Page 42 of The Paris Roommates: Dean
“I wasn’t.” She sat back and folded her hands.
“Liar,” he whispered softly.
She smiled again, the curve of her mouth a playground slide of pure sex. When the server inquired who would taste the wine, he grandly gestured to Jacqueline. She looked like the expert she was as she tasted it, swirling her glass with intensity and watching the color as if she were the lead inspector in a nuclear plant and the world’s survival depended on her analysis.
When she took a delicate sniff, he felt sweat bead on his temples at the earthy action. So sexy. Damn, he’d hoped to leave that whole light-headed, sweating thing behind at Luxembourg Gardens. He checked to make sure Sawyer’s handkerchief was still in place. Thank God his friend had forced the handkerchief on him. Rivulets running down his temples would probably be on his roommates’ no-no list.
“This is fine, thank you,” Jacqueline said after taking an informed sip.
The woman nodded, poured their wine, and then departed. Dean leaned across the table and waggled his brows. “Fine? What do you really think? Did I choose better with my white Châteauneuf-du-Pape?”
She shot him another drool-inciting smile and lifted her glass. “I will never say.Santé.”
He touched his glass to hers, enjoying the way her rosy mouth tipped up when she was giving him shit. “Not even if torture is involved?”
A speculative look entered her eyes. “Torture?”
Surely she knew he was joking and not a serial killer. “Yeah, like pulling the bread basket out of your reach.”
“You Americans and your sense of humor.” She took another sip of wine. “Truthfully, that would be a torment.”
Oh, yeah, they were vibing. “Pierre says hi, by the way. He even sent you a little message.”
He drew out his phone, pulled up the video, and hit play. God, he was so proud of himself for coming up with this move.
“Hello, Jacqueline,” Pierre said and then launched into the speech they’d rehearsed in French. “Have fun. My friend, Dean, is so funny. He likes you. For you. No booty call needed.”
Then Pierre’s crazy laughter erupted, and Dean pocketed his phone. “So?”
“Charming, as promised,” she finally said, fighting a smile like a wrestler refusing to go to the mat after a headlock.
“Come on,” he said, sipping his wine. “We went viral on thatun plan culvideo. People around the world have been laughing at it. Didn’t you see some of the comments?”
“I use social media mostly for work.” She touched the wine label. “I suppose you are a big fan, being from San Francisco.”
“Since my first Linux install as a kid, I’ve been hooked. I adore technology like my roommates Brooke and Thea adore shoes. I mean, it’s changed the world and made us more connected. It’s certainly made life easier by linking us to more kinds of products and information than ever before.”
“It sounds like technology really inspires you.” She tilted her head to the side and studied him. “Wine does that for me.”
“Tell me about that.”
Her eyes had the distant look of someone dwelling in their dreams. He’d seen it in himself in playbacks of him giving presentations. “I’m a sucker—I think that’s how you say it in English—for families who have been making wine for centuries. The Barone Ricasoli family in Italy, for example, established their wine label in 1141 A.D. They’ve survived the fighting of the city-states, the Black Plague, the Medicis—”
“Not the Medicis!” he exclaimed and then winced when she looked puzzled. “Ah…Sawyer joked about not meeting at the Medici Fountain for our picnic, which is why I changed it to the sailboat pond.”
Her smile was an amused line of sheer eroticism, and he knew sweat was beading at his temples again. “I’d wondered. Everyone has a Medici story apparently.”
Certainly they didn’t need to share any tonight, what with them all being major downers. “Sorry to interrupt. You were talking about Barone Ricasoli.”
“You were listening,” she drew out in that ever so sexy French way of hers.
He wanted to show her his talking points but thought better of it. “Always. Barone Ricasoli…”
“Yes.” Her eyes seemed to refocus. “Their flagship wine, Castello di Brolio, is only produced when the thirty-second baron, Francesco Ricasoli, decides the harvest is good enough.”
“It’s good to be the king,” he quoted and then grimaced. “Movie reference. Keep going.”
She leaned closer on the table, swirling the wine in her glass. “Can you imagine the kind of knowledge they’ve accrued about grapes and winemaking after all those years? They have the kind of Sangiovese and Abrusco grapes that will make your heart beat faster.” She blew out a breath before taking a sip of her wine. “You should stop me right now. I will talk your ear off about wine. It’s more than a passion for me. It’s my life.”
