At Wits' End - Kenzie Reed Page 0,24

blocks are Moona Lisa, Cowabunga, and Cowlick.”

Like her aunt, she loves the wine and everything that goes with it. The grapes, the soil, the magic alchemy that goes with creating a truly great vintage. She’s smiling as she talks about the wine blocks, lit up from within as she swirls her wine and looks down at it with a warmth that she’s never spared for me. Well, not for a long, long time, anyway. And I’m entirely to blame for that. The thought makes me feel a little hollowed out and sad.

I swirl the Syrah in its glass to release the scent and flavor, then bring it up to my nose to inhale deeply, drawing in the scent of smoke, spice and dark fruit. Then I take a sip. It starts with dark fruit flavors, which linger on the tongue, and finishes with a peppery, almost meaty taste that floods my senses. I stifle a groan of pleasure.

“So good.” I take another sip and stare into the ruby depths of my glass. “Mmm, baby. You and me are great together.”

“Jeez, Donovan, if you love it so much, why don’t you marry it? Why don’t you have babies with it? I mean, seriously. Get a room.” But her pleased smile shows me how much she still takes pride in the vineyard, even though she left all that behind years ago.

“I will,” I inform her. “And our babies will be named Kay, and then twins named Syrah and Syrah.” She stares at me. “So at the playground I can yell out, Kay, Syrah, Syrah! Get it?” I grin in triumph.

She lets out a groan of dismay. “I’m trying not to.”

Bad puns hurt her. I file that away in my mental “weapons against the Ribaldis” folder.

We dive into our dinner, the rich marbled fat of the steak caressing my taste buds. I’ll have to punish myself for it tomorrow.

By the time we’ve finished, the sun has plunged below the horizon. She sets down her fork and stares at me in wonder.

“Holy tamales,” she says, eyes open wide. “I’m married to you. We are married. To each other.” She drains the last of a second glass of Syrah.

“Weird, huh?”

“The weirdest. And I still want to know why.”

I just smile mysteriously without answering, because I know it will annoy her. Score one for Donovan, in the game that has no winners. But if it did it would be me.

We throw away the paper plates and stand side by side washing the salad bowl, glasses and silverware in the outside sink, and carry them in.

Sienna’s saved a bunch of chopped-up steak for Aceto, which she dumps into his bowl.

“Isn’t that his second dinner?” I ask, which earns me a vicious hiss and an angry tail-lash. Savannah wags her finger at me chidingly. “You are not doing yourself any favors there.”

Then she saunters off to the bathroom to change. I brush my teeth in the kitchen sink and make my way to the bedroom. There’s a queen-sized sleigh bed, a red plaid flannel bedspread and matching pillowcases, a chest of drawers, a freestanding wardrobe, and not much else.

Sienna comes in a few minutes later. “So. Obviously we’re not sleeping together. There is a bedroll up in the loft area. There’s also the barn. Or, you know, the back seat of your car.”

I could be a gentleman. I could let her have the bed.

Or not. Her earlier words – “I’m the one who has to play wifey all summer” – ring in my ears and bring a sour taste to my mouth. I smile, my eyes gleaming with malice. “Dealer’s choice, sweetheart. Sleep wherever you like.”

She turns away with a scowl. “Dick.”

“Yes, I have one. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you sneaking peeks.”

She makes an insulted huffing sound but doesn’t try to deny it.

I strip my clothes off in front of her, with deliberate slowness, and she practically breaks her own neck twisting her head around and not looking at me.

“By the way, I sleep naked.”

Lie. I normally sleep in boxers and a T-shirt, but if I sleep naked it’ll rattle the hell out of her.

Without a word, she climbs into bed and turns her back on me. I lie tossing and turning late into the night, reflecting on how much fun I’m having winning this round.

I’m hard as a rock, aching with desire for her, and she’s fallen asleep and is snoring lightly. Aceto has crept in, and he’s curled up on the pillow watching me