Intoxicating Read online

  “You’ll keep it on the down low? We’ll let Keval in another time, after Poppy feels more confident.”

  “Keep what?” Sam grinned conspiratorially.

  Heath nodded his thanks. “Nowadays there are cameras everywhere.”

  “Smart move. It wouldn’t be good to have a repeat of that last performance.”

  Heath thought about Poppy’s progress—and the lack of it—while he finished his wine.

  Sam grabbed a different bottle and yanked out the cork. “See what you think of this one.” He poured an ounce into a fresh glass and slid it in front of Heath.

  It would be rude to turn down Sam’s hospitality, but from here on out Heath was going to make use of the spit bucket. He wanted to have his wits about him when Sam finally got around to telling him what was on his mind.

  He tasted the deep ruby liquid while Sam watched and waited for his verdict.

  “Bright fruit nose. Chewy finish.”

  Sam nodded. “Not bad, eh? So, back to Poppy.” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “You two ever . . . ?” He half grinned and shrugged.

  A savage possessiveness seized Heath. Sam was interested in Poppy! That’s what he wanted to talk about. He wanted to feel Heath out.

  Fighting a wave of panic, Heath threw back his glass, gulped its contents, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  Sam laughed. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  This is Poppy we’re talking about! How could Sam be so blasé?

  But then, what right did Heath have to be mad?

  “Poppy and I are friends. Nothing but friends.”

  Heath’s heart pounded in his ears. Sam had always had a knack for reading people. He was even sharper after he came back from the service, a fact that only gave credence to the spy rumors floating around.

  He took a steadying breath and looked down at where his fingers played with the base of his glass. “Why? What’s it to you?”

  “It’s not such an off-the-wall question,” said Sam mildly. “I don’t know any red-blooded male who’d kick Poppy Springer out of bed. I mean, just picture the woman.”

  But Heath didn’t think in pictures. His inner world was made up of smells and flavors, sounds and tactile sensations.

  He flashed back to Poppy’s hot little hand tugging his toward a squawking crowd of party guests . . . the salty-sweet tang of French fries dipped in catsup on his tongue, her nonstop chatter coming from across a cool Formica table in his ears. Then there was the heady perfume of lilacs by the creek that ninth-grade spring when he had drawn her initials in the dirt with the toe of his sneaker.

  “Relax. Poppy Springer might be hotter than a stolen Ferrari, but she’s not what I wanted to talk to you about tonight.”

  He looked up. “Then what?”

  “I’m always looking for new ways to promote the consortium.”

  Heath was almost overcome with relief. That’s what this is about? Advertising?

  “We’re doing well, but we’re still new, and there’re a lot of wineries where people can go to taste wine besides here. Ever hear of an outfit called Brides for a Cause? It’s a charity that resells donated gowns at a huge discount. They donate the proceeds to engaged couples facing a serious illness or other tough circumstances.

  “Holly and Keval cooked up the idea to host a fashion show. Could bring in customers that might not find us any other way, plus help a few needy folks. Keval thinks it’d be a slam dunk.”

  Heath was still recovering from shock, but it wouldn’t do to let Sam see. “Poppy said something about a fashion show. You want me to contribute the beer.”

  It was no secret that Heath donated a good chunk of his profits to several local charities in memory of his twin.

  “Or you could model a penguin suit. Your choice.”

  “Parade down a catwalk in a tux?” He sniffed. “Put me down for the beer.”

  Sam thrust out his hand. “Thanks, man. Knew I could count on you. I know you’re not a limelight kind of guy, but you can still come watch if you want.”

  “When is it?” Heath asked, with no intention whatsoever of going to a fashion show, charity or not.

  “Third Saturday in October.”

  “I think I have something that day,” he lied as he slid his empty toward Sam.

  “How do you know, if I’m not even sure of the date? Tell you what. Next time you see Dr. Red, ask her to confirm. She’s volunteered to run it.”

  “You and Red seem to be in the same place at the same time quite a bit lately.”

