Page 20 of Bordeaux Bombshell
Laughing, Sophie smacks her arm. “It wasn’tthatbad.”
“It was.” Emma’s laugh rings through the empty room, and I can’t help joining in. Emma recounts a few more of Sophie’s more memorable blogs from Hype, each just as ridiculous as the first. I add a few of my own to the mix, my favorite being the time I wrote all the website copy for a line of spice mixes, stuffed with every pun I could think of.
I know Nate still resents them for buying this place, but I can’t help liking them. It’s obvious they care about the Ridge. They care about Greg and Jackie and treat them with respect. I’ve never seen Sophie or Theo throw their weight around as the owners.
Truly, the only thing I can hold against them is that they took over the big house—the one I have so many memories of.
They didn’t even rename my wine when they rebranded, and for that, I will always be grateful.
Greg named the riesling line after my cat Amelia when she died my sophomore year. Saying goodbye to her broke my heart, and losing that piece of her would break me all over again. It’s just one more reason that, as much as I want to disembowel Nate on a regular basis—especially when he has that smug look in his eye after we trade orgasms—I can’t cut him off.
His home is my home.
His family is my family.
And even though my worst memories are tied to him, my happiest memories are too.
I can’t remove one without losing the other.
Beer splashes on my shoes when the crowd erupts in cheers. The man singing karaoke onstage waves his arms to hype them up even more, even as his voice cracks and warbles on the high notes. I cringe, but karaoke isn’t meant for people who can actually sing. The general bouncing and flailing have knocked me around more than once as I weave between people to get back to my friends, drinks in hand.
“Next time, you’re coming with me,” I shout in my friend’s ear, sliding four glasses onto the table. Immediately, Chelsea and Nicole scoop up their beers and turn back to each other, deep in an argument. I don’t bother trying to interrupt—they got into it over their daughter’s report card and have been like this all evening. When I asked why they bothered to come, Nicole laughed and said something about enjoying the kids being at Grandma’s. Chelsea grinned and added something about angry sex that I didn’t catch over the loud music, but based on thelascivious way she eyed her wife, I chose not to ask her to repeat it.
I know a thing or two about angry sex—I don’t need them to elaborate.
“Sure thing, babe.” Payton slides a hand over the top of her drink, never taking her eyes off the two men standing in front of her as she lifts it to sip from the straw protruding between her fingers. “This is Everett and his friend Sawyer. They’re in town for a conference.”
The one on the right jerks his chin in my direction. “What’s up? I’m Everett.”
The two men have vaguely Midwestern-wholesome looks. Hair that could be blond or brunette, square jaws, wide foreheads, light-colored eyes. Not unattractive, but utterly forgettable. Lanyards still hang from their necks, “Food Northwest Process & Packaging Expo” in large print above their names. Their matching navy button-downs are embroidered with “Good Foods, Inc.” in bright yellow.
Jesus Christ, where did Payton find these guys?
“Did you know there is a whole conference just for food packaging?” Payton twirls a strand of hair between her fingers, glancing at me before giving Everett her attention again. She stands with her hip popped, leaning back to look up at him—he’s tall, I’ll give him that. The glance wasn’t necessary. She’s telegraphing her interest in this lump of tofu loud enough for every woman in the bar to know she’s staked her claim.
“Sounds super interesting,” I yell between rounds of “bum-bum-bummm” from the crowd, not meaning a word.
Tofu #2, Sawyer, moves behind his friend to come stand beside me. “It’s really not.” He leans close to be heard. Surreptitiously, I transfer my drink to my other hand, keeping my hand over the top while I move it out of his reach. “Unless you also find vacuum sealing vegetables interesting.”
His breath smells like beer, mixing with his overabundance of cologne and the general odor of a crowd of people. Maybe he’ll grow on me. Either way, Payton has made her intention to chat up his friend clear, which means I’m now obligated to be her wingman and keep this guy occupied.
We make random small talk—he’s from Eastern Washington and has three brothers and a dog. All information he freely offers without ever asking a single question about me in return. When he reaches to take my empty glass and his sausage fingers brush against mine, I jerk back. Before I can apologize, he’s got my hand in his.
I assume he’s trying to shake it, but his fingers curl back, capturing mine in a sideways grip. Eyebrows furrowed, I look up to find his face close to mine.
“One, two, three, four…” he whispers in what I think is supposed to be a sexy voice. Unfortunately, it’s too loud in here, and he ends up mostly yelling it at me before jerking his fat thumb to the side and pinning mine down.
“What the fuck?” I try to jerk back again, but he’s got my hand in a vise.
He grins and keeps wrestling my thumb into submission despite me trying to pull free. “Thumb war!”
For fuck’s sake. This is how he’s flirting?
I play along for a round, twitching my thumb out of the way and avoiding being pinned for a few seconds. But his hand is so much bigger than mine; he’s got reach I can’t avoid, and once again, he traps my digit beneath his. Grinning, he flips our joined hands over and pulls the back of mine toward his lips.
Gross, gross, gross. Disgusted, I recoil, looking around for my girls, but Payton is deep in conversation with his friend, and Chelsea and Nicole are nowhere to be seen.
Desperately, I turn my head and strain to see through the crowd while he kisses my knuckles. His lips are both chappedand wet, which makes no sense, and his hot breath makes my skin crawl before I finally spot my friends making their way toward the stage.
