The large conference hall of the Mandalay Bay was cavernous, even with the crowd of people filling the space. Sommeliers, winery owners, and buyers milled about with notepads and sheets of wine listings, the echo of conversations filling the air around Gretchen with a nervous energy.
Shining bottles of wine with trophies of etched crystal bristled up on tables scattered around the room, white table-cloths glowing in the fluorescent light. When they arrived, she explained to Josh how there were categories for each varietal and blend. A section for reds, a section for whites, New World, Old World, champagne, even a category for organic.
“What is the difference between Old and New World?” Josh asked. “Aren’t they all just wine, based on the grape?”
“Old World is Europe, Africa, Middle East; New World is everywhere else. Like the U.S., Australia,” she answered, pointing to various tables. “The grapes can be very similar, but vineyards in say, Italy, are centuries old now compared to ones from California.
The age of the vine can make a huge difference in the grape, as does the generational knowledge of an Old World winery.”
“So how does a wine from Niagara even compete with that?” he asked.
“That’s why the categories are split. Equal representation, right? Comparing a Chardonnay from France to one from newer wineries wouldn’t be fair,” she said, gesturing at the results list he had in his hand.
“This is big business, isn’t it?”
“A win here can set up a winemaker and vineyard for huge financial gain. Everyone from Wine Spectator to Michelin-star chefs take notice.”
“Wow. I had no idea,” he murmured.
Gretchen continued carefully cataloging all the tables with her phone. With each picture she took, she checked to ensure she got the labels front and center, so she could crop to a picture of the bottle for her customers. Full results with judging commentary would be posted later for her to download from the competition site, but this was a fast way of grabbing results to summarize later.
People wanted a jump on the ordering process, and she needed to be ready with her own selections to fire off by email to her bigger clients. Buyers and reps would be meeting right outside the doors of the hall, wheeling and dealing long before the tasting this afternoon.
“Why are you taking pictures?” Josh asked at one point. Not many others were, most of them scribbling on notepads or holding result sheets, circling their choices.
“Easier than taking notes, and I can fire off a photo to a client from a text faster than an email,” she replied and took a spontaneous picture of him. He instantly smiled, reminding her how practiced he was at having his picture taken.
“Smart,” he murmured and moved forward to peer at another table.
When he’d asked if he could accompany her, Gretchen worried he would be bored out of his mind wandering a hall filled with hoity-toity wine people, but the chance to let him see her world was too good to pass up. As she bumped into people she knew, he stayed with her, touching the small of her back, asking questions that were surprisingly analytical.
People had noticed him, a few murmured glances his way.
Each time someone recognized him, he would shake hands without hunched shoulders or slight frown. It wasn’t uncommon for sports figures or celebrities to attend these things; she’d seen her share in the past. She breathed a sigh of relief because he was smiling.
Normally, wandering the results tables at a competition like this was relaxing, but it eluded her today, her nerves zapping every time they touched. As they wound through the crowd, she wanted to stake her claim as other women noticed him. He wasn’t hers. She wanted him to be.
Standing for most of the morning was wearing on her and she was anxious to be done so they could go sit and have a coffee and brunch. Sharla would likely insist. Hissing quietly, she stretched her back, her muscles stiff and slightly sore. She swore everyone could tell what she and Josh had been up to in bed.
Gretchen felt like a completely different woman. Awakened, like part of her spirit had lain dormant until this man had come along and broken some sort of barrier in her ability to feel. She’d never expected to have a spontaneous affair, let alone with Josh, and she wondered if she could ever go back to the way it was before. Before him, before she’d been shown how good it could feel with the right person. How many times had she gone through the motions with other men, and it was satisfying but . . . boring?
Too many.
Sharla was just behind them, tired and rumpled, arriving just as Gretchen had expected—with the same clothes as the day before and her hair hastily pulled into a bun. Thankfully, she didn’t have to impress distributors—they were all eager to do business with the earl. She could hand out cards with orders on them while wearing a sack and they would still ring her up.
She stopped at the New World Pinot Noir table, conscious to catalog the ones that had scored well. All her clients wanted pinots from California. They sold well—sometimes double any other red—especially merlot. But then, cheap shiraz from Australia was normally a better seller than merlot from California, which irritated her. Merlot, when done right, was a far superior grape to a hastily casked cabernet sauvignon and one of her favorites. She tried to ensure at least one merlot was on the menus she devised with her clients.
