Authors: Susan Johnson

Wine, Tarts, & Sex (34 page)

BOOK: Wine, Tarts, & Sex

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“Not as happy as me. I think my heart stopped for a second when I saw you. It sure as hell felt like it. I realized then that this—you and me—wasn’t business as usual, no matter how much I might want it to be.”

“I kept telling myself I could pick any of the guys Shelly and I were flirting with and have as much fun with him as I did with you. In fact—”

“Don’t say another word. I’m getting pissed just thinking about it.”

She gave him a considering look. “Are you jealous?”

“No shit.”

She smiled, liking that they were in accord. “Me, too. Your old girlfriend was making me see green.”

“She was never a girlfriend.”

“She apparently didn’t agree with you.”

“Whatever.”

The indifference in his voice was a gift—really like something from Cartier or Tiffany. But she wallowed in her smug happiness for only the amount of time it took her to begin to wonder whether he would be speaking of her in that same tone before long.

That was the huge problem with wanting someone too much, she decided. It screwed up your independence big time. “We have to keep this relationship—and I use the word loosely—in perspective,” she said. “For instance, I don’t want to get all rankled and bitter if you look at another woman.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’d better be, ’cause if you look at another man I’m gonna get cranky. Forget this perspective, shit.”

“Be reasonable, Jake. You won’t even be here a few months from now.”

“Who says?”

“I do. You have two restaurants on the West Coast and a house or an apartment there, I presume. You aren’t seriously thinking about settling down in Minnesota are you?”

“Maybe I am.”

“Hey—you don’t have to say that.”

“The thing is, I’m thinking about it. Or,” he said, holding her gaze for a moment, “I was also thinking that you might not be too busy in the winter, and we could, like, split our time between here and the West Coast.”

She smiled. “There’s no need to sweet-talk me. I understand all the practicalities. Okay?”

“Just for the record, I’m not sweet talking you. And also for the record, I’ve had three weeks to deal with missing you, so I’m
mucho
serious about making some plans.”

“Could we talk about it in the morning?” The last thing she wanted to do was fight right now, and any talk about leaving her vineyard was bound to be a contentious conversation.

“Good idea.” First things first, his libido cautioned, highly in favor of conviviality at the moment. Plenty of time for complexities after a few orgasms. “Tell me what you’ve been doing since I saw you last.”

“Whining and sulking and pretending I didn’t miss you.” Jake laughed. “Funny, I was doing the same thing. Only difference was you were farming, and I was cooking.”

“How long can you stay?”

“As long as you can stand to have me around.”

"Yum... what a pleasant thought. Like you’ll be around—”

“To give you whatever you want, whenever you want it.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered, every nerve in her body revving up on hearing his promise of sexual pleasure. “Do you think you could drive just a little faster? I mean, if you think it’s safe enough this time of night.”

At the tremor in her voice, he shot her a look, quickly debating her bed against his backseat. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He checked his rearview mirror and the road ahead. “Are you gonna make it?”

“If I waited three weeks, I can wait another twenty minutes. ”

He floored it but noted her restlessness as she shifted in her seat. “Think about what you might want for breakfast,” he suggested, trying to get her mind on other things. “In the morning, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”

“Jeez, you know . . . I
am
hungry.”

He was pleased to hear a degree less impatience in her voice. “I’ll make you something tonight then—afterward.”

She turned to him and grinned. “You said that the first night I met you.”

“That’s right. We ate tapas.”

“You say that like you didn’t remember.”

“No, no, I remember.”
Now
. “I just don’t ordinarily cook for women, that’s all,” he added. “You must bring out the Boy Scout in me.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky us. What do you think about Tarte Tatin for breakfast?” He figured if he kept talking food, they’d make it to her bed. That small backseat was murder for a man his size. Not that there hadn’t been a time when he’d been perfectly willing to make the adjustment.

But not now—if he didn’t have to. “You eat eggs, right?”

