Taste (Cloverleigh Farms, #7)(48)

Gianni looked up the trail toward the motel. “It’s a ways back. Do you want me to go see if I can get a snowmobile or something?”

“No!” The prospect of being left alone out here as it got dark was terrifying. “Don’t leave me.”

“Okay,” he said, his voice soft and reassuring. “I won’t. Here, give me that other pole, and lean on me.”

I handed him my left pole and looped my arm through his, grateful for the support. We took a few tentative steps.

“How’s that?” he asked. “Do you need to go slower? Put more weight on me?”

“No, I’m good.” The ankle still hurt, but something about leaning against his solid body and knowing he wouldn’t let me fall was taking some of the pain away. “Just don’t let go.”

“I won’t. And when we get back, I’ll find you some ice.”

“Thanks. Sorry I ruined our walk.”

“You didn’t ruin it. You made it more memorable. We’ll never forget it.”

I half-groaned, half-laughed. “No, we won’t.”

Slowly and carefully, we made our way back to the motel. It was dark by the time we reached our door, where Gianni helped me out of my snowshoes, then insisted on carrying me inside, taking off my boots and lowering me onto the bed. Then he pulled off my snow pants and hung up my coat.

“Gianni, I’m okay. This isn’t necessary.” But my heart rapped with pleasure at his sweet attention.

“Let me see that ankle.”

Sighing, I tugged off my sock and hitched up my pant leg, glad I’d shaved my legs yesterday. I also made a mental note to thank my mother for encouraging me to get nice pedicures even in the winter. “See? It’s barely swollen. And I can move it.” I pointed and flexed my foot gently, but I winced. “A little.”

“Stay there. I’m going to find some ice.”

“Okay, thank you. Hey, I have some ibuprofen in my purse, could you grab it for me?”

“Definitely.” He brought me my purse and a glass of water before heading out the door.

I watched him leave, wishing my pulse wasn’t galloping quite so fast. Hopefully, he hadn’t noticed how badly I wanted him to put his mouth on mine out there in the woods.

It was better that he hadn’t.





Ten minutes later, Gianni returned with a plastic bag of ice. “Rose is the best,” he said, stomping the snow off his boots. “She even gave me an ACE bandage to wrap it.”

“Aw, that’s so nice.”

“But first, let’s get some ice on it.” Gianni grabbed a kitchen towel, wrapped the bag of ice in it, and placed it on the bed. Then he carefully lifted my leg below the calf and placed my ankle on the ice.

“I can still move my leg,” I said, laughing. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Fuck off and let me take care of you.”

“Okay, but your bedside manner could use some work.”

He sat on the bed, where he examined my ankle from all sides. “Doesn’t look too bad.”

“It isn’t. Honestly, it’s fine.”

He touched the top of my foot. “You have very small feet.”

“Don’t make fun.”

“I’m not, I’m just stating a fact. And your toes are cute.”

“Thank you.” I noticed the way his eyes were moving from my foot to my calf and up my leg and felt warm. “How about some wine?”

He jumped up. “Sure. I’ll pour you a glass and then start dinner. I’m getting hungry.”

As soon as the door shut behind him, I took a couple big, deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on my skin.





Twenty minutes, 400 milligrams of Motrin, and one glass of wine later, I was able to put some weight on my foot.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I said, limping over to my bag and taking out my clean underwear, socks, cosmetics case, and the sweatshirt Gianni had purchased for me.

“Okay,” Gianni said from the stove.

“I can help you with dinner when I get out.”

“I don’t want you on that foot. I’ve got this.” He glanced over his shoulder at me, a grin playing on his lips. “But let me know if you need help in the shower.”

Rolling my eyes, I hobbled toward the bathroom. “I’m fine, thanks.”

But I wasn’t.

As I shut the bathroom door, I leaned back against it and put a hand on my fluttering stomach. While I got undressed, all I could think about was the night ahead. Hour after hour alone in the dark with him, sharing that little bed with the memory of his body on mine fresh in my mind. The memory of his kiss. Of his tongue. Of those orgasms.

God, why couldn’t he have been shitty at sex? Clumsy and selfish, with no clue what to do with his hands or his mouth, let alone his dick? Why did he have to know just how to touch me? The right things to say? Exactly how to move? No one had ever made me feel that good—desirable, wanted, sexy.

And he was being so sweet today. I thought I’d seen all his sides, but maybe there was more to him than a big ego and a hot body.

I just wouldn’t think about it, that was all. I’d take a nice, long shower and think about other things—special events I could do at Abelard this summer, engaging social media posts, updates to our tasting room, maybe a series of tasting videos online or a podcast where I interviewed other small winemakers in the region about what they were doing.