Page 1 of Bordeaux Bombshell (Sunshine Cellars #3)

Sydney

Whoever said you should fake it ’til you make it—T-Swift not included—was full of shit.

I’ve been faking that I’m a fully functioning adult for ten years, and I don’t feel any closer to “making it” than I did when I was fifteen and full of irrational fears over boys knowing I was on my period.

If I ever bothered to see a therapist, which I won’t, because freelance copywriting doesn’t come with an insurance plan, I’m sure they’d have all kinds of things to say about my mental health.

The raging impostor syndrome.

The self-medicating.

My wild swings between anger and happiness.

They’d probably try to tell me it stems from a childhood spent chasing my brother and his best friend, paired with the constant rejection dished out by two boys who were too young to know better.

That my profession is a series of rejections, and even when I land a gig, editors and decision-makers I’ve never met point out every flaw.

Or reject my work sight unseen because their third cousin’s new girlfriend had a TikTok go viral once, and she thinks she should be in charge of the ad campaign.

But I know they’d be wrong.

I can lay the blame for every bit of my inferiority complex at the feet of one man.

Nate Ridgefield.

My brother’s best friend. The son of my parents’ best friends. The boy who has been a fixture in my life and in my family since I was a gawky kid obsessed with the Backstreet Boys.

The man who shattered that family.

And my heart.

And who’s sitting on my doorstep.

The hood of his North Face jacket covers his head, but I’d recognize the shape of that jaw anywhere. The shoulders hidden by the black puffer coat that’s currently getting soaked by the cold April rain are ingrained in my mind no matter how many cocktails I drink.

“Fuck off, Nate. Not tonight.”

The rideshare driver who’d brought me home offered to stay, but I waved her off.

“No. You have to listen to me sometime, Sydney.” Lifting his head to look up at me, he stays seated on the top step. Not letting me pass. Typical.

“No. Actually, I don’t. Letting you get me off on occasion and forgiving you are two unrelated facets of my stellar life choices.

” I move to shove past him, but my thigh bumps his shoulder, and I stumble against the railing.

My heel catches on the top step, pitching me forward.

The three cocktails I had earlier were strong enough that I’m too slow to catch my balance.

With an annoyed grunt that quickly turns to a sharp gasp, I land on my right hand, my wrist taking the brunt of my weight. Pain shoots up my arm, and I curl up on my side on the wet cement in front of my door. Nate springs to his feet, towering over me, jabbering and grabbing at me.

“Get off,” I grunt, my voice cracking. I kick out at his knee for good measure, and he backs off.

“Sydney, let me help. What did you hurt? Is it your hand? Your wrist?” He’s still talking but thankfully doesn’t try to touch me again.

Groaning, I lie still, not caring that I’m getting drenched, and take stock of my body. Legs are fine, back is fine, face is fine. Just the wrist. Cautiously, I wiggle my fingers. It hurts, but not enough to indicate anything more serious than being thirty-one and falling like a fucking toddler.

The hulking asshole who deserves to rot in a vat of moldy food scraps is crouched in front of me, staring. Unfortunately for me, this puts his sad brown eyes level with mine, making it hard to pretend he’s not being sincere when he asks again if I’m okay.

When I don’t answer, his cheek twitches, as if he’s grinding his teeth, while he takes in my state. A fuzzy, gin-flavored voice in my mind whispers that I should let him carry me inside. Or that I should shove the keys held between my fingers into his eye.

Can’t decide which I want more, so I continue saying nothing.

It’s worked for the last year and a half, and if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Or if it’s already broken beyond repair, just throw it away.

Or let it give you orgasms when everything gets to be a little too much. But that’s a secret.

Eventually, Nate runs a hand over his face, catching the beard he’s let grow out over the winter and pulling it with a heavy sigh. “Just let me in the goddamn apartment so I can make sure you’re not hurt, then I’ll leave.”

“I don’t wanna talk.”

“You’re soaking wet and probably drunk—not how I would prefer to have this conversation, anyway.”

I open my mouth to object, but Nate cuts me off with a sharp noise, leaning forward and thrusting his face close enough to mine to kiss. Or bite his nose off. “Enough, Sydney. Just be agreeable for ten goddamn minutes so I can make sure you’re okay.”

Tugging the keys from my unresisting hand, he steps over me, inserting the key in the lock.

With an annoyed grunt, I roll to my hand and knees, my bad wrist tucked against my chest. Surprisingly gentle hands skim my hips before grabbing my waist to help me stand.

“I can do it.” I roll my shoulder to shake him off, and Nate lets go before following me inside.

The apartment’s entryway is small, and there is nowhere near enough space for both of us as we struggle out of jackets and shoes. Although I seem to be struggling more than accomplishing and eventually stand still, waiting for Nate to move his giant self out of my way.

He takes his sweet time hanging up his coat and toeing off his shoes before backing up.

My coat is halfway off, but I can’t pull my bad arm out of the sleeve without it hurting. With a resigned sigh, I hold my arms out to the side. “Would you just fucking help me take this off?”

I catch a glimpse of his eye roll before I turn my back to him, letting him ease the coat down my arms while I slip my shoes off.

Moving down the short hallway, I force myself to suck in a slow breath—willing the anger in my gut to cool to a simmer instead of the usual boil his stupid face triggers.

“Do you have ice?” Nate shoulders past me into the kitchen, once again ignoring the hard work I’ve put into decorating my sanctuary.

What kind of caveman doesn’t notice a beautiful rug?

Never comments on the aesthetically pleasing mid-century modern vibe I’ve cultivated on my shoestring budget?

Every time he’s come over, I’ve waited for him to comment, but he never does.

Typical Nate—see goal, achieve goal. Ignore everything else.

