Page 33 of Just Trouble

“Including one piece of dirt that I need more than anything in the world,” Mackenzie says with heat. “And I’m pretty sure he stole it.”

Cameron looks confused.

“Patrick not Luke,” Willow and I tell her in chorus.

I distract Mackenzie with the bottle Cameron has brought and she falls on it like she’s greeting an old friend. “This! This has been sold out of our cellars for ages. Where did you find it?”

Cameron tells her and Mackenzie shakes her head, incredulous. “They must have been saving it. Or maybe they lost a case in the backroom. I’ll go over there tomorrow and see if I can buy the rest.”

“Maybe he’ll only sell it to Cameron,” Willow says, her expression sly.

“I am not doing the liquor store guy, even to get more of your wine,” Cameron says. “He’s not that cute. Open it already so we can taste it.”

But Mackenzie is doing her sommelier thing. I watch her, amused that she doesn’t even realize it. Her entire life is about wine and work, and in this moment, there’s nothing in her world but the wine in that bottle. She draws out the cork and examines it, sniffs it, touches it, puts it aside. I hand her a freshly polished glass and she pours a bit into it, holding the glass up to thelight to check the color, swirling the wine around the glass and sniffing it.

“I’m dying of thirst here,” Cameron says but Mackenzie ignores her.

I will say that the process builds anticipation.

Mackenzie takes a sip, rolls it around her mouth with her eyes closed. I can practically hear the patter.

“Apples and pears, a touch of nutmeg with a strawberry undertone,” Willow says softly, as if she’s doing the voice over at a golf game when the leader takes his putt, and we all crack up.

“No nutmeg,” Mackenzie says. “Not even cinnamon.” She takes a breath, mouth open. “Touch of vanilla maybe. It’s aged well.” She admires the bottle as she savors another sip. “Really well.” I hand her more glasses and she pours, then we all toast.

“To fine wine,” I say.

“To good friends,” Willow says.

“To liquor store guys who want some action badly enough to surrender the good stuff,” Mackenzie says.

“To the full story of Luke Jones being back in town,” Cameron says and they salute me in unison before we all drink. I’m thinking we’ll fall on the charcuterie and demolish it—after suitable admiration—but no.

We might have conjured Luke up, by force of will.

Maybe he knows we’re talking about him.

(Maybe he expects all women to.)

Either way, no sooner do our glasses clink than there’s another shadow framed in the window of my front door. The shadow is male, tall, broad and I have no doubt who is casting it.

It’s not a fixation. There aren’t that many possibilities. (Says she, defensively.)

There’s a collective ‘ooooo’ as I get up, proof of the paucity of candidates.

I open the door and Luke grins, looking so much like a hungry wolf that I can’t think of a thing to say. “Want to get some dinner?” he murmurs and the contingent of women behind me inhale. It must be Cameron who makes a little growl of approval. His gaze flicks over my shoulder to my guests. “That’s got to be good wine, to render everyone speechless simultaneously. Either that, or it’s really bad.”

“Bite your tongue. It’s excellent,” Mackenzie says. She pours another glass and offers it to him, making the decision for me of whether he should join us. “Welcome back to Empire.”

And Luke, being Luke, saunters right into my house, takes the glass and salutes us all.

“Mackenzie,” he says, his gaze flicking over her. “Is this one of yours?”

“One of our best,” she admits.

He mimics her tasting routine almost perfectly, sniffing, swirling, sipping, studying my guests all the while. When he sips, he gives the mouthful of wine his undivided attention, much to Mackenzie’s obvious approval.

Maybe she’ll be the one to take him home.

---