Page 95 of Let It Breathe
“You okay?” Reese asked.
“Yeah. Absolutely. Happy to help.”
“But?”
He gave her a small smile and touched the inside of her wrist. “I don’t know. It feels funny, I guess. Being here with you at Eric’s place after what happened last night.”
Reese laughed. “We’re picking up wine bottles, not doing it doggy-style on his bed. Besides, it’s not like Eric and I ever lived here when we were married.”
“I know, I know. It’s just this hang-up I have, okay? You’re his ex-wife, this is his house.”
“You make me sound like a car or a jockstrap. Besides, you and I were friends first, remember?”
“I remember,” he said. “I definitely remember. I guess it’s just a weird guy thing.”
She grinned and laced her fingers behind his neck, pulling him down to her. “I’m rather fond of your guy thing, so I guess I can deal.” She pressed her lips to his for what was supposed to be a quick, playful kiss.
Clay responded with unexpected eagerness, drawing her tighter against him, deepening the kiss. His hand slid into the small of her back, and Reese felt her insides surge with lust as Clay pressed the hard length of his body up against hers. He kissed her harder and Reese swayed, bumping her hip against an old barrel.
They were both breathless by the time they drew apart. Reese smiled up at him again. “Wow. You’re pretty good at that.”
He grinned back. “Always easier to be good at something you enjoy.”
“In that case, keep enjoying me.”
“Come on,” he said, giving her a light tap on the butt. “Let’s get the bottles.”
They worked in companionable silence for a while, shuffling the heavy cases out to the truck. Clay did most of the lifting, while Reese opened box after box, making sure they grabbed the right kind of bottles and had enough of them to handle all the Chardonnay.
“He’s got a ton of these,” Clay mused as he hefted another box.
“Eric does a lot of Chardonnay. Good thing, or he wouldn’t have enough bottles for us to use now.”
“Do most guys make wine on their own like this? Seems like it would be a conflict of interest for a winemaker.”
“Not at all. Eric sources most of his grapes from other places—a lot from the Columbia River Gorge, while we grow our own. They’re totally different wines. He actually travels to New Zealand to do his Sauv Blanc.”
“I remember him being over there last winter. He sent me a postcard with a filthy joke about sheep.”
Reese laughed and peered inside a dusty box. “That sounds like Eric. He missed you, you know. He acts like a jerk sometimes, but he really cares about you.”
“I know,” Clay answered, turning away to grab more bottles. “That’s why I couldn’t come back until I got my life straightened out. Until I’d stood on my own two feet for a few years and had gotten used to the way that felt.” He turned and looked at her, his hands frozen above the boxes. “I do, you know. Have my life straightened out. Do you believe that?”
Reese swallowed. “Yes. I do. I want to, anyway.”
He nodded and reached for the box. “Last night’s bar fight notwithstanding.”
Reese bit her lip and watched as he hefted the heavy box, admiring the muscled line of his shoulders. She was dusty and tired and still numb from the devastation of the fire, and she’d never wanted him more.
Focus, she told herself, and tore her eyes off his back. She bent down to shift a case of empty Cab bottles to one side.
“Ouch!” she yelped, yanking her finger back and sticking it in her mouth.
Clay spun around. “You okay?”
“Staple,” she muttered around her finger. “Damn, that hurts.”
“Let me see.”
