Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Jean-Claude shoved the plastic bag at my chest, jumping slightly as a bolt of lightning lit the sky behind him. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have thought he was nervous.
“Here. Tuna and rye bread. Lightly toast the bread, then sparingly spread a bit of Dijon before—”
“Oh, cooking instructions. I’ll have to write that down. Come in, man. You look like a drowned rat. In a good way,” I added when he scowled. “Don’t argue. I have alcohol—beer or wine?”
I moved ahead of him through the living room into a retro-style black-and-white kitchen. The table for two under the wide window usually let in a ton of sunlight, and the pink and red geraniums hanging from the eaves outside gave the room a pop of color that went with the cheery red plates stacked on exposed shelves over the kitchen sink. The room was dark now, but I kept the overhead lights off in deference to my sensitive eyes and adjusted the dimmer on the chandelier above the table.
I set the bag on the counter and presented a bottle of the best Pinot in Elmwood…according to Gerry at the liquor store.
Jean-Claude squinted at the label. “That is good wine, but I’m wet and—”
I threw a clean dish towel at him. “Dry off while I pour you a glass for your troubles.”
“Thank you, but my clothes are sticking to me and it’s very uncomfortable. I’ll just give you instructions and be on my way.”
“We’re the same height,” I commented, sizing him up. “I have sweats and a T-shirt you can borrow. I’ll even throw in a pair of socks.”
“Riley…”
Fuck, I liked the way he said my name. Ry-lee, as if the Ri was an appetizer and ley was the main course.
It was…sexy.
And on that thought, lightning flashed, illuminating the kitchen like a spotlight. I blinked, so flustered by the side trip my brain had taken that I didn’t give Jean-Claude a chance to turn me down. I hurried out of the room and returned with a pair of gray sweats and a black tee that had always been a bit too big for me.
I thrust them into his hands and pointed at the direction of the bathroom. “You can change in there—or here if you want. Whatever. I’ll pour wine. Should I do anything with the tuna?”
He glanced from the clothing to me and back again as if weighing a heavy decision: stay or go?
“I, uh…put it in the refrigerator. The bread is there…on the counter. I can write the instructions for you,” he said, tilting his chin slightly. “After a glass of wine.”
Okay, why did I feel like I’d won the fucking lottery?
I wasn’t sure what was going on with me. Yes, I liked Jean-Claude and yes, I appreciated that he not only didn’t judge my wackadoodle tuna theory, but he’d gone the extra mile to hand deliver it in a rainstorm. Anyone might be convinced that offering dry clothes and shelter was a neighborly gesture on my part. That didn’t sound like me, though.
Not that I was a dick…I wasn’t. But I was a guy who tipped for services like special deliveries. Somehow, sticking a hundred-dollar bill into Jean-Claude’s pocket and sending him out into a storm didn’t feel right. I was going with my gut on this one. There was a decent chance I was making a colossal fool of myself, but the ball was already rolling.
“This Pinot smells good,” I commented, pouring the burgundy liquid into a glass without looking up. “I guess a wine connoisseur would call it a nice bouquet or—”
Oh, fuck. He was…
He was…
Very fucking hot.
“I look ridiculous,” he huffed woodenly.
“No, you don’t.”
Not even close.
My shirt was snug across his shoulders, accentuating his pecs and thick biceps, and almost not quite covering his belly. And those sweats…I kid you not, I actually licked my lips. The thin fabric hugged his crotch so lovingly it was practically obscene. He should have looked ridiculous, but he didn’t. Far from it.
I tore my gaze from his junk and gave the wine my full attention, internally listing every boring topic I could think of to get my dick under control.
Glue, car insurance, traffic, celebrity gossip…
Shit. It wasn’t working. I poured a second glass and carried them to the table, sliding onto the nearest chair with a relieved sigh. Jean-Claude shot me a bemused glance before joining me.
He tapped his glass to mine, swirled the contents, sniffed it, then oh so leisurely took a sip. “C’est bon.”
“It’s good,” I translated, nodding in agreement. “Gerry must know what he’s talking about.”
“Not quite. I gave Gerry a cheater’s sheet so he’d know where to point his customers.”
I grinned. “You mean a cheat sheet.”
“Oui.” His lips twisted wryly. “Gerry is a nice man, but he doesn’t know wine. How is your head?”