Read Wine, Tarts, & Sex Online
Authors: Susan Johnson
Wine, Tarts, & Sex (23 page)
Once there, Jake immediately began answering his phone messages. Christ, he had a lot of people needing him to make their decisions. Luckily, his restaurants were well-oiled machines that ran despite his employees’ occasional uncertainties.
A dozen calls later and everyone’s questions were answered. Peace and tranquillity were restored to his West Coast operations. Not that he dared take a break or relax, or he knew exactly what he’d do.
Get in his car and drive back up north.
Despite the hour, he began calling the contractors Chaz had recommended. All they could do was tell him to go to hell. But since the men were all friends of Chaz’s, they were more than willing to discuss Jake’s building project, late hour or not.
Jake set up three early morning appointments for the next day.
Insurance, as it were, to make certain he stayed in town tonight and didn’t cave and drive back out to Liv’s. To that end, he decided it would be best not to stay in the apartment. He’d tour some of the bars downtown. Chaz had left him a lengthy list. He apparently knew every bartender at every happening place in the city.
Jake drank more than he should that night, politely brushed off a considerable number of women hitting on him, and felt curiously detached from the buzz and hustle of the crowds when loud music and bar noise were his normal comfort zone.
He actually made his way home before closing time.
This from a man who regularly joined his crew in after-close partying.
Less familiar with sleep deprivation, Liv found herself struggling to stay awake once Jake left. After cleaning up the debris from dinner, she went upstairs. Janie et al. were out of sight in their rooms as she moved down the hall to her room. Collapsing on her bed a moment later, she turned on the TV, but even knowing
The Daily Show
, her favorite program, was about to come on wasn’t enough to keep her eyes open. TiVo to the rescue, she decided and flicked off the television.
The Daily Show
, her favorite program, was about to come on wasn’t enough to keep her eyes open. TiVo to the rescue, she decided and flicked off the television.
Eight uninterrupted hours later, she woke refreshed.
So refreshed and together that she could even placidly consider life without Jake Chambers’s brand of fabulous sex.
And seriously, her life was beaucoup busy, she reminded herself. Particularly now, with her added houseguests. More particularly since she’d not so much as stepped foot in her vineyard for days. She really didn’t have the leisure to give herself up to amorous play ad infinitum.
On that rational note, she left her bed, showered, dressed, and, after making herself a latte, carried it with her out to the barn.
With the sun warm on her face, chirruping birdsong sweet in her ears, she inhaled the fresh morning air and felt gloriously alive.
Really, was life good or what?
“Don’t smirk,” she said to Chris, who was smirking big time as she walked into his office in the barn.
“Can’t I be happy to see you again?”
“And don’t say
again
in that insinuating way.”
again
in that insinuating way.”
But her voice was so obviously cheerful, Chris knew she was teasing. “Whatever you say, boss. Come see our new museum piece,” he said, getting up from his desk and nodding toward the back of the barn. “It classes up the neighborhood, but I’m not sure it should be out here in the dust and flies.”
“Janie took her painting out of the packing?”
“She didn’t, but I did, along with that big guy. Your friend likes to give orders. You should talk to her, though. Seriously, the painting’s too valuable to be out here without any protection.”
“How big is it? Do I have room in the house?”
“It’s frigging big, but it might fit in your parlor. The ceilings are higher there.”
“Wow,” Liv murmured, as she rounded the last horse stall—the barn now home to only two horses—and came face-to-face with Hockney’s portrait of Janie dressed to the teeth in a sophisticated evening suit. The pricey artwork looked grandly out of place. “That’s almost more than life-sized. ”
“Yep.”
Chris was right. Janie’s insurance company would be apoplectic if they saw it now. “Okay, I’ll talk to her. We’ll find someplace for it in the house. And with luck, the cops won’t come looking for it. On the other hand, it’s not precisely my problem. So—tell me what I missed.”
“Everything’s looking good. The crews have been busy cultivating. We had rain, so we didn’t have to irrigate, the temperatures have been ideal, even the bugs—or lack of bugs—have been cooperating.”
“Perfect. I appreciate your stepping in.” In his baggy shorts, Converse sneakers, and spiky blond hair, Chris looked more like a skateboarder than a vintner. But he was a rising young star in the business, urban image or not, and he was also a superb farm manager.
“Not a problem, Liv. And FYI, it looks as though we’re going to have our best harvest yet. We might very well end up with a drool-inducing vintage this year.”
“Really—
really
? Wonderful! Thanks to your expertise, of course.”
really
? Wonderful! Thanks to your expertise, of course.”
“Yeah, well, the soil left behind by the glaciers has a thing or two to do with it, too. But we’re on the verge.” He dipped his head. “Are you back on schedule work-wise or what?”
“Definitely. I’ll be up in the mornings and out here early. It’s good to be back.” And she really meant it; getting things right in her vineyard was in the same category as great sex. Or maybe she’d waited for this enviable stage so long, she enjoyed it more than most. Or maybe she was just practical.
After all, while Jake Chambers was synonymous with great sex, he wasn’t looking for permanence.
She would be wise not to forget that.
Twenty-six
Jake woke with a colossal hangover, the sound of the alarm jarring his brain. He lunged for the clock radio, grunted as agonizing pain spiked through his head, and slammed his hand down on the Off button just as a wave of nausea hit him.
Falling back, he shut his eyes.
Jesus. That made his churning stomach worse. Opening his eyes, he dragged himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and waited for the world to stop spinning. He might have dozed off again, he wasn’t sure, but when he came to again, taking his head in his hands, he carefully rose to his feet. Steady. Stars flashed and popped before his eyes. He did that deep breathing thing until they disappeared. Then, dropping his hands, he cautiously moved his head left and right. Okay, that was working. Now, if he could walk without hurling, he’d try to find the Vicodin he kept for times like this.