“Look at this one,” Sharla said as she snuck up behind her, pointing to a smaller winery from the Lodi area. “It got a ninety-two. Buy it now, or it’s going to triple in price by next pressing.”
Gretchen snapped a photo of the bottle. “Are you buying now too?”
“His Lordship wants seventeen cases of the damned stuff. I’ll have to try it, but he’s demanding I just order it, no tasting. I hope it stinks like plonk.”
Gretchen looked at her friend. “Everything okay between you and Himself?”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t mind me. No sleep makes me cranky. I’m hangry too. Food? I see you brought your arm candy along today,” she deflected. Gretchen’s bullshit meter went off, but Sharla would only share when she was ready, and she let it go.
“Yes. How was your Iowa farm boy this morning?” Gretchen clapped back, changing the subject slightly as they moved down the table to look at some other reds, Sharla scribbling notes as they went. Josh had wandered farther away, looking at something else, and he turned back and flashed a smile at her, halting her thoughts of anything but him. How did he do that?
“Ryan is fine. We both agreed it was a one-night thing. He’s a sweet boy. Definitely a bull in the sack, but you know, those farm boys.”
Gretchen let out a snort of laughter, and several snotty older people turned and frowned at them. They giggled and moved on.
Josh joined them.
“Good morning, Sharla,” he said.
“Jesus, Mr. Sunshine. Dial it down. Some of us didn’t get any sleep.”
Josh raised an eyebrow at her cheeky response. Gretchen braced for tension between them.
“Is my outfielder going to make it to the game tomorrow? You didn’t kill him, did you?” he replied. Sharla looked back, her eyes wide, and then let out a huge laugh, earning more annoyed looks from people around them.
Phew. If Josh could handle Sharla when she was hungry, tired, and cranky, he was definitely doing well.
“He’s sleeping it off. He’s not too damaged,” Sharla retorted, 1then pointed. “One more table, Gretch, then we can go eat.
Please? I’m going to die if I don’t get some coffee and carbs.”
They finished their circuit of the room and left, Josh automatically grabbing Gretchen’s hand as they made their way out into the hallway beside the main conference room.
“Tastings start at four,” Gretchen said, looking at the itinerary.
“It’s only ten.”
“Food. Now,” Sharla grouched.
“I know a great breakfast place,” he said. “Come on, ladies.”
She had to talk to him, but had no idea when she could, given their schedule was a bit packed on the last day of the competition.
Maybe she could stay a few days or travel with him to Bakersfield or give herself a mini vacation down the coast while he was away.
She played out the scenarios in her head as they walked. None of them were ideal, but she had to find a way.
“You okay?” he asked. “Need a minute?”
“I’m fine, just need coffee,” she replied.
“We’ll get a chance to maybe talk later?” he added quietly, leaning into her. “I was wondering if—”
“You two are just too much, okay?” Sharla admonished.
“Enough puppy dog eyes! Honestly. Let’s go. Breakfast waits for no man, even if he’s a hot shot pro ball player.” She dragged them both forward before he could finish.
. . .
The Peppermill was one of the most iconic breakfast places in Vegas. The gaudy disco era décor and a menu longer than some novels meant anyone could get whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. Gretchen hadn’t been there in a long time and was 1thrilled when Josh had suggested it. She was ravenous as well. The muffin and bad hotel coffee had not been enough.
Sharla was buried in the menu and Josh had his arm around her. The waitress brought their coffees, then looked up at Josh with surprise.
“You’re Joshua Malvern, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Last time I checked, yeah,” he replied.
“Oh wow. Can you sign my bill pad?” she said, sliding it out of her apron and onto the table, clicking her pen. “I go to all the Neons games. So much fun this year, especially with you back now.”
He signed it, a professional, pasted-on smile on his lips despite his rigid body. He clearly didn’t like being intruded upon in private moments. Gretchen wondered if she’d gone with her first idea of getting his autograph if she’d be here right now, on one of the headiest and most unbelievable adventures of her life. She’d clearly shocked him out of his normal response with the abnormal greeting.