Way down deep in my chest, in a locked box wrapped in chains and encased in cement, the last molecule of my heart that still loves him perks up at the concern in his voice.

But I drown her out with alcohol and snark, just like I’ve done ever since he walked away from my family. And me. Especially me.

“Of course I have ice. Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?”

Not stomping only because I don’t want to piss off my downstairs neighbor, I tuck my bad arm against my chest and body check him away from my freezer so I can pull out a bag of frozen peas. “See, I’m fine. Now go the fuck away.”

He leans in, trying to use his height—the same way he did when we were kids—to get me to stand down.

It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now.

Not even when he smells delicious, like sandalwood and soap.

Just the scent of him is enough to remind my idiot pussy we haven’t had an orgasm in weeks, and our human vibrator is right there.

I sway closer before checking myself and stepping back, irritated at the way my body seems to be living in the past. Back when he was my protector and not who my heart needs to be protected from.

Nate backs up as well, shoving his hands deep in his jeans pockets. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” There’s an offensive twitch at the corner of his mouth. Motherfucker is laughing at me.

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, too.”

Two years. I managed to go almost two years with this asshole being back without talking about the past. If I couldn’t avoid him, there was always someone else around. Or we were busy doing other things with our mouths.

Two years of shutting out everything this man makes me feel outside of an orgasm, and it’s just as fresh now as it was seven years ago when I woke up to discover he was halfway to France and not next to me in bed.

“Tried it, wasn’t worth the hype.”

“That’s not what you said when my tongue was inside you last month.”

“Yeah, well. A month is a long time. I’ve had better since then.”

A flash of emotion crosses Nate’s stupid face, and triumph settles in my gut. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not—the reminder that this weird thing we have between us means nothing to me fuels my righteous grudge.

Nate humphs, then smirks. “That wasn’t what they said in France.”

“I’m not one of your French girls, shithead.” I shake the bag of peas. “Satisfied? Now get the fucking fuck out of my goddamn apartment.” Clutching the makeshift ice pack to my wrist, I give him a good, long glare before pointedly looking at the door.

He doesn’t move.

In fact, he leans back against the kitchen counter, making himself comfortable. “I said give me ten minutes. It’s only been two. I have eight minutes left.”

“Last time I checked, it didn’t take more than three for you to ‘prove your point.’” My wet jeans chafe at my thighs, my body aches from tripping and falling, and sweat prickles the back of my neck despite the chill.

All I want to do is collapse on the couch, but I refuse to give Nate any more advantage than he already has.

“I don’t know why I ever tolerated you. You weren’t this insufferable when we were kids. ”

He doesn’t take my bait. “I could say the same to you, sweet cheeks.”

This is why whenever we use each other to let off some steam, there is no talking involved.

No talking. No kissing on the lips. No P in V.

Three unsaid rules we both stick to in order to get ourselves off without disturbing the pile of shit between us that neither of us wants to acknowledge in the name of a quick orgasm.

Also why you shouldn’t argue with someone who’s known you your whole life. Not only do they know where all your buttons are, they probably installed half of them.

“Don’t fucking call me sweet cheeks.”

The asshole laughs at my words, then has the audacity to lean over and deliberately check out my ass.

Which does look amazing in these jeans, so fuck him.

Metaphorically. “You’re right. You have many fine qualities—” He pauses to glance at my butt again.

Fucking. Pauses. “But being sweet isn’t one of them.

However, I can’t exactly call you Hellcat anymore, can I? ”

The old nickname lands like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of me. My shoulders curl in, and I heave out a hard breath before straightening up and pointing to the door.

“Get. Out.”

Nate walks toward me. Slow and deliberate. It’s a mosey that almost borders on a strut, and I hate that I’m paying this close attention to him. I hate even more that my heart picks up speed and my core clenches as I brace myself for the too-familiar scent of his cologne.

He stops in front of me. Cocky smirk in place, he reaches for the button of my jeans, hauling me against his body while he unzips them. Without a word, exactly how I like it, he slides one hand into the warmth between my thighs, his long fingers expertly playing with my clit.

As he strums me like an instrument, I bite my lips, holding inside the gasp it elicits.

I will not give him the satisfaction of hearing how good it feels.

Nate slides a practiced digit inside me, his thumb still working my clit.

The tightness of my jeans keeps his fingers moving short and fast, and the orgasm I won’t admit to builds in my core against my will.

It takes only a few moments for release to flood through me. And even though I don’t make a sound, he knows.

Pulling his hand free, Nate sighs, then zips up my jeans and fastens the button without looking up. “I have one thing to say, and then I’ll leave.”

We’re almost chest to chest, my nose level with his chin.

The forest currently covering it threatens to poke my eye out, and I sway back so I can glare up at him.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks or moves.

My gaze is focused on his lips, hidden behind his mustache, but I remember what they feel like. Regretfully.

They were always soft and full, and for a second, I wonder if he still tastes like red wine and bad decisions. With a tiny gasp, I pull myself free of the trance I’m going to blame on the gin and tonics, fixing a smirk on my face and staring over his shoulder.

“Oh, you actually have a reason for harassing me at home? I thought you just came to be annoying.”

“That was a delightful bonus.” He straightens his flannel and steps back, popping finger guns at me.

Finger guns? Really? Familiar irritation replaces the momentary lapse in my walls, and I shake off the last of my confusion. “Spit it out before I kick your ass.”

“Kel asked me to be his best man. I take the fact that he’s forgiven me deadly serious, so we’re going to publicly patch things up before the wedding.

” Nate steps back into my space, leaning down to rumble in my ear.

“This is your only warning, Sydney. The war between us has to end, and I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty to make it happen. ”