Almost Lover Read online

  Secondly, I’d feel beholden. Sure, I stole a Gamay and got her trashed at her father’s wedding, and she’s somehow spinning this as something nice I did for her. But I realize damn well that I made a stupid decision and now she’s offering to pick up the pieces for me. I don’t like that. Not at all.

  Third.

  Third…she’s cute.

  Damn, she’s cuter every time I see her, and that’s dangerous as all hell. I just finished getting fried, shredded, and jailed after my last romance. I need to lay off girls and dating, and Jordan’s already presenting a temptation I just shouldn’t be toying with.

  I realize it would probably wind up going nowhere anyway, but I’d prefer to work somewhere where I’m not attracted to anyone, if that’s at all possible.

  And I tell her that, but she’s stubborn. Maybe it’s a redhead thing? I don’t really know, but this girl will not take ‘no’ for an answer.

  “Listen, I have a good feeling about you,” she says, tapping her high-heeled foot. “I know you didn’t love this last job, and I get that. But I think you could really help at Golden Leaf. And this isn’t a great time to be job hunting.”

  The big geek standing next her cuts in. “She’s right. Colleges just let out. Tons of people come back for summer jobs, and the vineyards are always happy to hire them. You may be out of luck.”

  Even with all their doom and gloom, I’m pretty sure I can find something on my own. I’m a capable guy. And I attempt to say that. Firmly.

  But I somehow wind up kind of promising that I’ll stop by the next day.

  I mean, I can control myself. Like I said before, freckles and red hair aren’t even my thing. Sure, she’s sweet and all, but I definitely think I might be letting myself imagine a crush on a girl who won’t break my heart the way Jess did. As long as I’m aware of it, it won’t be so hard to resist doing anything I’ll regret with her.

  “Fine.” I hold a hand out and she squeals before she shakes with an excited pump of our arms. “And thank you, Jordan. Funny how I was hell bent on hooking you up with work a few hours ago.”

  She winks at me and pulls her hand away. I ignore the empty zap that charges through me.

  “You’re going to need to learn how to put wine tents together. But I’m an awesome tutor,” she assures me.

  “I look forward to putting myself in your capable hands.” I stuff my own hands deep in my pockets so I don’t get the sudden urge to run my fingers over the smooth curve of her shoulder or something equally stupid. “Look, I really do appreciate it, but you two should go back to the wedding. You’re probably missing the cake. I hear a rumor it’s red velvet. It would be a shame to leave that uneaten.”

  The tall guy bobs his head, in total agreement because he’s probably starving. I have no clue how many calories it would take to keep a goon like him running all day, but the dude looks hungry. Jordan should take pity.

  I also wonder in some irritated, jealous part of my brain if they might be a thing. She’s definitely out of his league by a mile, but sometimes nice girls bunt when they could knock it out of the park. I don’t know why that is; then again, understanding the mystery of girls has never been my strong suit.

  “Why don’t you come? With us?” Jordan asks, her big brown eyes doe-ish and shiny.

  I try to say no. I do. But it’s like trying to say no to Bambi. A very firm, very insistent Bambi. I’d be totally fine in the back of the van, waiting for cleanup, but she’s got me by the wrist and is dragging me along behind her while I protest.

  “Dude,” the big guy finally says, “just give in. Once Jordan gets an idea, she doesn’t let go. Ever. She’s been like that since we were kids.”

  She turns to look over her shoulder and sticks her tongue out. Which is ridiculous, but it makes me laugh.

  “You two knew each other when you were kids?” I ask.

  She stops short and shakes her head. “I’m so rude! Enzo, this is my cousin Eddie. Eddie, Enzo.”

  Ah! Cousins. My testosterone settles the hell down at the information.

  We shake, and Eddie lets me know he doesn’t quite trust me by squeezing my hand hard enough to crack my knuckles. The guy could palm a basketball, no problem, so I decide not to fuck with him, even if he does come off like a huge geek.

  Sometimes geeks have the most pent-up aggression.

  I worry that someone will jump from somewhere, point me out, and demand I leave the shin-dig, but the wine has been flowing and the wedding guests are pretty toasty. There’s a lot of shameless tits-and-ass shaking on the shiny wood dance floor. When Jordan leads me to the little table in the corner where she and Eddie were sitting, we’re the only three sitting in the whole vicinity.