“Thanks for your support,” he said and handed it back to her, with her pen. “Glad you are enjoying the season.”
The waitress gave him a slow, flirty glance, and then took their orders. The aroma of coffee was wafting as steaming cups appeared, and Sharla said some unintelligible words as she cradled the cup in her hands, making Josh laugh. Gretchen felt like she was in some alternate reality. Normally, right now she’d be typing up her notes to send off to various clients, deep into her own analysis, and making a list of wines to taste. Essentially being a boring, simple workaholic while in one of the most hedonistic places in the world. She couldn’t care less about that right now.
She wanted to sit in this booth, under Josh’s arm forever.
She handed the creamer cups to him on instinct, and he chuckled as he took the bowl from her, their fingers brushing and sending thrills through her stomach.
“I never did ask you how you knew what to put in my coffee at the airport.”
“I read it somewhere, maybe?” Gretchen answered. “Honestly, I didn’t think about it, I just ordered.”
Josh hummed at that, and she wondered if he would find that too intrusive. When he didn’t respond, she relaxed. He opened one of the tiny cups, pouring it into his coffee, and she watched him, enthralled by the little things. She could watch him do up his shoes, or make his coffee, and she would be a happy woman.
“So. Josh. Did Gretchen here tell you that you’re on her Fuck List?”
Gretchen looked up at Sharla, confused. Her what? Then it dawned on her. Oh, no . . . that Fuck List.
Gretchen turned to her friend, trying to remain as calm as possible. Maybe if she didn’t make a big deal out of it, he’d laugh it off. “Oh, that list. Ha-ha. Right. Shar, that was ages ago!”
“Her what?” Josh asked, one eyebrow raised. His fingers stroking her shoulder stopped. “A fuck list?”
“Oh yes. When we were in college, we made up lists of famous guys we would like to have our way with,” Sharla said, winking.
“You were at the top of that list, my friend. She was so obsessed!
The year you became a Sixer, man, oh man. I tell you—”
Gretchen sent a pleading look to Sharla, who was ignoring her. She obviously thought it was funny. Would Josh? This was bordering on embarrassing.
Josh looked at her, his eyebrows raised. “Really?”
Gretchen laughed nervously, her face heating. “Well this is 1uhhh . . . awkward, but yeah,” she muttered. Sharla was stirring more creamer into her coffee, not catching Gretchen’s growing discomfort.
“She’d seen you at some game in Boston when she’d gone down with friends. I had no idea who you were, but she said you were ridiculously sexy.”
“I am, am I?” he remarked, his eyes sliding to Gretchen. He seemed okay, but he was giving off a wary vibe.
“Yeah. The criteria was it had to be a celebrity—or sports player, in this case—that we were allowed to have a one-night stand with. Kinky, no-holds-barred, monkey-sex kind of thing.
Even if we were married or had a steady guy. Like a ‘free pass’ to be naughty. These are the guys who you’d never in a million years marry but would be good for hot sex in a fancy hotel or something—”
“So, the whole coffee thing was to get in my pants?” Josh asked.
He removed his arm and picked up his coffee with the hand that had been around her.
“No, no it wasn’t like that—” Gretchen replied quickly.
“Oh, come on, like she’d pass up an opportunity to be with you, Mr. Sunshine. You’re hot and her favorite,” Sharla interrupted, laughing.
“Sharla. Please,” Gretchen whispered, her face so hot she knew her cheeks were likely crimson. This had now passed embarrassing, was bordering on humiliating, and made her sound like she did this all the time.
He stiffened, the grin from not a moment before gone. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. Sharla looked at Gretchen, then at Josh, and her face went white.
“I figured you’d told him,” she offered, a worried look stealing 1over her. “I mean, it wasn’t like you’d ever actually do it. It was all in fun, right? You’re not the type to roll in the hay on a whim, Gretch.”
“She isn’t, is she? Couldn’t tell,” Josh said drily.
“Oh. Shit . . . look—” Sharla stammered.
Gretchen couldn’t take it and panicked. The connection they had, the idea that maybe she could see him again after this, it would all be in question now. What would he think of her? That she’d been playing him, that’s what. She was going to be sick, the earlier hastily eaten muffin swirling around in her stomach. She shot to her feet and mumbled something about needing to pee, running toward the bathrooms, a hand over her mouth.
