“I’ll catch you later,” Jake murmured, dismissing his manager with a nod before turning to Liv. “It’s not like that,” he gently said as Eduardo beat it out of the kitchen. “Eduardo misunderstood me.”
“It didn’t sound like he misunderstood,” Liv shot back, her face flushed with anger. “It sounded to me like you were agreeing with him. Who the hell do you think you are, saying my wines are terrible?”
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”
“You mean, make it up to me by screwing me and making me forget all about being angry? You think I’ll just forget the fact that you can’t stand my wines because you’ll make me feel so-o-o fucking good. Is that it, you lying prick?” Cranked up, boiling hot, she clenched her fists to keep from slapping his sanctimonious, double-dealing face. “Here’s a news flash for you,” she said, her voice terse and bitter, “getting sex isn’t a problem for me. There’s lots of men who can make me feel good. So do me a favor. Stay the fuck away from me.” She jerked her hands up as he moved toward her. “I mean it. Do. Not. Touch. Me.”
Each word was cold as ice. He stopped, took a step back, let his hands drop to his sides. “Let’s talk about this,” he said very, very softly.
“No thank you.” Each word was pissy, her gaze gelid. Then, turning, she walked away.
“You don’t have a ride home. I’ll drive you.”
“I have friends who’ll give me a ride home. You stay here and drink some of those French wines you ordered. You know, the really good ones,” she said with withering contempt.
“In case you forgot, you’re staying at my place.” A definite Hail Mary pass.
“Fuck if I am.”
The kitchen door slammed behind her.
Jake swore under his breath. Although it wasn’t as though he could make her damned wines better by waving some goddamn magic wand, he wished he could if it would get him back into her bed. He swore again, the thought of her having sex with other men messing with his head. She knew plenty of men, she’d said, and he didn’t doubt it. He couldn’t think of a man with a heartbeat who would refuse her.
So now what? She wasn’t exactly in the mood to listen to reason at the moment, and if push really came to shove, he didn’t know if he was willing to grovel.
Not if it meant having to pretend her plonk was world-class. Okay, it wasn’t precisely plonk, but it wasn’t grand cru, either.
And seriously-he wasn’t that good at duplicity. Not over the long haul.
Also, come to think of it-reality check time-he wasn’t in this for the long haul.
He softly sighed. Maybe this blowup was for the best. He should have been staying here at the restaurant anyway, working every day, not fucking his brains out like some hot-to -trot, randy teenager. Maybe fate had stepped in at the right time.
He had his best players here with him.
Everyone knew the drill when it came to getting an operation off the ground.
Maybe it was time he started acting like a man with a restaurant to open.
If they kicked ass-with luck-they could have opening night at the River Joint in four or five weeks.
Thirty-three
Who the hell did he think he was, Liv fumed, walking fast toward downtown. Robert fucking Parker? Screw Jake Chambers. She didn’t need his insults. She’d gotten along just fine before she met the almighty, know-it-all, fancy-smancy restaurateur. She’d always hated wine snobs anyway. Most weren’t willing to give their benediction to American regional wines unless they were already vetted by some celebrity connoisseur. They couldn’t think outside the box. Even many of the now-famous California wines had struggled to be taken seriously in the early years.
So to hell with Jake Chambers.
Diss my wines, diss me; that was her motto.
Although it wasn’t as though she was unrealistic about her wines. She understood all the unknowns: the incompatibilities with accepted norms, the rough provincial edges, the variables of weather. Still, she considered her wines promising; in some cases, fairly seamless examples of earthy, down-home, delicate to voluptuous wines. They were not and maybe never would be grand cru quality. But her vineyard was blessed with good terrain and serious slope, often prerequisites for distinctive wines, and in that instance, luck was definitely on her side.
At base though, luck aside, it was simply pure pleasure to produce her own wines.
And she wasn’t going to allow anyone to get between her and her dream.
Squinting into the sun, Liv gauged the distance to Shelly’s office. Another eight blocks or so. Good. It would give her time to cool down-or partially cool down-and disengage from the tumult in her brain. She kept thinking of clever insults and slurs she could have served up to Jake. Wasn’t that always the way, though? You think of the good stuff when it’s too late.
But as the politicians say: we don’t want to talk about the past; we’re interested in the future. In her case, her immediate future required a ride home. She’d ask Shelly. It wasn’t as though the wiseguys were interested in her anyway. She didn’t have anything they wanted, unless they were into Minnesota wines. And with luck, Janie might have hashed out her settlement deal with Leo by now and everyone could-la-dee-da-go their merry ways. Hopefully.
Of one thing she was certain, however.
She wasn’t going back to Deer Lake.
Pulling her phone from her purse, she called Janie to clue her in. Their conversation was short. Liv didn’t mention any Peruvian beauties. She only mentioned Jake’s disparaging remarks about her wine. “So I’m not coming back to Deer Lake. I hope you understand.”
“Of course, darling,” Janie replied. “What a terrible thing to say when you’ve worked so hard on your vineyard. He’s a jerk. Don’t give him a second thought.”
Then Janie had begun talking about something Roman had said that was so utterly sweet she was giddy with joy, and Liv’s problem was sidelined.
Not that Liv had expected more, well acquainted as she was with Janie’s self-centered views on life. Actually, it made the conversation easier. She hadn’t been required to angst over anything or explain her feelings. That was the beauty of dealing with Janie. Everything was always about her.
Shelly was quick to shut her door behind Liv after she walked into her office. Waving her to a chair, Shelly said sympathetically, “You look angry. Need some help?”
“Yes and yes,” Liv muttered, dropping into the chair in front of Shelly’s desk.
“Seeing how you’ve been largely incommunicado of late, I’d venture it’s man trouble.”
“Definitely man trouble.” Liv scowled. “He doesn’t like my wines, the prick. Can you imagine the gall?”
“He said that to you?”
“No. He’s not that stupid. I overheard him talking to someone.”
“How did he respond when you confronted him. Knowing you, I assume you did.”
“Damn right I did. He said he was sorry; it was a misunderstanding. If it was a misunderstanding, why did he have to say he was sorry?” Liv spread her arms wide. “I rest my case.”
“I understand you’re angry, but let me play devil’s advocate for a second. Are you sure his not liking your wine is reason enough to toss away a darling like-I presume you’re talking about the handsome Jake Chambers?”
Liv gave her friend a jaundiced look. “That’s like me asking you if you’d put up with some guy who told you you weren’t capable of making money in the stock market.”
Shelly dipped her head. “Touché. So what can I do for you other than listen to your whining-and I mean that in the nicest way. You heard your share from me about Darren. ” Compared to Shelly’s divorce battles, Star Wars inter-galactic struggles would qualify as a day at the beach.