Page 14 of Next Season
Not even close.
My shirt was snug across his shoulders, accentuating his pecs and thick biceps, and almost not quite covering his belly. And those sweats…I kid you not, I actually licked my lips. The thin fabric hugged his crotch so lovingly it was practically obscene. Heshouldhave looked ridiculous, but he didn’t. Far from it.
I tore my gaze from his junk and gave the wine my full attention, internally listing every boring topic I could think of to get my dick under control.
Glue, car insurance, traffic, celebrity gossip…
Shit. It wasn’t working. I poured a second glass and carried them to the table, sliding onto the nearest chair with a relieved sigh. Jean-Claude shot me a bemused glance before joining me.
He tapped his glass to mine, swirled the contents, sniffed it, then oh so leisurely took a sip. “C’est bon.”
“It’s good,” I translated, nodding in agreement. “Gerry must know what he’s talking about.”
“Not quite. I gave Gerry a cheater’s sheet so he’d know where to point his customers.”
I grinned. “You mean a cheat sheet.”
“Oui.” His lips twisted wryly. “Gerry is a nice man, but he doesn’t know wine. How is your head?”
“Fine.” And it was. Not even a twinge of the usual ache at my temple I felt around this time of night.
“I’m glad. I thought there were rules about alcohol and concussions.”
I held up my glass to show my minuscule pour. “I’m hardly in any danger here. And now that I have the tuna, I’m set.”
He narrowed his gaze. “If my tuna is a concussion cure, I’ll want a mention in the medical books.”
“I’ll make sure of it.” I chuckled.
Jean-Claude sipped his Pinot, jolting at the next crack of thunder. “At this rate, power will be out soon too. What a night.”
“You don’t like thunderstorms?”
“Not particularly.”
“I love them,” I gushed. “I have a generator at my house in Seattle, which is handy, but also kills the spook-factor fun.”
He fixed me with an unreadable look. “Youareweird.”
I snort-laughed at his dry delivery and almost choked on my stingy sip of wine. “A little. You’re from Montreal, right? You must have grown up with the occasional wicked rainstorm too.”
“I’m not from Montreal, but yes, I know this weather well. I prefer sunshine or even snow to rain. And I know plenty about snow.”
“Same. So…whereareyou from?”
He took another sip, his gaze glued to mine. “Nord-du-Québec, in a village so tiny you can’t find it on a map. It makes Elmwood look like New York City.”
“Really?”
“Oui. It’s a five-and-a-half-hour drive to Quebec City if the weather cooperates. Seven and a half to Montreal. Very remote.”
“How do people make a living there?” I asked conversationally. “Agriculture?”
He scoffed. “No, city boy. Logging and mining.”
“Do you miss it?”
He went still for a long moment. So long I was afraid I’d inadvertently hit a touchy subject. “Yes and no. I miss my family sometimes, but there’s nothing for me there.”