Page 17 of The B!tch is Bad

Chapter 5

Creed

The wine was going to my head—and my cock.

It was a giant dick move, sidling between Patience’s tempting ass and the other milling oenophiles. But I’d had just enough of last season’s tempranillo to yank down the curtain of shame between my brain and body, and when I saw her bent over my granite counter, I slipped myself in there.

Extremely dick move, a boss to an employee.

Brilliant move if I wanted her for my next lover.

I whipped the folded-up report from my back jeans pocket and waved it between us. “I got it, Patience. And I want to talk to you about something in here.”

She shrank back into the chopped garlic, as horrified as if I’d whipped out a banana in a movie theater. “But you have thousands of more important things to attend to.” She added somewhat bitterly, “Hundreds of women clamoring for your attention.”

She didn’t seem to like that, so I retorted, “Everything’s going smoothly thanks to you. I’m sure Timothée Chalamet can squash grapes just fine without me here.”

So bold as to take her hand, I led her to a garden shed. Her little fingers felt childlike in my palm.

On the way, Amber tried to waylay me. “Oh Creed! Everyone is dying for you to serve the charcuterie board!” Her boob implants were so tan and freckled it made me cringe thinking of cancer. Bald men had to think about those things. She was a stereotypical sea hag, a former mean girl dressing twenty years younger than her age.

“I’ll do that next,” I said. “I just need to talk to my sommelier first.”

“I can start cutting things up.”

“You do that! Here we go.” I pressed gently on Patience’s silken shoulder to get her inside the shed. The windows provided light to read, but it was dark enough to imbue me with a romantic feel.

Every day I realized more how hard I’d fallen for Patience. She’d given me a back story of her abusive mother, sort of akin to the Britney Spears fiasco where the controlling parent manipulated and held the purse strings. I’d seen Patience’s panties on her bathroom floor with flattened hundred-dollar bills tucked into plastic. The evil mother was probably true, but I knew there was more to her pain and suffering.

She admitted having taken some of her own money, but I knew it wouldn’t last long—thus her excuse for working for me. I paid her too much, I knew, but she did the books so no one, not even Oliver, would see her salary. She was more to me than a sommelier. Her vivacious and free-spirited lifeforce kept me from dragging myself into the mire. She played show tunes on my great room piano, helped me cook, made me laugh.

I stood close to her as she leaned her pert butt onto a stack of ice coolers. “You’re my right-hand man, Patience.”

She frowned quizzically. “Isn’t Oliver?”

“No. Especially not Oliver. I think he’s up to something, not sure what yet.”

“He’s definitely a weird personality. Did you want me to dig something up?”

“Yes. He said he brought the entire ’03 vintage of Ghost Riders to Wine on Main. But the other day over there I saw only several cases, not nearly the 7400 cases the previous owner said I bought from him. I want you to sneak in there and check on Ghost Riders.”

She giggled. “That sounds like my job. Can I do it tomorrow, after this party?” The way she played with one braid made her look even younger than usual. That sassy and sultry smile had me melting in uncountable ways.

“Of course. Here, take the report. Hide it somewhere good.”

She nodded. “Bra is usually good. Nobody goes in there.”

I laughed along with her, trying not to look as she slid it in. “Speaking of. New tattoo.” I nodded at the highly obvious new ink on her forearm. Looked like it said Ivan inside a lacy heart. She reddened at this and brushed her palm over it. If she was embarrassed, why get herself inked with a guy’s name?

“Got it in town at the Missing Ink? Knoxie? He’s a good man.”

“Yes, yes, the Missing Ink.” She couldn’t meet my gaze.

I went for it. Lifting her chin in my fingers, I regarded this eye-banging firecracker of a woman who had only partially realized her massive potential. “Ivan was someone you miss.” My voice was gentle, maybe barely discernible above the racket outside the shed. Now the band told everyone to roll up for the mystery tour. “Come on,” exhorted Fake John.

She had no choice but to look in my eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “Someone my mother didn’t approve of.”

A sword of jealousy cut through my innards. It was almost like how dare she fall in love with someone else? Before she’d even met me? Instead I said, “My upbringing wasn’t the most ideal either. I was born in Modesto and my mother took off with a bus driver when I was four months old.”