A Pairing to Die For Read online

  “Not nearly as much as I have yours.”

  I wrap my arms around his waist, his muscles taut beneath my embrace, and nuzzle my nose into the nape of his neck. I breathe in his scent, a bouquet of peppermint, citrus, and herbs. He smells more delicious than any aroma coming out of this kitchen, including Britt’s spiced pear tartlets.

  “Are you sure I can’t help with anything?” I whisper, massaging his tense shoulders before I let go.

  “Nah, we’ve got it covered,” he says. His focus is entirely on the next course. “Thanks, though.”

  I realize that’s all I’m going to get.

  He’s got it handled. I need to let it go.

  For how amazing our relationship has been going the last couple of months, every once in a while, there are these moments when Reid shuts down. He’ll put up a barricade and won’t let me in on what’s going through his mind, won’t let me help. I’m not sure if it’s residual independence from his bachelor days or just innate stubbornness, but I know better than to push. Especially when he’s in the midst of a decidedly crummy night.

  “Okay, well . . .” I trail off with a meaningful look toward the dining room, dreading returning to the table with his family.

  Reid grabs my hand and presses it to his lips. “Why don’t you slip out the back? I’ll let you know when I’m done here and we’ll have a makeup dinner. Just you and me.”

  Relief surges through my body. “Tell your family it was really—uh—interesting to meet them.”

  “I’ll tell them,” he says softly.

  I give his hand an extra squeeze before letting myself out through the back door and into the alley behind the restaurant. Freedom never tasted so sweet.

  Nestled at the base of the rolling foothills between a boutique and bike shop, Spoons has a prime location on the west end of Pearl Street, the outdoor pedestrian mall that serves as the heart of Boulder.

  I turn onto the cobblestone street. The sun has long since set, so old-school lanterns cast a warm glow over the planters of late-season mums and marigolds. Scents of waffle cones, barbecue, and incense perfume the air. It’s the place to be. There are people everywhere—frequenting the restaurants and bars, checking out the retail offerings, or simply taking in the atmosphere. Young, old, affluent, down-and-out, there’s something for everyone on Pearl Street.

  Except, it would seem, for me.

  A trio of musicians plays an accordion version of “Bad Romance.” I consider joining the throng of onlookers to rinse the foul taste of the evening from my mouth, but the lyrics of the song—caught in a bad romance—make me scowl. I meander by the quirky shops selling designer duds, camping gear, and even kites, stopping where a magician is dazzling a crowd by guessing a randomly selected card.

  None of it is enough to distract me from my tailspinning thoughts, from the doubt lodged in my throat and the dull ache in my chest.

  Instead, I head to the bus stop.

  I have another palate cleanser in mind.

  * * *

  * * *

  Stomp, stomp, stomp.

  Grape juice oozes between my toes, not dissimilar from the thoughts seeping through my subconscious.

  Just a winemaker. Not good enough.

  I stomp my feet into the tub of grapes as I replay the nightmarish evening.

  Camilla and Gary belittling my craftsmanship. Gary, Ben, and Tristan excluding me from their conversation. Camilla trying to convince Reid to dump me.

  Worst of all, though, was the fact that I didn’t have the backbone to stand up to them.

  Stomp, stomp, stomp.

  Reid didn’t invite his mother to malign my character, didn’t ask for her opinion. And yet, no matter how much he claims he’s separate from his parents, that maternal voice is hard to dispel.

  Just ask me and my brother.

  Stomp, stomp, stomp.

  While I have machinery to help me crush grapes, there’s something about the manual process of stomping that produces juice with a more intense, handcrafted flavor. It has to do with control. Knowing exactly when the fermentation process begins, how much juice is released, and how many stems, skins, and seeds are included.

  Plus, it doubles as therapy.

  I’m adding a grape-stomping activity on the community calendar to give my customers a fun and unique experience, and to demonstrate how wine was made in ancient times. If they can get over the feeling of wading in jelly, I think it’ll be a hit.

  Still, I should probably plant a few participants—friends and family—to help the event catch on. If Aunt Laura were alive, no doubt she’d be there with her jeans rolled to her knees, a huge grin on her face. But she isn’t here. Instead, I’ll have to resort to my usual method of recruitment: bribery.

  I’ll gladly stoop to that level if it means keeping this crazy dream of mine from turning sour.

  I admire my winery, the space I’m proud of no matter what anyone says. The back of my shop is more like a warehouse, with soaring vaulted ceilings and concrete flooring. Stainless-steel equipment lines the back of my winery—crusher de-stemmer, state-of-the-art bottling system, and giant wine vats. My cellar is behind a sealed door that keeps the temperature at a crisp fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit. The inventory inside is significantly depleted from a summer of solid business, but it’ll be replenished soon enough.

  Racked along the back wall are oak barrels containing freshly pressed chardonnay, the sugars, acidity, and yeast working with the oak to create something nuanced and delicious. And taking up the bulk of the floor space are plastic tubs full of different red varietals in early stages of fermentation.

  Overall, I’d say I’m about halfway through the harvest, and already my back is aching from working with grapes at various stages and checking and rechecking the Brix, pH, and other compound levels.

