Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 107710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Witch.
This was her domain, however. Not his. At six-foot-three and with a body still honed for the battles of his past life as a Navy SEAL, he fit into this panorama about as well as Rambo at a bake sale. The shirt the entrants had been asked to wear for the competition didn’t fit, so he’d hung it from the back pocket of his jeans. Maybe he could use it to clean up the wine when the judges spit it out.
“August Cates of Zelnick Cellar,” Natalie said smoothly, handing glasses of wine to her fellow judges. Outwardly, she appeared cool as ever, her unflappable New York demeanor on full display, but he could see her breath coming faster as she geared herself up to drink what amounted to sludge in a glass. Of the three judges, Natalie was the only one who knew what was coming, because she’d tasted his wine once before—and had promptly compared it to demon piss. That occasion was also known as the night he’d blown his one and only chance to sweat up the sheets with Princess Vos herself.
Since that ill-fated evening, their relationship had been nothing short of contentious. If they happened to see each other on Grapevine Way or at a local wine event, she liked to discreetly scratch her eyebrow with a middle finger, while August usually inquired how many glasses of wine she’d plowed through since nine a.m.
In theory, he hated her. They hated each other.
Dammit, though, he couldn’t seem to actually do it. Not all the way.
And it all went back to August’s mistaking his gut for his dick as a youngster.
As in, Trust your dick, son.
And that part of his anatomy might as well be married to Natalie Vos. Married with six kids and living in the Viennese countryside wearing matching playclothes fashioned out of curtains, à la The Sound of Music. If all of August’s decisions were up to his downstairs brain, he would have apologized the night of their first argument and asked for another shot to supply her with wall-to-wall orgasms. But it was too late now. He had no choice but to return the loathing she radiated at him, because his upstairs brain knew all too well why their relationship would never have gone past a single night.
Natalie Vos had privilege and polish—not to mention money—coming out of her ears.
At thirty-five, August was broker than a fingerless mime.
He’d dumped all of his life savings into opening a winery, with no experience or guidance, and losing this contest would be the death blow to Zelnick Cellar.
August’s chest tightened like he was being strapped to a gurney, but he refused to break eye contact with the heiress. The growing ache below his throat must have been visible on his face because, slowly, Natalie’s smug expression melted away and she frowned at him. Leaned in and whispered for his ears alone, “What’s going on with you? Are you missing WrestleMania to be here or something?”
“I wouldn’t miss WrestleMania for my own funeral.” He snorted. “Just taste the wine, compare it to moldy garbage, and get it over with, princess.”
“Actually, I was going to ordain it as something like . . . rat bathwater.” She gestured at him with fluttery fingers. “Seriously, what’s up? You have more asshole energy than usual.”
He sighed, looking out at the rows of expectant spectators who were either in tennis whites or leisure wear that probably cost more than his truck. “Maybe because I’m trapped in an episode of Succession.” Time to change the channel. Not that he had a choice. “Do your worst, Natalie.”
She wrinkled her nose at his wine. “But you’re already so good at being the worst.”
August huffed a laugh. “Too bad they’re not giving out a prize for sharpest fangs. You’d be unmatched.”
“Are you comparing me to a vampire? Because your wine is what sucks.”
“Just down the whole glass without tasting it, like you usually do.”
Was that hurt that flashed in her eyes before she hid it?
Certainly not. “You are an—” she started.
“Ready to begin, Miss Vos?” asked one of the other judges, a silver-haired man in his fifties who wrote for Wine Enthusiast magazine.
“Y-yes. Ready.” She shook herself and pulled back, regaining her poise and sliding her fingers around the stem of the wineglass containing August’s most recent Cabernet. A groove remained between her brows as she swirled the glass clockwise and lifted it to her nose to inhale the bouquet. The other judges were already coughing, looking at each other in confusion. Had they accidentally been served vinegar?
They spat it out into the provided silver buckets almost in tandem.
Natalie, however, seemed determined to hold off as long as possible.
Her face turned red, tears forming in her eyes.
But to his shock, the swallow went down her throat, followed by a gasp for air.