Forty-three

She’d smelled the peaches cooking in her dream, so when the bed dipped and Jake said, “Breakfast for my baby,” she didn’t know if she was asleep or awake.

But his kiss was real; she could taste sugary peaches on his lips.

“Hmmm . . . I must be in heaven,” she whispered, levering her eyes open.

“Damn close. Or after last night, I’d say it’s a toss-up. What do you think about this love stuff? It’s pretty damned great from where I’m sitting.”

“Oh, yeah . . . definitely fine.” She smiled.

“I don’t even feel like running away. Could this mean we’re all grown-up?”

“Or maybe we were just slow learners.”

“Or maybe we were just waiting for the right person to come along.”

“Such a rarity seems to have transpired,” she said with a delectable smile. “Speaking of the right person, would that person happen to have some peachy stuff handy? I’m starved.”

“At your service, babe. Tarte Tatin with a slight variation; you didn’t have any apples. Also scrambled eggs with herbs, fried green tomatoes, espresso mocha or mimosas or both.”

Reaching over, he removed a tray from the bedside table, said, “Move over,” and when she did, deposited the tray in the center of the bed.

As he eased into a sprawl on the other side of the tray, Liv came up on one elbow and murmured, “Déjà vu.”

“Get used to it. I’m not going away.”

“Promises, promises,” she purred.

“You can take that promise to the bank, baby. Peaches first?” he added, casually scooping up a spoonful of peach tart.

Her heart did a little flip-flop; he was promising a future even in the cold light of day. But before she had a chance to reply, the most scrumptious, buttery, sugary peach tart was deposited in her mouth, and she was suddenly debating the relative merits of fabulous sex versus fabulous cooking.

As if he could read minds, he said with a grin, “One thing at a time. I’m saving sex for dessert.”

“I happened to be thinking about today’s vineyard schedule,” she said through her chewing.

“Liar.”

His knowing smile inspired her to say somewhat huffily, “You don’t know everything.”

“I’m not saying I know
everything
. But when it comes to you and sex, I’m pretty well clued in. And don’t get sulky, baby; the fact that I know when you want it just makes it easier to please you. Open up, here’s some more.”

How sweet was that?
she thought, opening her mouth for another delicious spoonful of peach tart with whipped cream and crème anglais and then another and another. Really, it was impossible to be miffed at someone who only wanted to please you sexually and could cook as well.

“Janie sent a postcard,” he noted, picking up a card from the tray and handing it to her when she’d had her fill of tart. “She sounds happy.”

While Liv studied the picture, then read the card, Jake ate.

“Do you really think they’re in Monaco?”

“God knows, with Roman’s rerouting abilities. They could be next door. I didn’t get that part about her shoes, though.” Janie had mentioned green beach sandals.

“Oh! I know where they are then! We both had sandals made for us in Florence years ago. They’re in Florence!”

“There you go. We’re gonna have to read her cards for clues. Like the Hardy Boys.”

“Do you think it’s serious with them?”

Jake shrugged. “Hard to tell. You know Janie; she’s not exactly trustworthy over the long haul. Although Roman’s seen it all; he can take care of himself.”

“It would be nice, though, wouldn’t it?”

“Not as nice as it is for us to be in it for the long haul. And I mean that in the most romantic sense,” he said, his gaze over the rim of his espresso cup, amused.

“I may prefer a smidgen more sentiment.”

“I’ll go online to one of those poetry sites. They write anything you want.”

She snorted. “Now, there’s the personal touch.”

“If you want personal, babe, just let me know when you’re done eating, and we’ll get as personal as you want.”

“Maybe I want poetry.”

“You’ll have to settle for food and sex. I don’t do poetry. ”

“Okay,” she said. Really, there was no contest.

He grinned. “No equivocation?”

“Do I look stupid?”

“No. You look sexy as hell, and I’d really be happy if you’d finish your breakfast pronto so we could get on with my schedule for the day.”

“Schedule?”

He smiled. “It’s a euphemism.”