  And I have to be ready for whenever the next shipment comes in. Which hopefully won’t be tomorrow morning, given it must be nearing midnight.

  There’s a knock at the back door.

  Quickly, I towel off my feet and open the door to find Reid. I cross my arms over my chest, my bare legs breaking out in goose bumps from the cool night air.

  “Can I come in?” Reid asks.

  He’s sporting the same sage-green sweater, slim-fitted black jeans, and utility jacket from earlier but seems far more at ease than when I last saw him, scrambling to re-create dishes for every patron in his beloved restaurant.

  “That depends,” I say, leaning against the door. “What’s the password?”

  He holds up a bag with the logo for Spoons on it. “Ravioli?”

  “Close,” I say, cocking my head to the side.

  He toes the threshold, his eyes sparkling with humor. “Scallops?”

  “Warmer.”

  He closes the distance between us and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Chocolate truffles.”

  The feeling of his breath on my neck sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.

  “Ding, ding, ding.”

  I grab the soft fabric of his sweater and tug him inside. Standing on my tiptoes, I brush my lips gently over his in greeting. I make to step away, but Reid spins me into an elegant dip, his arms strong around my waist. He kisses me again, a deep, passionate kiss that could go on forever. His lips are soft against mine, even as the scruff of his beard rubs deliciously against my cheek. A warm tingly feeling spreads through my body.

  You’d think in the months since we started dating, I’d have gotten used to kissing Reid. That the butterflies and racing heart I experience in his presence would have lessened. Instead, our chemistry has only intensified.

  “I’ve been thinking about doing that for hours,” he says, pulling us both upright, leaving me dizzy.

  I’m still somewhat breathless when I speak next, smoothing the front of my dress. “You don’t say.”

 
He flashes me that cocksure grin that drives me crazy.

  Intoxicating aromas of garlic, lemon, and chocolate waft behind Reid as he puts the food in the fridge next to chilling bottles of wine. He shrugs out of his utility jacket, a bandage standing out on his hand.

  “What happened?” I ask, padding to his side. I brush my fingertips over the gauze, my eyebrows furrowed in concern.

  “Minor flesh wound.”

  My face pales as I search his eyes. Were his mother’s words so cutting they literally peeled away a layer of his skin?

  “I accidentally cut myself,” he explains with a shrug. “No big deal.”

  When I first met Reid, one of the first things I noticed were the thin pale scars lining his forearms, which turned out to be oven burns. I know for a fact he doesn’t get injuries as often these days, having learned to keep his cool in the kitchen. Which means, tonight, he was rattled. And rightly so, with both a disapproving parental unit and a culinary disaster to contend with.

  “Did you get everything sorted at the restaurant?”

  “Yeah, thanks to Britt’s pear tartlets, although I expect there will be some harsh reviews.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Wish I knew what happened.”

  “You never found out?”

  He shakes his head. “Nick and Oscar were as surprised as I was.”

  The damage was so utterly thorough, there must be some explanation. But Reid’s not one to dwell, a trait I’ve always appreciated about him. If his sous chefs say they don’t know what happened, he’ll believe them and move on. Better to live in the present with an eye on the future.

  An image of Oscar flashes through my mind, the way he didn’t quite meet my gaze when I’d prodded him about the food. But Reid trusts him, and surely Oscar wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize their friendship.

  “And your family?” I ask.

  “Left shortly after you did.” A dark cloud passes over his features at the mention of his family and a weight seems to rest on his shoulders.

  “How long are they in town for again?”

  “Through the weekend.”

  And it’s only Wednesday. Ouch. I flinch involuntarily.

  “I know, right?” Reid stares at the floor, where he notices my bare feet for the first time. He lifts his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Stomping grapes?”

  “Care to join me?” I ask.

  Because, suddenly, I want someone on my side. Correction, not just someone. I want Reid on my side.

  It’s a testament to how well suited we are that he doesn’t make any jokes about toe jam. He merely folds up the bottoms of his jeans and goes to the deep stainless-steel sink to wash his feet. Then he meets me at the tub.

  It’s made of oak planks and held together with steel hoops, and there’s a spigot on one side to drain the juice. With a four-foot diameter, it’s really meant for one person, or for two people who don’t mind getting cozy.

  Our knees bump against each other as we stomp our way through grapes. My calves burn and my toes prune, and still, we keep going. Until finally, his family, the food fiasco, and the stress of the evening fall away. None of it matters. We’re here together, hands clasped and eyes locked.

  “This is gonna make one helluva cab,” I say.

  There’s a softness in his eyes, in the way he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, that makes my heart skip a beat. “I’ve got just the thing to pair with it.”

  “What’s that?”

  In response, he leans down and kisses me again, tantalizing and tender, his fingers gently pressing into my lower back.

  “That’s great and all,” I say, coming up for air. “But what’s everyone else going to have?”

  He laughs and pulls me closer to him. The warmth of him—his embrace—feels like home, a thought that terrifies me as much as it excites me.

  Chapter

  Three

  My phone wakes me up the next morning, a persistent buzzing on my nightstand that finally pulls me from my dreams. Pink rays filter through a crack in the curtains, and outside, all is quiet. Even the songbirds are still asleep.