  Sam averted his eyes and shook his head. “Doc just happened to be available. Think about it. Who’s got more empathy for people in crisis than a therapist?”

  “I guess.” Heath slid off his stool and headed for the exit. “Thanks for the wine.”

  “Any time. Oh—by the way, did I mention? Poppy’s going to be playing the role of the bride.”

  Heath fought to keep his voice casual. “Oh yeah? Who’s the groom?”

  “Not that it matters, because you and Poppy are just friends, right?”

  “Who is it?” Heath wouldn’t be able to rest until he knew.

  “Daryl Decaprio.”

  Heath felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

  “That’s right.” Sam chuckled. “Clarkston’s answer to Brad Pitt—or so say the ladies. Hell—don’t listen to them. You were at the last Splash party. Dude is shredded, man. Gotta give him props. There’s one high school quarterback that never went soft.”

  The thought of Daryl’s brawny build at last summer’s pool party made Heath’s own average biceps flex involuntarily.

  “Yeah, Poppy and Decaprio will be declaring their vows right . . . over . . . there.” He squinted and pointed to the far end of the consortium’s main public room as if aiming a gun. “Even renting a portable stage.” He picked up a rag and wiped a spot on the bar. “Didn’t have to ask him twice. Then again, Decaprio is known for having the biggest”—Sam rinsed out his rag, pausing over the sound of running water—“ego west of the Mississippi. Should be quite a show. ’Course, like I said, it’s all for a good cause.”

  Chapter Nine

  I don’t know any red-blooded male who’d kick Poppy Springer out of bed. All you have to do is picture the woman.

  For the rest of that week, Sam’s words dogged Heath. Hell, wasn’t his blood as red as the next guy’s? Yet he had never thought of Poppy as merely a face . . . a collection of body parts, let alone someone he wanted to sleep with. To him, she was just . . . Poppy.

  Tuesday, while he tasted batches of research and development ales, he ran through the mental list of women he’d been with over the last couple of years.

  Okay, so maybe he wouldn’t win any skirt-chasing contests. If he were honest, every woman he’d been with had come on to him, not the other way around. And none of those women had managed to rope him into more than a few dates, though a couple had been pretty persistent. But he had a good excuse. He’d been a tad busy managing the mushrooming growth of his company.

  Wednesday, he sat down with his brew team. While he half listened to their debate grow heated over when to clear out tank space for the next beer coming down the line, a haphazard progression of Poppy impressions swam in his head. Her gap-toothed grin in fourth grade, a lopsided headband she’d made from a fistful of wilted flowers he’d thrust at her. Years later, downcast gray eyes whenever Ms. Baker called on her to parse sentences at the whiteboard. Even now, his heart still clutched at the injustice of her being forced to stand up there long after she was humiliated and the other kids were squirming in embarrassment for her.

  When it came right down to it, the place where Poppy had always looked most at home was the café. Her smile lit up the room and her cheerful service kept patrons coming back.

  Thursday, as he skimmed over marketing’s short list of names for next year’s winter seasonal beer, he tried to reconcile the current Poppy with his original perception of her. At what age had he first realiz
ed their differences? It was around the time when his voice started cracking and hair started sprouting in embarrassing places on his body. Around the same time she’d sat cross-legged across from him on a beach towel at the Clarkston Pool, all jutting knees and pointy elbows and a purple swimsuit, soundly beating him at a game of Set. Fast forward to last weekend, up in his tree house. The soft, warm sensation of two small mounds pressing against his chest when she’d thrown herself at him had his body reacting all over again.

  “Boss?”

  “Huh?” At the head of the conference table, Heath shifted his weight in his chair.

  “The new winter beer. Chillsner or Christmas Bonus?”

  “Sorry. How ’bout you guys take a vote. We’ll go with whatever name wins.”

  Finally it was Friday, the day he’d been looking forward to all week. Tonight, he was determined to look at Poppy through new eyes—red-blooded, male eyes. He had all evening to conduct a thorough, scientific examination of her. Methodically, starting at the top and working his way down.

