Page 19 of Ambrosia Kisses
"No. He's busy."
"Doing what?"
"Stuff."
I narrow my eyes at him, not buying his bullshit for a minute. "You're lying. I want to call Oliver."
"Too bad. My phone is dead."
"Let me see it."
"Why?"
"To see if you're lying."
"I forgot it back at the vineyard."
"Oh my god." I gape at him, caught in that void between frustration and shock. You know, the one where you're so mad you want to laugh because if you don't, you might actually strangle someone? Yeah, that's the one. "You are such a liar. How do you know your phone is dead if it's back at the vineyard? And who even goes anywhere without a phone anyway?"
He shrugs like the accusation doesn't bother him at all. "It was dead when I left it there," he lies with a straight face. "And I go places without one. Now, get in the truck."
"No, thanks. I'd rather walk." To prove the point, I spin on my heel, adjusting the strap of my purse across my shoulder. There's no way in hell I'm getting in that truck with him. It probably smells like him, all woodsy and sexy and infuriatingly hot.
I'd rather die walking in these heels, thank you very much.
I hear him following me, but don't bother turning around. My mistake. My huge mistake. Between one step and the next, my feet leave the ground. The world spins upside down. And I'm over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"Ridley, you asshole!" I shriek, using my purse as a weapon against his back. Maybe I hit his fine ass a few times, too. I'llnever tell. "Put me down right now, or I swear to God, everyone in the valley is going to hear me screaming."
"Yeah?" he grunts, already striding back toward his truck like carrying me isn't a problem at all. "They going to hear you screaming my name, Dimples? Because I can live with that."
"Not if I kill you first." I try to wrap the strap of my purse around his throat, but it's hard to do when it's still looped over my shoulder. All I manage to do is smack him in the head with it. The purse makes a satisfyingthwompsound when it thuds against his stupid skull.
His amused laughter is less satisfying.
His hand comes down on my ass in a hard smack. "Behave before I drop you. If I hurt you, I'm going to be pissed about it."
"Then put me down." I kick my feet like a toddler having a tantrum. That's basically what I feel like right now. I smack him with my purse again for the indignity.
"Goddammit. Stop hitting me," he growls, his hand planted against my ass.
"No."
"Fine."
The world spins again before righting itself. But it's not in the order I want because I'm not marching toward the vineyard and away from him. Oh no. I'm on the hood of my car with him looming over me like a hot, pissed off vintner, and my legs are splayed around his hips. He can probably see my panties.
Before I can push him away or say anything, he swoops. His hand tangles in my hair. His lips crash against mine. He grunts like I'm the best thing he's tasted in years, his tongue flicking at the seam of my lips.
"Let me in, baby," he demands, his voice a gritty rasp.
I mean to tell him no. I want to push him away and slap the taste from his lying mouth. But I don't. I'm too fucking weak for him still. I whimper instead…and I kiss him back.
His greedy growl is almost worth the pain I know I'll feel later. His taste is, too. It's brandy and mint, and it's so fucking good.
He yanks me closer to him, his chest vibrating, his body shaking. He's wild as he kisses me like he's dying to do it, like he can't stop himself.
And I kiss him back the same way. Because I am dying for it. I'vebeendying for it for three damn years already. Time hasn't changed that. Distance hasn't. Nothing I've said to myself or to him has changed a damn thing for me. He's still it for me, just like he was at Lucy's wedding. Just like he was when I slipped my hand into his pants and begged him to make love to me.
