Just One Night (Sex, Love & Stiletto 3)

Nah. She put the picture aside. He certainly wasn’t modest about anything else.

Riley’s eyes fell on a door in the corner. It led to a surprisingly large and well-equipped bathroom. It was clearly not from the same era as the outdated kitchen, which meant he’d prioritized upgrading a fancy showerhead over getting a fancy stove.

No surprise there. She’d seen him “help” her father grill at family dinners in the summer. His food-prep skills were maxed out opening the ketchup bottle.

Her eyes fell on the sliding barn-style door opposite the door she’d entered through. It could only lead to the distillery itself.

Which would lead to Sam and, consequently, the possibility of her dignity making the splatter of a skydiving incident gone wrong.

Riley backtracked to the bathroom to check hair and makeup. If she was about to go down in a pile of humiliated heartbreak, she might as well look her best. That, and this plan was highly contingent on Sam Compton, you know … wanting her.

She was pretty sure he did, at least on the physical level. Just how many times had she felt his eyes on her when he thought nobody was looking? And on Wednesday when he’d walked her to the subway station, he’d wanted to kiss her. She’d felt it, and now she was wondering if maybe it had always been mutual. Perhaps she’d just been too caught up in her own want to notice his. But never before had she goaded him as blatantly as she had that night. And never before had she felt his eyes burning into her back as she walked away.

He wanted her, all right.

She just hoped he wanted her enough.

Riley slid open the door as quietly as she could, relieved that it made almost no noise.

She noticed the smell first. Not a boozy, barroom-floor type of smell but a delicious grainy aroma with a hint of sweetness.

The last time she’d been in here, there’d been nothing but enormous moving boxes and a jumble of metal equipment everywhere. Now it looked like … something.

She found herself looking at several rows of wooden barrels. They were all carefully labeled with dates and check marks. She knew he’d hired several people to help with … well, whatever it was he did here, but the labels were clearly in his handwriting. She knew instinctively that these big barrels were like his babies. Someone else might help him fill them, but they were his.

What must that be like? To belong to Sam Compton?

Knock it off. Don’t get weepy about the whole business.

The warehouse was organized and rustic and oddly appealing, but there was no sign of the man. She ran her hand over the barrels as she made her way toward the other side of the massive structure until she reached a door. She remembered the space being one large open room, but he’d obviously put walls up to make this a separate room since the last time she’d been here.

Her heart skipped into overdrive when she opened the insulated door and moved into the main part of the distillery. If Sam was here, this is where he’d be.

She didn’t know which would be worse—finding that he wasn’t around or finding that he was here, but not alone.

This is what she got for not calling first, but planning ahead had never really been Riley’s style. She was more of the just-go-with-it persuasion. Except when it came to sex, of course.

Which was exactly what had gotten her into this whole freaking mess in the first place.

Her heels made a steady tap-tap against the concrete floor as she scanned for signs of movement. She wound around a table covered in what seemed to be labeling equipment, a bunch of other scary-looking pot-type things she didn’t recognize, a stack of boxes containing empty bottles, and then …

There he was.

Dressed in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, and looking far better than any man had any right to look, he was crouched in front of one of the enormous copper vat-type things that lined the far wall.

She watched him for a second as he tinkered with some tool she couldn’t see, gathering her courage as she debated her best opening.

I need an itsy-bitsy little favor involving your joystick.

Nah, too simpering.

I can’t imagine doing this with anyone but you.

Too revealing.

Wanna hump?

Better …