Page 34 of Let It Breathe (The Can’t Have Hearts Club #1)

E ric dipped the wine thief into the bunghole and withdrew it, depositing a bit of the amber liquid into Reese’s glass before filling his own.

Reese leaned against the barrel as she stuck her nose in her glass. From the corner of her eye, she studied the grim set of her ex-husband’s jaw.

“That’s the first time in fifteen years you haven’t made a bunghole joke,” she observed. “You’re taking this fire pretty hard.”

“You said hard .”

“There you go.”

Eric shook his head. “I worked my ass off on this wine. We all worked our asses off on this wine. I take that pretty fucking seriously.”

Reese nodded and took a sip. There was just the faintest hint of smokiness in the bouquet, which wasn’t the worst thing in a Chardonnay.

It actually complemented the oaky undertones and added an interesting depth.

She swirled the wine in the glass, checking clarity.

Eric did the same, pausing to spit a mouthful into the drain at their feet. He took another sip, considering.

“We should bottle it now,” he said.

“You sure?”

“I just don’t want to risk moving it down below or exposing it to smoke for even another day.”

Reese nodded. “We weren’t planning to do that for a while yet. I don’t think we have enough bottles.”

“I’ve got a few pallets at my place. Why don’t you go over with your dad and bring them back up here?”

“Dad’s got a meeting with the insurance guy, and everyone else is busy.” Reese glanced toward the side of the building where she’d left Clay stringing plastic over the charred side of the building to keep the rain out. “Clay wants to help. He’s got a truck. I can ask him to help move bottles.”

Something dark passed over Eric’s face, but he nodded and reached into his pocket to hand her his keys. “You know where everything is. Just be careful.”

Reese rolled her eyes, knowing full well he wasn’t worried about her breaking bottles or exceeding the speed limit.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Eric snorted. “Daddy issues. That’s just what we need to make this whole thing weirder.”

Twenty minutes later, Reese pushed open the door to Eric’s barn. She felt Clay tense beside her and turned to look at him. With his hands in his pockets, the tattoo on his left bicep peeked out from beneath the sleeve of his black T-shirt. He hesitated, then followed her inside.

“You okay?” Reese asked.

“Yeah. Absolutely. Happy to help.”

“But?”

He gave her a small smile and touched the inside of her wrist. “I don’t know. It feels funny, I guess. Being here with you at Eric’s place after what happened last night.”

Reese laughed. “We’re picking up wine bottles, not doing it doggy-style on his bed. Besides, it’s not like Eric and I ever lived here when we were married.”

“I know, I know. It’s just this hang-up I have, okay? You’re his ex-wife, this is his house.”

“You make me sound like a car or a jockstrap. Besides, you and I were friends first, remember?”

“I remember,” he said. “I definitely remember. I guess it’s just a weird guy thing.”

She grinned and laced her fingers behind his neck, pulling him down to her. “I’m rather fond of your guy thing, so I guess I can deal.” She pressed her lips to his for what was supposed to be a quick, playful kiss.

Clay responded with unexpected eagerness, drawing her tighter against him, deepening the kiss.

His hand slid into the small of her back, and Reese felt her insides surge with lust as Clay pressed the hard length of his body up against hers.

He kissed her harder and Reese swayed, bumping her hip against an old barrel.

They were both breathless by the time they drew apart. Reese smiled up at him again. “Wow. You’re pretty good at that.”

He grinned back. “Always easier to be good at something you enjoy.”

“In that case, keep enjoying me.”

“Come on,” he said, giving her a light tap on the butt. “Let’s get the bottles.”

They worked in companionable silence for a while, shuffling the heavy cases out to the truck. Clay did most of the lifting, while Reese opened box after box, making sure they grabbed the right kind of bottles and had enough of them to handle all the Chardonnay.

“He’s got a ton of these,” Clay mused as he hefted another box.

“Eric does a lot of Chardonnay. Good thing, or he wouldn’t have enough bottles for us to use now.”

“Do most guys make wine on their own like this? Seems like it would be a conflict of interest for a winemaker.”

“Not at all. Eric sources most of his grapes from other places—a lot from the Columbia River Gorge, while we grow our own. They’re totally different wines. He actually travels to New Zealand to do his Sauv Blanc.”

“I remember him being over there last winter. He sent me a postcard with a filthy joke about sheep.”

Reese laughed and peered inside a dusty box. “That sounds like Eric. He missed you, you know. He acts like a jerk sometimes, but he really cares about you.”