Since he’d hardly unpacked, it took him longer than he would have liked to ferret out his hangover remedy. But dire necessity prevailed, and two Vicodin later, he navigated the route to the kitchen and made himself café au lait with six sugars. After his chemical and caffeine fix had worked its magic, he showered, shaved, dressed, ate some toast, and felt almost normal. Okay, he couldn’t lie; he wasn’t in shape to run any marathon. But everything else was definitely on the rise.
Descending the stairs to the ground floor, he stopped on the bottom landing to take in the panoramic view of the mighty Mississippi flowing by the restaurant’s window wall. Sun sparkled off the water, runners and walkers were taking advantage of the meandering path on the opposite bank, water poured over the dam in a white-water torrent, the scene vibrant and alive. There was something restorative in the view—a tonic perhaps—or a reminder of the simple beauties of life.
Speaking of beauty, his new restaurant was going to be one awesome place to hang out once the dust settled.
Now, which contractor was scheduled first this morning?
The following days saw major changes in Jake’s River Joint as work crews demolished and plumbed, wired and rewired, took out windows for new windows, power-blasted the original brick walls of the old mill, and cleaned the kitchen to pristine splendor.
Each day was a three-ring circus of activity, with Jake’s participation indispensable for decisions large and small. Suppliers, wholesalers, decorators, and construction managers all needed him to tell them what went where and when. Not that he didn’t welcome the tumult. It kept his mind off Liv.
However, once the work crews left at the end of the day, he was alone, and things always turned dicey. He’d find himself obsessing again about pretty much one thing. Or person. Or whatever designation best characterized his bizarre craving.
If he was actually introspective—which he wasn’t—he would have described his craving as lust: a perfectly understandable concept for him. Didn’t someone once say an accommodating vice was preferable to a more obstinate virtue? He would have agreed. As for harboring feelings of affection for Liv, he wasn’t ready to acknowledge anything of the kind.
Every evening, he’d force himself to focus on the project he’d come here to accomplish—like open a restaurant. Meeting Liv had thrown him off track for a few days, but he was back on schedule, and he had every intention of staying there. After all, getting a restaurant up and running was normally a smoothly run operation for him. Hadn’t he always prided himself on his ability to concentrate on business, regardless of distractions?
So, stay on task
.
.
Self-lectures and warnings notwithstanding, he still found himself constantly daydreaming about Liv at night when he should be concentrating on the next day’s work schedule. It seemed as though every little thing reminded him of her, whether he was trying to decide on the type of outdoor tables and flowers for the window boxes, or the color of bathroom tile, or the dimensions of the new dining room carpet. It was insane.
It was even more disturbing to think about sleeping in the Bollywood bed. Although that emotional can of worms at least made sense. His memories of her in that bed were totally erotic. Just remembering them gave him a hard-on.
So after that first night when he’d fallen into bed drunk, he’d chosen to sleep on the couch. Or semisleep. That was the best he could do with lascivious images of Liv looping through his brain.
Christ, he felt like he was losing it.
While Jake was overseeing the construction on his River Joint and struggling to maintain his equilibrium, Roman, Janie, and Matt were enjoying a little bit of paradise— in their case consisting of children’s activities in the daytime and adult pleasures at night. Matt was thriving and happy with two adults inclined to give in to his every whim. Janie basked under Roman’s tender accommodation and didn’t even once think about Leo’s nastiness. Roman took pleasure in one day at a time; he’d learned a long time ago that it never paid to plan.
Liv and Chris worked long hours seeing that the grapes were nurtured with loving care in hopes that Chris’s anticipated first world-class vintage would materialize. One and all missed the in-home chef, but generally by the time Liv returned from the fields and Janie’s group arrived home after their amusements, it was too late to even think about cooking.
“We found the nicest little restaurant not too far from here,” Janie cheerfully announced the second day. “They have chicken-fried steak that reminds me of Texas. And Roman says their cabbage rolls are almost as good as his grandmother’s.”
“I wike da cheese mac,” Matt had chimed in.
And Nickie’s Diner replaced Jake’s meals for Liv’s guests.
Liv would make herself a sandwich or omelet or eat some fruit and cheese when she came in for supper. Then she’d drink a glass of wine and spend the night catching up on her TV watching. She was fine, she told herself. She liked her life. She’d been alone here for years. If she needed some nightlife, she could always go into town and hang out with Shelly et al. Ah—denial.
Jake was less in denial and consequently less laid-back. He couldn’t remember when he’d spent time alone, his schedule the last twenty years essentially seven-nights-a-week work in the mass hysteria of a commercial kitchen.
He tried to tell himself that he was long overdue for peace and tranquillity. He even tried to believe it.
But when platitudes no longer staved off the potent force of his libido, he’d go downstairs, pick up one of the sledgehammers left behind by the demolition crew, and take out his frustration on the wall that was being razed between the restaurant and the new bar.
He’d smash cement block, brick, and old lathe and plaster until he could no longer lift his arms, then he’d drag himself back upstairs, collapse on the couch, and try to find something to further distract him from his out-of-control desires. Reading a book wasn’t in the cards. He was too jumpy. TV became his mindless fallback, which meant he ended up watching a ton of dreck on cable.
One night, very late, when sleep was more elusive than usual—okay, impossible—he sat down and made a list of the relevant liabilities apropos a relationship with Liv. This from a man who’d never even considered an actual relationship with a woman. Nor had he ever done anything so truly lame since he’d written that poem to Dede Orlando in the seventh grade. Which only went to show the extent of his lust or Liv’s frigging appeal; he wasn’t sure of the pecking order on that one.
Anyway, on the very top of his list of liabilities he scrawled: “I won’t be here long. Six months at best.”
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