“Sure,” Summer hisses without moving.
The bus jerks forward and I sway, my hips thrusting dangerously close to her face. Summer’s horrified gaze lands on my general crotch area, and then her eyes rise to meet mine in a swirl of blue fire while her cheeks color.
I shrug apologetically. “Should I climb over, or are you going to scoot?”
Summer snatches her bag. “I’ll scoot,” she says, sliding over to the window seat.
That’s when I notice her shoes. She’s dressed remarkably low key in a white T and jeans, but the shoes are espadrille-like sandals with a high wedge and a lace-up tie in a floral print that she’s wrapped around her ankles and secured in place with two pretty bows. Oh, gosh. Those bows are killing me. They’re such a tease. I want to see her with nothing on but the damn shoes.
She looks up and catches me staring at her feet. We both stare at them for a second, and I hope she’s remembering when her feet were captive in my hands to do with them as I pleased…
Summer sighs and stares out the window… the same cute blush still adorning her cheeks. I’d pay a million in cash to know what she’s thinking right now.
Eight
Summer
An entire week of this is going to kill me. Archie is just staring at my feet, for heaven’s sake, and I’m breaking out in a heat rash.
And what’s with the lumberjack look? Has he decided to play out every single bad-boy fantasy I’ve ever had? Yesterday, in the lobby, with his leather jacket and all-black get-up, he was a tough biker. This morning at yoga, he was Mr. Sporty Mc SweatPanty. And now this. What next?
A snapshot of his ripped abs pops in my head, and I’m ashamed to say the next guise I want to see him is au naturel. Last night, we were in the dark and I didn’t get to admire his body in all its glory. At least, not with my eyes; my hands did a wonderful job—and, oh gosh, I must stop obsessing about it.
“What are you thinking about?” Archie whispers close to my ear, making me jump in my seat.
I turn to him, seething. “It’s none of your business.”
A half-smile tugs at his lips. “Oh, I think it is. You’re blushing.”
“I said none of this during the day,” I hiss. “And that includes flirting.”
“All right,” Archie says. “I’ll just sit here and be a good boy.”
I roll my eyes. Even the way he said “good boy” implied the opposite. I forcibly move my gaze away from his mouth and pointedly stare out the window. He’s rattling me. But I have to confess, having him by my side is a nice, comforting barrier between me and the rest of the world. We’re seated in geeky-land at the back of the bus, surrounded by a group of Logan’s colleagues, who all appear very scholarly, except maybe for the tall guy with the Italian accent. But up front, I recognized a bunch of other people besides Susan and Daria. And today I’ll have to face them all. No bathroom stalls to hide in. Getting on the bus first and stowing away among the professors only delayed the inevitable.
Unfortunately, the journey to the winery is short, no more than twenty minutes, and when the bus stops I can’t suppress a worried sigh from escaping my lips.
Archie doesn’t miss a thing. “Nervous?” he asks.
“Mm-hm.”
“Don’t worry, I’m here. And if it all gets too much we can always grab a cab back to the hotel and finish our conversation from last night.”
I surprise myself by saying, “Can’t we do it right now?”
His eyes darken at the suggestion, but he shakes his head. “Sorry, that’d look a teensy bit suspicious, and I’m on strict instructions to keep undercover.” He casually drops a hand on my forearm. “But if push comes to shove, we can feign a headache halfway through the visit.”
“Both of us? Wouldn’t it be even more suspicious?”
“Nah.” Archie shrugs and gets up. We’re the last ones left on the bus. “By that point, everybody will have been properly wined and they won’t care anymore. Come on.” He offers me a hand. “Let’s do this.”
He pulls me up and precedes me out.
When we get off the bus, everyone else is already assembled outside the winery. We’re waiting in a paved open space with a circular fountain in the middle. The reception is to the left, and in front of us, a sloped-ceiling, squat building with a round arch in its center leads to the vineyards. A tall, square tower on the left makes the entrance asymmetrical. Beyond the arch, green grass and endless rows of vines extend past the horizon.
We’re a big group, thirty people, maybe more, mostly on the younger side. Winter has arranged for the parents and other middle-aged relatives to take part in the same visit, but later in the day. Small mercy, meaning at least I can avoid Lana’s mother a little longer. My best friend might’ve forgiven me, but her mom is a different story.
And even Lana… We’re still not one hundred percent comfortable around each other—mostly because I’m still too ashamed of what I did. She’s hanging out at the front with the rest of my old group of friends, while I’m loitering way at the back, hiding behind all the professors who form a pretty smart human barrier. With this many people, maybe I can keep a buffer between me and Susan, Daria, and Martha and Hector, a couple who were another regular in our gang. But what if I can’t?
The initial signs of a panic attack—sweaty palms and accelerated heartbeat—threaten to make me hyperventilate, when Tucker comes out of the welcome center and gives me the best news of the day.
“All right, everyone,” he calls. “Please gather around. There’s too many of us to go in at once; we have to split into two smaller groups. Blue bracelets go first, while the orange bracelets have to wait fifteen minutes. Please come up front to receive a bracelet.”
Archie turns toward me. “I’ll go get ours,” he offers, and my knees wobble a little with relief. “Anyone we want to avoid?”
“Yeah,” I say, pointing at Susan and Daria. “The woman in the coral dress with the brown bob, and her friend with the shoulder-length balayage.”
Archie cute-frowns. “Am I supposed to know what a balayage is?”
“Ah, no. It means lighter hair tips and dark roots, she’s the one in the white pants. They’ll be in the same group as Lana. You’ve met her, right?”
Archie nods. “Gotcha.”
While Archie is gone, the Italian guy oh-so-casually walks up beside me, saying, “Fine day, uh?” He jerks his chin up to the sunny sky.
The weather, really? Is this how he’s going to start a conversation?
“Yeah, very nice,” I respond, equally dully.
He moves on to the next obvious topic. “You’re the bride’s sister, right?”
“Yep.”
I’m saved from his next boring conversational tidbit by Archie’s return. He comes our way, walking rather aggressively and staring the Italian guy down. I swear, if he were a peacock he’d have his tail all rounded out in a show of male dominance.