. . .
Josh watched her leave, his mouth dry. She’d planned all this? Did he just get taken advantage of? Was it all an act?
“Josh. You have to know she’d never intentionally mislead someone. Gretch is—”
He held up a hand, stopping her. “Is what? Let me get this straight. She’s known about me since my rookie year, I’m on some sort of ‘monkey-sex’ list you two cooked up, and she apparently has followed my career closely enough to—”
“Well yes, you’re at the top of the list, but—” Sharla spluttered.
“Listen, it was stupid, objectifying men we thought were fuckable, you know?”
“No, I don’t know,” Josh clipped. His mind was desperately trying to pull the pieces together. “So, I’m what, the score she gets to brag about when she gets home?”
“I didn’t say that, Josh,” Sharla replied. “It was a long time ago, and anyone with eyes in their head can see you two are—”
“Are what? Tomorrow’s tabloid fodder?” The sick feeling in his stomach pushed the anger he tried so hard to control up into his throat and he ground his molars as he processed. He had to keep his shit together.
He’d been falling for Gretchen. He was going to ask her to stay with him at the end of this to figure out what they meant to each other. Was it all a lie? His chest seized when he thought that. He’d thought she was—he let out an angry groan. He thought there was something serious happening between them.
“Jesus,” he ground out, the crazy notion taking over his emotions, “Harv is going to kill me for sleeping with a—”
“Sleeping with a what? Who is Harv, and what do you mean he’ll kill you?” Sharla peppered questions at him, holding up a hand. “Calm down, Josh, please—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” Josh snapped. He jerked himself up and levered out a couple of twenty-dollar bills from his wallet, throwing them on the table, making Sharla twitch in surprise.
“Let her explain. You’ve got something here, don’t throw it away because of me—” she pleaded, but then stopped when he let the anger win, and leveled a glare at her that sat her back in her seat.
“I always keep my distance from fans who want to manipulate me. I’ve seen enough good guys get thrown low by women just out for their status and money, their fifteen minutes of fame. You have no idea.”
“Now hold on, asshole, she’s not—” Sharla snapped hotly, standing up again, but he turned and walked away, steaming out the door, slamming it as he went. If they started arguing, he 1wasn’t sure what he would do, and everyone in the restaurant was already staring.
He stormed into his car, which was parked nearby, pounding the wheel in frustration. He was so churned up he couldn’t go back in, still unable to think clearly, so he started driving. Gritting his teeth, he headed out of Vegas, swerving through traffic toward the desert, not caring where he went.
The entire time he pushed on the accelerator, he was at war in his head. He’d jumped to conclusions and should have waited to let Gretchen explain. But his temper and his worry about being manipulated had won, and now . . .
He pulled into a lookout over Lake Mead and killed the engine.
There weren’t many people there, and he stalked down one of the paths toward the cliffs. Boats cut through the water, their engines revving from a distance. The wind ruffled his hair and he closed his eyes for a moment in the peaceful surroundings, begging for his heart to stop hammering.
He was an idiot. He should go back. Of course, she could explain. But the paralyzing feeling that he’d screwed up was overwhelming. He needed to call Harv and ask him what to do. He felt out of his depth.
His phone rang. He ignored it. Then a text beeped and he fished it out of his pocket to look at it.
Please let me explain. When you are ready. It isn’t what you think.
He squeezed the phone in his fist and lowered his head to it.
What was he supposed to think? Do? Gretchen was everything he wanted. She’d fit into his world, and everyone liked her. She’d had him in her hand the moment she’d set eyes on him in the airport, and he’d trusted her. Every part of him still wanted to, 1but his instinct to protect the one thing that had always mattered had irrationally roared to life the moment Sharla put doubt into his head that they’d really connected. He’d wanted a casual rendezvous. A weekend romance. No strings, right?
He’d gotten so much more. He’d been sure she felt it too. But the creeping feeling that he’d been targeted wouldn’t go away.
“Fuck,” he said out loud and took a deep breath. For the first time, baseball was coming second to his heart, and it was scary as hell.