Taste (Cloverleigh Farms, #7)(12)

FOUR





ELLIE





Jesus, he smelled good.

I’d always had a really sensitive sense of smell—and it definitely helped me professionally—but right now I wished I could turn it off.

The scent of him was filling my head and doing pleasant but worrisome things to my body . . . warming my skin, stirring my insides, quickening my pulse. It was giving me ideas I didn’t want, making me wonder things I had no business wondering about—like what kind of kisser he was or what he looked like naked or whether he was greedy or generous in bed.

A guy like Gianni, who knew how hot he was and had never lacked for female attention, would probably be a selfish lover, right? Or would his ego demand that he made sure a woman never left his bed unsatisfied? As puffed up as he was, I’d never really heard him brag about the size of his dick or how many notches he had on his bedpost. He made a lot of dirty jokes and he was a relentless flirt, but he didn’t boast about his sexual conquests.

Before I could stop myself, I glanced over at his crotch. One of his hands was resting on his thigh, and I got distracted by it. His thick wrist was hidden inside the sleeve of his wool coat, but I’d stolen enough glances in the past few months to know what it looked like. The back of his hand had visible veins, and he kept his fingernails short and clean. His fingers were long, not too skinny and not too thick, and they gave his hands a sort of elegance that I secretly admired sometimes while he was plying a knife or kneading some dough or tossing a skillet. He had strong hands, but they were dexterous too. Graceful. Artistic.

Suddenly, my brain took an unauthorized turn. I imagined him unzipping his pants and reaching inside them, taking out his cock and starting to stroke it with slow, deliberate, artistic bends of his wrist, his flesh growing hard and thick as it slipped through his fist. Veins would appear. His breath would come faster. Maybe he’d moan softly, his voice raw and deep.

Except that I moaned. Out loud.

“You okay?”

“Huh?” I looked up, startled. My pulse was racing.

“Are you okay?” he repeated. “You made a weird noise.”

“I was . . . singing.” I reached for the volume on the radio and turned it up. “Any music requests?”

“You can pick.”

“No, because you’ll just make fun of what I like.”

“That’s because you like weird, sappy stuff no one has ever heard of.”

“I like to support independent singer-songwriters, okay? Not every great band or musician wants to sign their life away to a giant label that’s just going to take their money.”

“I get that. It’s the same reason I like to support local farms. But the music still has to be good.”

“It is good! It’s just not as loud and chaotic as the music you like. It’s more about lyrics and mood.”

“Okay, so instead of arguing with me, why don’t you sync your phone and put on one of your playlists? I’m sure you have one called Snowy Winter’s Day or something, full of acoustic guitar and melancholy.”

I reached over and punched his shoulder. “You said you wouldn’t make fun of me.”

“I would never say that. I just said I’d listen to your lonely girl music, but if you don’t want to play it for me, I’d be happy to listen to you moan some more, especially if you want to stare at my crotch while doing it.”

“I wasn’t staring at your crotch!” I shrieked, mortification burning a hole in my chest.

He chuckled. “Sorry. I must have been mistaken.”

“Why on earth would I stare at your crotch?”

“You tell me.” He glanced over, sending a little bolt of lightning straight to my lonely girl parts.

“I wouldn’t. You were mistaken.” I reached into my bag for my phone and busied myself connecting it to his car, my heart thumping hard all the while. Damn these nerves! They were messing with me, making me think weird things.

A couple minutes later, we were listening to my current favorite playlist, which happened to be called Winter Vibes, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. As we drove, the snow fell faster and the light faded. Visibility grew worse, but Gianni didn’t seem worried—at least, he didn’t say anything to that effect—and he was able to drive the speed limit.

We didn’t talk much on the rest of the drive up, which was fine with me because I didn’t want him to tease me again about staring at his crotch. In fact, the only time we spoke was when he asked me for the address so he could enter it in his GPS.

We pulled up in front of the Harbor Springs vacation home of Malcolm and Fiona Duff around five o’clock. By then, it was pitch dark and their multi-million-dollar home was blanketed with a few inches of snow.

“Nice place,” said Gianni, parking on the street.

My stomach twisted with nerves, and I put a hand on it.

“Hey. Don’t be nervous.” He grabbed me by the elbow and shook my arm. “You’re gonna crush it. Do you need me to play you some good music to get you pumped up?”

“No. I just need a second to breathe.” I inhaled and exhaled, willing my pulse to slow. “I don’t know what’s with me today. I’m normally not so tense. This is my job. I know my stuff.”