  From her cozy nook at my side, my cat, Zin—short for Zinfandel—looks at the offending smartphone with a huffiness usually reserved for an empty food dish. With gray silky hair, green orblike eyes, and the tip of one ear missing, she’s as temperamental as the varietal she’s named after, especially when it comes to sleep.

  At this particular moment, can’t say I blame her. It’s too early for someone to be calling. Unless, an alarming thought snakes through my mind, it’s an emergency.

  I lunge for my phone, startling Zin, and answer without even checking the caller ID.

  “Hello,” I say through a yawn, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

  There’s no greeting, no polite salutation, just four words that send a jolt of electricity coursing through my body: “I need your help.”

  It’s Reid.

  I sit up ramrod straight, suddenly wide awake. “What is it? What happened?”

  We parted ways only a few hours ago, him back to his place and me to mine, after our impromptu grape-stomping date. He’d told me his day would start early with a trip to the farmers market before heading to Spoons. Which begs the question: What sort of trouble could he have gotten into already?

  Then I wince, remembering his family is in town for four more agonizingly long days. He probably wants help facilitating, or keeping them entertained. Which I doubt Gary and Camilla would feel very happy about.

  I open my mouth to say as much, but Reid speaks first.

  “It’s Oscar—” Reid hesitates.

  There’s a loud clanging in the background on his end of the line and gruff voices. I turn up the volume on my phone.

  “Where are you?”

  “Jail,” he says.

  I must have misheard, the background noise muffling his words. “Wait, for a second there I thought you said jail.” I chuckle nervously.

  “Oscar’s gone.” Reid sounds bewildered, his voice raspy with sadness and shock. “He was killed last night.”

  “Wait, our Oscar? As in Oscar Flores?”

  “Yes.”

  All the air seems to whoosh out of my lungs. “You’re serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  I hold a hand over my mouth, willing my sluggish brain to catch up with reality. Because Oscar was alive and healthy less than twelve hours ago. He’d stood with me outside the kitchen at Spoons, called me Uvas, kept me from having a full-on meltdown, and offered me relationship advice.

  Oscar can’t be gone. It makes no sense.

  “Sorry, I’m still not following.”

  “Parker, you’re understanding just fine.” The steadiness of his tone tethers me to reality.

  All at once, I can’t be having this conversation in the comfort of my bed. Kicking the covers off, I go into the living room, pacing back and forth. Zin is hot on my heels, thinking it’s time for breakfast.

  I focus on the details of my surroundings: the geometric print of my area rug, the russet of my velvet couch, the faded hues of the vintage prints adorning the walls.

  My apartment is more of a hallway than a residence, my bedroom opening to a narrow living room with a kitchen at the far end. French doors connect the kitchen to a modest balcony with an unobstructed view of the Flatirons.

  The view more than makes up for the cramped quarters. In the mornings, I can watch as the giant slabs of rock are bathed in pink and orange from the sunrise, and in the evenings, observe the angelic rays that are cast when the sun dips below the majestic peaks.

  But the view holds no interest for me now.

  Instead I take advantage of the runway that is basically my apartment, as I pace from my bedroom to the kitchen, tugging at my raven hair, which is wavy and wild. “Killed as in murdered?”

&
nbsp; “Yes.”

  My knees feel weak and my fingertips tingle with tiny pinpricks. I sink into the couch and focus on my breathing to keep from hyperventilating. Despite my efforts, stars dance in my vision.

  Unfortunately, I have some experience with homicide after a renowned critic was murdered in my winery earlier this year. While I may have helped crack the case, it’s not something I want to revisit. I still regularly wake up in a cold sweat from nightmares where I discover his lifeless body all over again.

  “How?” I croak, my mouth dry. Zin hops into my lap, somehow sensing I need comfort.

  “I don’t know. Officers keep asking me about some fight they think I had with him, and my chef’s knife.” Panic enters his voice and I can practically picture him raking a hand through his hair.

  Reid rarely goes anywhere without his knives. He carefully straps them in their sleek black case and keeps them in his car or at one of our apartments, like some culinary superhero who’s always at the ready to save the day should he encounter any kitchen disasters. This fact, along with the cut on his hand—the so-called minor flesh wound—lodges itself in my brain. I search for reason, like fumbling for a particularly tricky grip at the end of a long climbing session. “But you always take your chef’s knife home with you.”

  “I left it at the restaurant last night.”

  For him to have left without it means he was far more distraught than I realized. Or there’s something he isn’t telling me. An abyss opens in my stomach, and I force myself to swallow the lump in my throat.

  “Did you mean to?”

  “Of course not,” he says, his voice pained. “I just—I just had to get out of there. I wanted to see you.”

  And the abyss fills with goo.

  I sink back into the couch, scratching behind Zin’s ears. She kneads my leg, her tiny kitty paws almost acting like a masseuse. A masseuse with very sharp claws. I wince and reposition her on the cushion. A low rumbling purr radiates from her as she watches me steadily, her furry head tilted to the side. It’s almost as if she comprehends what’s happened.

  “I still can’t believe Oscar . . .” I trail off, sighing into our connection.