  * * *

  It was dusk when he picked Poppy up at her parents’ house.

  She launched into a monologue about her week the moment he let her in his car, only pausing while he walked around and got into the driver’s seat. Once Poppy got rolling, there was no need to be an active participant. A nod here, a “really?” there was all she required.

  While she bantered, he tried to pinpoint exactly what it was about her unique aroma that impacted him so powerfully.

  He’d actually taken time from some pressing brewery issues to research the subject of scent. Starting with orange blossom, technically neroli. Sweet, floral, and slightly haunting. Papers had been written about its antimicrobial and antibacterial properties, and there were fascinating hypotheses hinting that more beneficial substances may yet be found in it.

  “. . . Sandy and Kyle let it be known that they’re planning to name their baby boy Hawthorne?” Poppy’s voice rose in a question. “What do you think of that? Not that there’s anything wrong with it. Hawthorne is a perfectly good name. I’m just not sure how well it goes with Houser. Hawthorne Houser . . .”

  Jasmine. Mostly benzyl and acetate. Exotic and rich. Deeply relaxing, some claimed it was an aphrodisiac.

  The words “Poppy” and “aphrodisiac” in the same sentence sent his thoughts careening down unfamiliar roads with dangerous curves and sharp drop-offs.

  When he read that sandalwood also was associated with the awakening of sexual energies, he had gotten off the web and back onto his spreadsheet of shipping dates and tank space. All that aphrodisiac talk was purely speculative. There was no hard scientific evidence that aphrodisiacs were even a real thing.

  “. . . the new dress Junie had on the other day. You know Junie hardly ever wears dresses.”

  “Really?”

  “In fact, now that I think about it, the only dress I can remember seeing Junie in is that yellow sundress she wore to the Clarkston Splash last year. Remember that one? It went straight across at the bust and then flared out to a modified A-line . . .”

  They pulled into the consortium to see Sam standing in the doorway, saying good-bye to his last customers of the day.

  Inside, Sam cheerfully told Poppy to get lost until he’d shown Heath what he had prepared for the blind tasting.

  “C’mon back,” he said, motioning for Heath to follow him behind the bar. “I’ll show you what we’ve got.”

  Poppy meandered around the room, studying the black-and-white photos of local landscapes on the walls while Sam showed Heath the row of brown paper bags sitting upright on the counter, the numbers one through six written on them with a Sharpie.

  “Three reds, three whites,” said Sam. “Poppy and I settled up earlier.” He reached into his pocket and flipped him a key to the building. “Here you go. Have fun. Lock her up when you’re done.”

  “Thanks for letting us use the room,” Poppy called as Sam headed toward the door and she drifted over to the bar.

  “You kids be good.” Sam winked and was gone.

  Poppy’s scent swirled around Heath. “Is it warm in here?” he asked, looking around for the thermostat.

  “It feels almost chilly to me,” Poppy replied, rubbing her arms.

  No wonder the woman was cold. She had on a sleeveless cropped top that showed a horizontal slice of her lumbar region above her jeans when she sat down.

  Heath took off his leather jacket and slung it across the bar. “Here. You need this more than I do.”

  She shivered as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. “It’s different here with no one else around,” she said, her eyes flitting from the bar to the seating alcoves furnished with inviting couches and chairs. “Quiet.”

  “We have the whole building to ourselves—for the rest of the night, if we want. Not that we would want to—” he hastened to add.

  Poppy propped her chin on her hand and looked at him mischievously. “Want to what?”

  Feeling his cheeks redden, he turned his attention to the task at hand. He numbered square white bar napkins to match the wine sacks with the Sharpie he found next to the cash register and found six glasses.

  “Are you going to have some?” asked Poppy, watching him pour.

  “I’ll try a little.”

  He had to keep a clear head. Not because he was proctoring her. He wouldn’t have any trouble with that. He wanted to stay sober so he could study her objectively while she was preoccupied with analyzing the wines.

  He sat the samples on the correspondingly numbered napkins.

