine bottles, and the raw hurt on his face is enough to melt me.

I rush toward him and leap into his waiting arms. They tighten around me, and the unfamiliar and intoxicating twin sensations of safety and security surround me. Declan’s arms are the hug equivalent of warm, clean-smelling sheets straight from the dryer.

“What happened to you?” I whisper into his neck. “I was on stage and you were dancing with Alex. The next moment you were gone.”

He holds me tighter, snuggling me. I could drown like this, happy in his scent. “I ran into Ciaran. He said some things…it brought up a lot of stuff for me.”

“Ciaran?” What place does his brother have in this conversation?

“He told me he went to see you last night.”

He doesn’t say anything further, but I hear the subtle accusation behind it, and it fills me with ice. “He came over late last night, after you’d left. We talked for five minutes, ten tops.” I pull out of his arms. “I’m not going to do the jealousy thing. I’m a singer. I talk to people all the time, and people flirt with me. I’m not going to apologize for that or deal with some toxic bullshit you fester with your brother.”

Hanging his head, he leans back against the solid wooden bar. “I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right. With Ciaran, everything is so complicated. It always feels like people choose him over me. Even Josie.”

“What do you mean?”

He runs a hand through his hair, and it flops back across his face, recalcitrant. “I always thought Josie loved me. It turned out she wished I was my brother. That’s why we got divorced. I loved her, but she was in love with Ciaran.”

Uffdah. “I’m so sorry. That’s awful. But it’s not me. I’m not in love with Ciaran.” Was I ever? “It’s in the past.” I palm his jaw, turning his face toward me. “I’m here with you. Until the wagon wheels fall off or we get dysentery. Remember?”

He doesn’t laugh. “I don’t know how this is going to work.” He shifts, resting his hands on my waist. “I’m here, and you’re a budding supernova. I couldn’t make it work long distance with Josie, with her always on the move for months at a time.”

“I don’t know how to do this, either,” I confess. I step between his legs. “But I want to try. We can take it moment by moment, minute by minute, hour by hour.” Lacing my fingers through his, I lean against his firm, sturdy, secret buff chest. Saying these things out loud is a catharsis I haven’t realized I need. Every word feels truer as I give it oxygen. “I’ve never done this before. But I think you’re worth it.”

He kisses me then, long and hard, and air is the last thing I crave.

Each time he kisses me, I’m transported back to twelve years ago at the grape crush. I’m the teenager desperate for his attention, desperate for him to cross that bridge and make a move. But if he had back then, we never would have made it. I know that. I was too fucked up, too young and flighty, and I would have broken him. Which is why I never crossed that bridge, either.

We have to be the people we are now for this to happen.

He kisses the shape of a heart along my collarbone, and I slide my hands through his thick hair. “You taste so good,” he whispers. His erection presses against my thigh, and my pussy clenches with want.

“Lift me up,” I command. With one hand squeezing my ass, he lifts me up and onto the counter, giving me ample room to grind myself against his hard length. Stars dance behind my eyes, spelling out his name.

He kisses me again, longer and deeper, his tongue probing my mouth. His every move, every gesture, is protective. Every inch of his body conveys his desire for me.

His fingers stumble on the buttons of my shirt, so I help him out by fisting the lapels and ripping it open. Buttons clatter around us like rice on a wedding day.

Still kissing me, his hand goes to my bare breast, and then he pulls away, surprise and pleasure and heat shifting across his face. “Holy fuck, you have a nipple ring?”

As if to prove to himself it’s real, his fingers tighten on the little bejeweled barbell. The tug sends a delicious rope of pleasure spiraling through my body, and I unconsciously grind myself against his erection again.

“So what?” I whisper. I can’t speak any louder, not when he tugs on it again, not with the heat in his expression, hot enough to burn. Fuck, I might come from this alone if he keeps playing with my nipple ring.

“I’ve never actually seen one in person.” He twists it softly, the motion curling through me, and I moan, loud and long. “I’m sorry, does it hurt?”

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