Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
It was better that he hadn’t.
Ten minutes later, Gianni returned with a plastic bag of ice. “Rose is the best,” he said, stomping the snow off his boots. “She even gave me an ACE bandage to wrap it.”
“Aw, that’s so nice.”
“But first, let’s get some ice on it.” Gianni grabbed a kitchen towel, wrapped the bag of ice in it, and placed it on the bed. Then he carefully lifted my leg below the calf and placed my ankle on the ice.
“I can still move my leg,” I said, laughing. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Fuck off and let me take care of you.”
“Okay, but your bedside manner could use some work.”
He sat on the bed, where he examined my ankle from all sides. “Doesn’t look too bad.”
“It isn’t. Honestly, it’s fine.”
He touched the top of my foot. “You have very small feet.”
“Don’t make fun.”
“I’m not, I’m just stating a fact. And your toes are cute.”
“Thank you.” I noticed the way his eyes were moving from my foot to my calf and up my leg and felt warm. “How about some wine?”
He jumped up. “Sure. I’ll pour you a glass and then start dinner. I’m getting hungry.”
As soon as the door shut behind him, I took a couple big, deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on my skin.
Twenty minutes, 400 milligrams of Motrin, and one glass of wine later, I was able to put some weight on my foot.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I said, limping over to my bag and taking out my clean underwear, socks, cosmetics case, and the sweatshirt Gianni had purchased for me.
“Okay,” Gianni said from the stove.
“I can help you with dinner when I get out.”
“I don’t want you on that foot. I’ve got this.” He glanced over his shoulder at me, a grin playing on his lips. “But let me know if you need help in the shower.”
Rolling my eyes, I hobbled toward the bathroom. “I’m fine, thanks.”
But I wasn’t.
As I shut the bathroom door, I leaned back against it and put a hand on my fluttering stomach. While I got undressed, all I could think about was the night ahead. Hour after hour alone in the dark with him, sharing that little bed with the memory of his body on mine fresh in my mind. The memory of his kiss. Of his tongue. Of those orgasms.
God, why couldn’t he have been shitty at sex? Clumsy and selfish, with no clue what to do with his hands or his mouth, let alone his dick? Why did he have to know just how to touch me? The right things to say? Exactly how to move? No one had ever made me feel that good—desirable, wanted, sexy.
And he was being so sweet today. I thought I’d seen all his sides, but maybe there was more to him than a big ego and a hot body.
I just wouldn’t think about it, that was all. I’d take a nice, long shower and think about other things—special events I could do at Abelard this summer, engaging social media posts, updates to our tasting room, maybe a series of tasting videos online or a podcast where I interviewed other small winemakers in the region about what they were doing.
Distracted by business, I began to feel better. The water at the Pineview Motel didn’t get very hot, of course, and I had to keep most of my weight on one leg, but I managed. In my cosmetics case, I’d discovered tiny travel bottles of my shampoo and conditioner, so I even managed to wash my hair.
After I got out, I dried off, wrapped the towel around me, and combed through my wet hair. Since there was no blow dryer, I’d have to let it air dry. I hung up the towel on a hook, and pulled on my clean underwear, socks, and the XL sweatshirt. It was huge, even bigger than Gianni’s sweater from last night, so I didn’t feel too self-conscious coming out of the bathroom in it.
When I opened the door, I was greeted with an aroma that made my mouth water—tomatoes and garlic and herbs and fresh bread. But how was that even possible?
“What are you making?” I asked, limping up behind Gianni. A pot of pasta was boiling on one burner, and he was stirring sauce on the other. On the counter was olive oil, a few dried herbs and spices, the bottle of white wine, and something wrapped in foil. “Why does it smell so good?”
“Rose gave me a loaf of bread she baked today and I sliced it open, brushed it with melted butter and garlic powder, and warmed it up on the stove. It’s wrapped up there.” He nodded toward the counter. “And this is going to be our spaghetti pomodoro.”