  Poppy gave him a stack of worksheets. “As soon as I touch the first glass, start the timer. For each wine, I’ll say something about the appearance, nose, palate, and so on. Check the box next to each characteristic I mention. In twenty-five minutes, stop me.”

  Heath pulled up the timer on his cell phone and poised his thumb above it. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  She settled into her seat and said, “Go.”

  Heath hit the timer in the same second Poppy picked up the first glass, inserted her nose into the bowl, and sniffed.

  “Wine number one is a straw-color wine of low intensity, low nose.”

  She raised the glass to her lips and drank.

  And then she started rattling off adjectives at warp speed.

  “Fruits are green apple, yellow pear, honeydew melon rind. Non-fruit characteristics include vegetal and herbal. Structure is moderately acidic. This wine is from a moderately cool climate. The primary grape is Pinot Grigio, Old World style. Country of origin is Italy. Age is one to three years. Final conclusion, this is a two thousand thirteen pinot grigio from Alto Adige in Italy.”

  “Hold on—” he said, his eyes zigzagging frantically across the page, still looking for the word “structure.”

  “Wine number two is an opaque purple color. Intense aromas of smoke, black raspberries, and spice. Tannins soft and integrated, low acidity—”

  “Slow down.”

  “—full-bodied with an unctuous texture and an expansive mid-palate. Alcohol is high. Final conclusion, this is a red blend from the Southern Rhone of France. Nineteen ninety-five Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

  Poppy continued at a breakneck pace until she’d whizzed through all the entries, only hesitating once to go back and change an original conclusion.

  It seemed like no time at all until she sat down the sixth glass and sat back. “Stop!”

  Heath glanced at his phone, stunned. “You still have four minutes to go.”

  “I’m through. How many did I get right?” Impatiently, she reached for the first bag and pulled the bottle out. “Pinot grigio! Yay!”

  “I didn’t catch half your descriptors. You were flying.”

  “The descriptors are just a means to an end. I’m mainly concerned with my conclusions.” She stooped over the bar, trying to read upside down the grids he’d marked.

  “I’ll come over there,” said Heath.

  When he got ar
ound the bar he noticed that his jacket didn’t quite cover up that slice of skin on her lower back. He stepped into the space between her stool and the one next to it and bowed his head next to hers, skimming over her results with her.

  “I got five right out of six!”

  Heath was more surprised that she was. “That’s really—”

  But Poppy cut him off mid-sentence, throwing herself into his arms for the second time in a week.

  Any red-blooded man would squeeze her back.

  And that’s what Heath did.

  But a mere second later she extricated herself and started bouncing on the bar stool, chanting, “Oh yeah! Oh yeah!” Her eyes flew open wide. “That’s what we need—music!”

  She dove for her bag, whipped out her phone, and hopped off the bar stool. “Come on!” she called with a toss of her head. “Let’s dance!”

  He caught a glimpse of skin, a flash of navel inside his jacket.

  And that’s when his earlier objective to methodically analyze her flew out the window. This wasn’t the little girl he once knew. This Poppy was every inch a woman. When had that happened? How had he been so blind, and for how long?

  And then her weight landed on her heel and her knee buckled. In the blink of an eye her jubilant expression turned tortured, and she inhaled sharply.

  Before he knew what he was doing he was there, his arm snaking around her waist, propping her up. “Over here.” He guided her toward the nearest couch, letting her use his body as a crutch.

  “If I hadn’t second-guessed myself, I would have gotten all six of those wines right!” said Poppy. Not even her pain could erase her elation for long. For Poppy, every victory, even a small one, was cause for celebration.

  But for Heath, that test was rapidly becoming a memory.

  The main thing is her foot and easing her discomfort, insisted his ever-practical nature.

  He tried to maintain decorum as he deposited her rump onto a couch covered in a crimson plush and, mission accomplished, began to straighten his spine.

  But Poppy apparently had a different idea. Still caught up in her enthusiasm, she seemed to be in no hurry to unclamp her grip from around his neck.