Page 7 of Bottles & Blades

He nods in return then grips the back of my seat, turning toward me, stealing my breath again in a rapid inhale.

At least this time I don’t choke.

Probably because his striking blue eyes aren’t focused on me.

They’re scanning the parking lot as he backs out of the stall, then focusing forward as they navigate the truck back onto the freeway.

“I…”

A flick of that piercing blue gaze in my direction—stealing my thoughts, my words.

But he doesn’t push, just looks forward and gives me the explanation I didn’t realize I was asking for. “I was working offsite today, helping with the delivery of some equipment. Things got messy”—his eyes flick down to the stains on her arms, his shirt and pants—“and I guess my phone and wallet must have fallen out.” He shakes his head. “Or I set them down on something and forgot.”

“Do you?—”

He glances at me again, and something settles in me when I don’t spy any impatience on his face.

I take a breath. Release it. Something’s that helped by the fact that we’re getting off the freeway at the correct exit and turning in the direction of the grocery store.

Only…

It’s notjustrelief sliding through my belly as we drive.

It’s also…disappointment.

Like some small part of me doesn’t want this interaction to end.

Dumb.

“Do you lose your phone and wallet a lot?” I ask.

We pause at a signal and he turns toward me. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t. In fact, I can’t remember a time when my cell wasn’t practically glued to my hand.”

“That sounds…”

The light turns green and we start forward, but not before I see his brows flick up in question.

“Intense,” I finish.

“My jobiskind of intense.”

I think of the huge office building, the stainless steel and glass walls, the security, the assistant, and…

Then I think of the truck I’m sitting in—it’s old but in good shape, the leather seats worn, the dashboard housing an old ass radio and plenty of dirt and dust.

“Right,” I whisper. “And what exactly is that job?”

He turns into the parking lot of the grocery store and parks next to my car, which is equally as beat up.

Then again, I’m not a bigshot businessman.

“I own Oak Ridge Vineyards,” he says, and I feel my eyes go wide. That’s a huge local winery and their bottles aren’t cheap—definitely outside my grocery budget.

But then my eyes narrow, because the building didn’t have any signs about Oak Ridge. In fact, it didn’t have any signs at all.

“What’s that look for?”

“Do all wineries have giant office buildings filled with assistants and security officers?”

---