Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(11)

“In Italy?”

“No. Here. I mean, here in Pennsylvania.”

“Where all world-class wines are born,” he teased.

“You promised,” she warned him.

“I’m sorry. Tell me more.”

“It’s only a small place. Ten acres. But that’s enough for a couple different kinds of wine.”

“And you make them? Yourself?”

“I will. I will make them. I’m still getting the place up and running. It was pretty rundown when I bought it last fall. When it’s ready, I want to have events there too: weddings, parties, tastings. I want it to be a destination, you know? A fully functional vineyard and winery. It’ll be heaven.”

“You’re full of surprises.” He shook his head, grinning at her with wonder. “I never would have guessed you were most comfortable out in a vineyard . . . in the great outdoors.”

“Why not?”

His eyes rested on her hair for a moment, then dropped to her bespectacled eyes. “Um, no, uh, no reason.” He asked quickly, “What’s the name of it? Your vineyard?”

Aside from her sisters, she hadn’t told anyone the name yet. She had yet to decide on a logo, so she hadn’t had a sign or labels made, but for whatever reason, she heard herself telling Cameron, “The Five Sisters. The Five Sisters Vineyard and Winery of Newtown, Pennsylvania.”

He nodded, laughing softly, a deep, marvelous rumble that made her toes curl in her boots. “That’s awesome.”

“Thanks,” she said, blushing with pleasure. “It doesn’t have a sign yet, but it’s the vineyard next door to Harrell Reserve. Have you heard of them?”

“Harrell wines? Sure.”

“They’re decent, but mine will be better.” She smiled at him, raising an eyebrow saucily. “Did you know I’m actually a trained and certified sommelier?”

“Are you? No. I had no idea.” He gestured to her with his wineglass. “Impress me. Tell me all about this one, Mademoiselle Sommelier.”

“Ah, this one,” she purred, moving around the coffee table to sit down on the edge of the couch, watching as he did the same, his denim-covered knees turned toward her, but not close enough to touch. “This one is . . . bellissima!”

“Sì, signorina. Ma perché?”

“You speak Italian,” she murmured, her insides clenching with a hot wave of lust.

“Just a little,” he said. “So? Tell me why it’s so beautiful.”

***

Frankly, Cameron wasn’t sure if he was talking about the wine or about her.

She seemed so different tonight: less stiff, more soft. Less cautious, younger and, Christ, sexier, too. Was it just being in her own space that had wrought such a change in her? It made him wonder what space she inhabited on a daily basis that made her seem so tense and sharp all the time.

From the moment he walked through the door, he’d known that maintaining his thin veneer of disregard was going to be impossible. The way her huge brown eyes had widened, doelike and soft, as she gazed up at him? He was a goner. He’d gladly stand in her doorway forever if she’d look up at him like that for the rest of his life.

And of course he had to torture himself by wondering if those eyes went all wide and soft as she climaxed . . . or did she close them as her lips parted in ecstacy? Likely goddamned f*cking Olson knew the answers to both questions, and it made Cameron’s blood boil.

He glanced over at her as she lifted the wineglass to her face, bending her head just a little, her eyes closing slowly as she inhaled the smell of the wine. She was a f*cking work of art, this woman, and—Holy Christ!—the way she’d just purred “Ahhh, this one”? He was glad the denim of his jeans was still thick and new. Hopefully it would keep the fabric from tenting.

He watched, mesmerized, as she righted her head. Her eyes were still closed, but her voice was warm as honey, slow and smooth, as she murmured, “Candied black fruit. Spice.” She dipped her head again, and his mind went to filthy places watching it bob beside him. “Mmm. Fresh herbs. Kirsch. Oak. Mmm,” she sighed. “Heaven.”

And, oh f*ck, even the hardest of hard denim wasn’t going to be able to combat the rush of blood that swelled his cock, pumping it longer and harder in his jeans with every word she whispered.

Cameron thought he was worldly. He thought he knew what sexy was. Five seconds ago, he would have answered it was a naked woman, spread eagled and willing on his bed, her skin flushed, her pupils dilated, her * hot and tight, ready to suck him forward and beg him to finish inside. But he’d known f*ckall about sexy until Right. This. Minute.

Because Margaret Story—perched on the edge of her couch in a sweater dress that covered most of her body, her doe eyes closed, her pillowed lips making love to a glass of wine—had just officially blown Cameron’s mind.

Whoever he’d always thought she was? He was wrong. She wasn’t some sheltered librarian who needed him to come along and unleash her wild side. She wasn’t some helpless field mouse whom he’d swoop down on and catch in his teeth. Though she was self-contained, she was also passionate. She was sensuous and sexy as f*ck without even trying, without even knowing, just because she was sitting there breathing, smelling like lilacs, and telling him what made a good wine great.