  The spread is hokey for a wedding that’s trying to be glitzy, but I could eat a damn horse, and I like comfort foods just fine. I heap a plate full of fried chicken and baked beans, fluffy white dinner rolls and crisp fries. Eddie eats four times as much as I can stomach, and Jordan just nibbles, looking pretty pale and like she might need a bucket at any second.

  When Eddie is all tucked in, Jordan pulls at his arm. “Come dance.”

  He groans. “Jordi, you know I would. It’s tradition. But there’s a reason I tried to drag you out here before dinner.” He pats his flat stomach and groans.

  “I’ll dance with you,” I offer. She and Eddie swing their heads in my direction, staring like two deer in the headlights of an eighteen wheeler. “Did I say something offensive?” I ask with a nervous laugh.

  “No.” Jordan shakes her head and scowls at Eddie. “Not at all. I’d…love to. I’d love to dance with you.”

  I jump to my feet and lead her onto the floor, happy as hell to have the chance to dance, even if it is to some 80s power rock at a wedding between two people, that according to Jordan are not really all that in love with each other.

  We grew up dancing in my house. Even my totally stiff and professional father would loosen his tie and cut a rug, old school style, with my mother on Friday nights after work. I like to think I have some rhythm, and one of my biggest pet peeves is when I date are girls who are wall flowers when there’s a good tune playing.

  If I just saw Jordan at a random party I would have pegged her one of those shy violet types who blushes a lot and squeals, shaking her head, when you try to pull her out for a dance.

  I’m so wrong, I’m wondering if my ability to read girls has just gone to complete and utter shit after Jess.

  Her skin is pink, not from blushing, but from excitement. She shimmies out and moves. It’s not the sexiest display I’ve ever seen, but she’s got this rad enthusiasm coupled with a complete lack of ego and a nice dose of good humor.

  Like, she busts out a mean Sprinkler with a straight face, then applauds my stellar Running Man.

  “You’ve got nice moves, Rodriguez,” she calls over the screams and catcalls of some hairband I don’t know.

  “You’re not too bad yourself.”

  I move closer to her, and notice that she smells softly sweet. Like flower petals instead of the blossom.

  Which seems stupid and makes me feel like an ass the minute I think it.

  “Eddie and I always dance.” she kicks off her heels, tosses them to the side, and moonwalks. It’s a damn impressive moonwalk. “We went to middle school and high school together, and we were huge nerds.”

  I’m about to say, You don’t say, but I bite my tongue.

  “So we were at all these dances, just hanging out by the brownies and soda.” She throws her arms in the air and waves them back and forth. “We were always kind of jamming out, but we never had the courage to go dance. And then, one random Friday, we just looked at each other and thought, ‘Screw it.’ We went on the dance floor and it was like—” She pauses and tries to think of an example, I guess.

  “Like Vincent and Mia in Pulp Fiction,” I suggest.

  “Um.” She shakes her head and laughs. A big laugh that sounds like it started at the bottom of her feet and bubbled
up through her body breaks out of her mouth. “More like Napoleon in Napoleon Dynamite.”

  Her laugh is contagious, as is her quick imitation of Napoleon Dynamite’s epic dance moves. By the time the song is over, we’re leaned against each other, slightly sweaty and laughing our asses off.

  The next song is a big, swelling ballad, loaded with 90s cheese. “Now this makes me think of middle school dances.” I move closer to her, but she shies back.

  Which is weird. Isn’t it slow dancing that’s easy and fast dancing that freaks everyone out?

  She waves her hand by her face. “Should we get a drink or something?”

  That’s when I know she’s spooked. The look on her face when the word ‘drink’ comes out of her mouth is almost a grimace.

  “You’re really not gonna let me replay my middle school memories here?” I hold my hand out. “C’mon. One Guns N’ Roses song won’t kill you.”

  She runs a nervous hand along her hair. “Two. They played Welcome to the Jungle during the appetizer hour.”

