said sheepishly. She threw up her hands. “Surprise.”
“We sort of come with the package,” Collin explained. “Think of it as a collective gift from all of us to you: five bona fide annoying and overly intrusive new best friends.”
“It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” Wilkins said.
Jack grinned. “I’m touched. Really. And since it appears I’m going to be moving in, let me be the first to say that all of you are always welcome at my and Cameron’s house. Subject to a minimum of forty-eight hours prior notification.”
When the hostess came by to escort them to their table, Cameron held Jack back from the rest of the group. “You’re okay with this?” she asked.
“Yes. It’s great.” He kissed her forehead. “Thank you.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “And in answer to your earlier question, I don’t mind skipping dessert. In fact, I already have a dessert planned for when we get home.”
Jack liked the sound of that. “Can I have a hint?”
“It involves me wearing your handcuffs.”
Christ, full-mast. The thought of her naked and at his mercy threw his body into a tailspin. Jack pulled her into a corner where they were out of sight. “The hell with dinner—we’re leaving now,” he growled.
Cameron shook her head coyly. “We can’t leave your party so early. That would be indecent.”
In response to her teasing, Jack put his hands on the wall next to her, pinning her in. “So, Ms. Lynde . . . is that how it’s going to be with you?”
Her eyes flashed devilishly.
“Always.”
Keep reading for a preview of
Julie James’s next romance
A Lot Like Love
Coming Spring 2011 from Berkley Sensation!
THE CHIME RANG on the front door of the wine store. Jordan Rhodes came out of the back room, where she’d been sneaking a quick bite for lunch. She smiled. “You again.”
It was the guy from last week, the one who’d looked skeptical when she’d recommended a cabernet from South Africa that—gasp—had a screw top.
“So? How’d you like the Excelsior?” she asked.
“Good memory,” he said, impressed. “You were right. It’s good. Particularly at that price point.”
“It’s good at any price point,” Jordan said. “The fact that it sells for less than ten dollars makes it a steal.”
The man’s blue eyes lit up as he grinned. He was dressed in a navy car coat and jeans, and wore expensive leather Italian loafers—probably too expensive for the six to eight inches of snow they were expected to get that evening. His dark blond hair was mussed from the wind outside.
“You’ve convinced me. Put me down for a case. I’m having a dinner party in two weeks and the Excelsior will be perfect.” He pulled off his leather gloves and set them on the long ebony wood counter that doubled as a bar when Jordan hosted events in the shop. “I’m thinking I’ll pair it with leg of lamb, maybe seasoned with black pepper and mustard seed. Rosemary potatoes.”
Jordan raised an eyebrow. The man knew his food. And the Excelsior would certainly complement the menu, although she personally subscribed to the more relaxed “drink what you want” philosophy of wine rather than putting the emphasis on finding the perfect food pairing—a fact that constantly scandalized her assistant store manager, Martin. He was a certified level three sommelier, and thus had a certain view on things; while she, on the other hand, was the owner of the store and thus believed in making wine approachable to the customer. Sure, she loved the romance of wine—that was one of the main reasons she had opened her store, DeVine Vintages. But for her, wine was also a business.
“Sounds delicious. I take it you like to cook,” she said to the man with the great smile. Great hair, too. Nicely styled, on the longer side. He wore a gray scarf wrapped loosely around his neck that gave him an air of casual sophistication.
He shrugged. “It comes with the job.”
“Let me guess—you’re a chef.”
“Food critic. With the Tribune.”
Jordan cocked her head, suddenly realizing. “You’re Cal Kittredge.”
He seemed pleased by her recognition. “You read my reviews.”
“Religiously. With so many restaurants in this city to choose from, it’s nice to have an expert’s opinion.”
Cal leaned against the counter. “An expert, huh . . . I’m flattered, Jordan.”
So, he knew her name.
Unfortunately, a lot of people knew her name. Between her father’s wealth and her brother’s recent infamy, rare was the person, at least in Chicago, who wasn’t familiar with the Rhodes family.
Jordan headed behind the counter and opened the laptop