“I know,” Clay answered, turning away to grab more bottles.

“That’s why I couldn’t come back until I got my life straightened out.

Until I’d stood on my own two feet for a few years and had gotten used to the way that felt.

” He turned and looked at her, his hands frozen above the boxes.

“I do, you know. Have my life straightened out. Do you believe that?”

Reese swallowed. “Yes. I do. I want to, anyway.”

He nodded and reached for the box. “Last night’s bar fight notwithstanding.”

Reese bit her lip and watched as he hefted the heavy box, admiring the muscled line of his shoulders. She was dusty and tired and still numb from the devastation of the fire, and she’d never wanted him more.

Focus, she told herself, and tore her eyes off his back. She bent down to shift a case of empty Cab bottles to one side.

“Ouch!” she yelped, yanking her finger back and sticking it in her mouth.

Clay spun around. “You okay?”

“Staple,” she muttered around her finger. “Damn, that hurts.”

“Let me see.”

“It’s fine, I’m just being a wimp.”

“You’ve had a tetanus shot lately?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Come on, let me see it.”

Reese withdrew her finger and held it up. Blood welled from the tiny puncture like a little red bead.

“That looks bad,” Clay said. “Do you think you need stitches?”

Reese shook her head and turned to the small sink along one wall.

She turned on the tap and ran her hands under the water, wincing as it stung the fresh cut.

She grabbed a bar of soap and scrubbed for a moment before turning off the tap and shaking the water from her hands. She studied the wound again.

“I think I just need a Band-Aid. Eric’s probably got a first-aid kit in the office.”

She moved around him to the musty little room. Flicking on a light switch, she began rummaging through desk drawers. “God, he’s got a lot of crap in here,” she muttered.

“Let me,” Clay said. When Reese didn’t move right away, he circled his hands around her waist and hoisted her onto the counter, maneuvering her out of the way.

Reese squeaked, not minding one bit. It was kind of sexy having him take charge.

“Let me dig for it,” he muttered. “You’re getting blood all over.”

“It’s not even bleeding anymore,” she argued as she kicked her heels against the front of the cabinet and watched the back of his head.

He stood hunched over the drawer, pawing through paperclips and old corks and a pair of plastic lips.

Finally, he produced a small red pouch with a white cross on the front.

Unzipping it, he dumped the contents on the counter.

Reese reached for a Band-Aid. “I can get it, Clay.”

He caught her wrist and locked his fingers around it. “No. You take care of every other living creature on the planet. It’s my turn to take care of you.”

She saluted with her uninjured hand. “Yes, sir.”

Clay stepped into the space in front of her, nudging her knees apart as he tore open a packet of something. Reese grinned and opened her legs, giving him easier access. She could feel the heat of him through the worn denim of her jeans, and her body screamed at her to get closer.

Clay raised her hand to eye level, frowning as he studied the tiny wound. Then he began to dab her finger with an alcohol wipe.

“Ow,” she said, though it didn’t really hurt.

“Want me to kiss it better?”

“Kind of.”

He grinned and lowered his lips to her palm, skipping her finger altogether as he moved his mouth over the fleshy pads at the base of her fingers.

He nipped at the delicate ribbon of flesh between her thumb and forefinger, and Reese wrapped her legs around him, locking her ankles at the back of his thighs to draw him closer.

Clay released the injured hand and moved on to the other one, drawing her index finger into his mouth. Reese gasped, savoring the warm wetness of his tongue against the pad of her fingertip. He was miles away from her injured hand, but that thing he kept doing with his tongue felt exquisite.

Withdrawing her finger from his mouth, Clay kissed his way down the side of it, his tongue lingering in the sensitive hollow between her middle and ring finger. Reese moaned as he licked gently there for an instant before slipping up to dab kisses along her knuckles.

He slid her finger into his mouth again and Reese whimpered. “I never get this treatment at the doctor’s office.”

“That’s probably a good thing.”

“Want to take my temperature?”

“That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

“Stick around, I’ve got more.”

Clay grinned and drew back, reaching for a Band-Aid. “Come on, now. This is serious medical business. Hold still.”

He held her wrist again as he dabbed a bit of ointment onto the injured finger. Reaching for a Band-Aid, he fumbled with the wrapper before securing it in place. He planted a kiss on the tip of her finger and smiled at her again.

“All better?”

“Almost,” she whispered as he bent to kiss her.