  “Alright, two,” I chuckle, and take her in my arms. All the playful looseness of her limbs is gone. She moves in a gangly way, like she’s not entirely in control of her own body. “It’s okay. I swear, I won’t step on your feet.”

  She glances down and wiggles her bare toes, then relaxes a tiny bit and presses close to me. Even barefoot, she’s pretty tall. We can look each other in the eye, though I have a good three or four inches on her. I usually go for a tight, compact package when it comes to girls, but I love being face to face.

  Not that I think of Jordan as a girl I want. I’m not saying that. It’s just a general observation. The violins swell and Axl Rose gets into it. The soft ends of Jordan’s hair tickle my arm.

  “So, do you want to talk about what you’d do at Golden Leaf?” she asks, her voice short and slightly panicked.

  “No.” I shake my head and grin at the way she squirms. “How about you tell me more about what you like. So far I know you’re sometimes into Gamays and dancing. What else?”

  “Oh.” She looks confused. “I, um…I like to read. And I write poems sometimes. And I like…”

  The look on her face is so clueless, I pull her closer, just to see every pink-tinged freckle. “There must be other things. Are you in college?”

  She opens her mouth, then closes it quickly and shakes her head. “I was. I was taking some classes in finance. You know, so I could help run the vineyard. But then…um, I had to stop to actually help run the vineyard.” She looks up at me, her eyes clouded. “What about you? What do you like?”

  She asks half like a dare, but half like she honestly wants to hear.

  “Me? My first love is surfing. I like cruising around in a beater with the windows down. I love going to the movies, especially in the afternoon when there’s only old people there. I love hanging with my brother and sisters and our friends, shooting the shit, drinking beers, playing bocce ball.”

  “Bocce ball?” Her eyes light up. “My grandmother taught me to play that.”

  “You like it?” I ask, tightening my arm around her waist.

  She settles her hips against mine, and I can feel the heat of her body through her thin dress.

  “I do.”

  “See that? Reading, writing poetry, bocce ball.” We laugh at the same time. “Kind of makes you sound like you’re trapped in a retirement home, but I bet other stuff will come up.”

  “You love surfing?” she asks. Her hand rubs up and down my arm, and I think it’s probably an unconscious thing on her part but I’m painfully conscious of how good it feels. “You must miss it being out here.”

  “That’s why I drink so much,” I joke, only it’s not a total joke.

  I’ve never felt less in my element in my entire life. I didn’t realize how much the ocean grounded me and brought me back to a solid place until it was completely out of my reach.

  “Maybe…I’d love to go to the ocean again. It’s been, months, at least, maybe even a year since I’ve been.” Her eyes look dreamy.

  I stop short, almost making us crash into a couple who’s way too trashed to be dancing to this endless power ballad anyway. The guy mutters something dickish, and I let loose a long string of Spanish not appropriate for anyone but inmates and dockworkers. He scowls and drags his date away.

  “That was my father’s coworker. What did you say to him?” she asks, her eyes popped wide.

  “Does he speak Spanish?” I ask, feeling a sudden rush of nerves.

  She shakes her head and a long piece of her hair drops over her creamy shoulder. Damn, I want to brush that hair back. Damn, I want to kiss that shoulder.

  I reign myself in.

  “Probably better if I skip the translation right now.”

  “Um, okay.”

  “So it’s really been a year since you were at the ocean? It’s not that far, you know.” The song finally screeches to a halt, and she and I stand, so close I can see the glimmers of gold in her eyes. She nods. “We need to fix that,” I say, and I let my hand work its way up to brush that piece of hair back.

  So much for reigning myself in. And if my fingers brush her shoulder? I’m not made of stone. There’s only so much I can resist.

  Jordan leans toward me and licks her lips.

  Damn, baby, don’t do that. Please don’t. There’s only so much—

  “Jordan?” A tall man with the same dark eyes as Jordan has his hand on her shoulder. “Where have you been? Jennifer was hysterical wondering what happened to you.”

  As if on cue, the bride gives a long, shrill cackle and we turn to see her drinking champagne out of two flutes at once.

  “She looks really broken up,” I observe dryly.

  Jordan’s father turns back to glare at me. I have seen this exact look on too many dads’ faces to count. I’m not the kind of guy parents are excited for their daughters to bring home.

  “Who, may I ask, are you?” he demands, standing up, shoulders squared, hands on his hips, chest out. This dude doesn’t like me at all, and he’s definitely not afraid to show it.

  I cock one eyebrow, my arm still around Jordan’s waist. “I’m the guy who found your daughter in tears and made sure she was okay.”

  “Enzo.” Jordan hisses my name through a tight smile, like a ventriloquist. “Daddy,” she says in a normal voice. “This is Enzo. He works for Golden Leaf.”

  “Your mother hired him?” The guy isn’t buying it for a second, and he’s giving me a fucking dirty stink eye.

  I stand taller, imitating his pose. This is the caring father who left his daughter sobbing and never even came to find her? I’ve got zero respect for crap like that.

  “Um, yes,” Jordan lies. Badly.

  “I’m helping them with some new marketing concepts,” I say, even though I know it’s bad news to embellish any lie. Too easy to get tripped up in it later on. So I guess I better follow through with everything I say now. “We may be working on getting a Gamay into the line.”

  His laugh is the least happy sound I’ve ever heard. “Etta Caletti adding a Gamay to her line? You’ve got a snowball’s chance in Hell of convincing her.”

  “Well, that’s why they hired me. I make the impossible possible.”

  Holy shit, I need to shut my mouth, especially when my back is up. If I don’t stop, all these bold proclamations are going to come back to smack me upside the head.

  “You’re pretty damn sure of yourself, aren’t you, son? Maybe when you’ve been in the business a little longer, you’ll see—”

  “Enzo,” Bonnie hisses, a tray of champagne in her hands. “I thought I asked you to leave.”

  Mr. Caletti crosses his arms and shakes his head, a smug smile on his face. “I thought I recognized you. You were putting up the tent. Badly.” He eyes Jordan, who’s stepped away from me and is twisting her hands like a maniac. “Jordan, I have no idea what’s gotten into you, but you’ve been overly emotional. And now the lies? This needs to stop. Now.”


  Bonnie clears her throat, and I look to Jordan, wondering what she’s going to say now. Sure, I lied, but so did she. I expect she’ll back me up in front of her father and my old boss, but she just stares down at her bare feet, her shoulders hunched, her face beet red.

  I’m sure she’ll say something. She won’t leave me hanging.

  I give her a few long seconds before I nod, resignation hitting hard.

  “Right. Thanks for the offer, Jordan, but I think it’s better if I find work on my own.” I catch her under her chin and tilt her face up, look her in the eyes so she knows there are no hard feelings. “Hey. It’s fine. I always land on my feet. And I appreciate you giving a shit. Sometimes bad shit happens to make way for…well, more bad shit most of the time, but that’s life, right?”

  I lean in and kiss her cheek, inhaling the unexpectedly sexy smell of her sweaty skin before I pull back, offer Mr. Caletti and Bonnie a sharp salute and get the hell out of this place, back to square one, but more pissed off than I originally was.

  I hop back into the van and try to resume my nap, but my brain is a jumbled mess, most of it focused on a redhead who’s too much Bambi for her own good. I decide the entire night’s fiasco was a blessing in disguise.

  Only bad could have come of me and her in close proximity day after day.

  After Enzo left, I had to take out my fake smile and plaster it on with an extra thick layer of cheerfulness. I drank a sip of champagne to toast the bride and groom, but the bubbles felt like acid in my mouth. I danced with Eddie because it was tradition, but we only got out there once before he offered to take me home. Dad was so pissed at me, I figured there was no point attempting to repair things at the wedding, so I left without even saying goodbye.

  I hurried Eddie past the wine van where I could see Enzo’s legs and boots. I was too ashamed to apologize, even though I knew he deserved one. A big one.

  Now I’m lying in my room, the cool, neutral space that overlooks the vineyard outside my window, and I’ve never felt more like Rapunzel trapped in her tower.

  I get out of bed and pad over to the window, leaning out so my hair falls over the sill, the way I used to when I was a little girl. Back then it felt so romantic to think of myself as a fairytale princess waiting for her prince to come and take her away to more exciting places where she could experience all kinds of new things.