But everything about him feels different now. Maybe it’s because I’m a huge sucker for unpretentious men with big hearts, and despite his impolite words about our wine, the fact he’s willing to help strangers—my family—in a time of crisis speaks volumes about who Mr. Bozhidar really is. He has nothing to gain from helping us. Nothing. If anything, he’s a very busy man, and we’re pulling him away from his important business. Bottom line: Actions speak louder than words. Actions and honesty. In fact, now that I’m thinking about it; how can I be upset over that whole horse-piss incident? It was his honest opinion. I should respect him for his candor. Especially since he offered to help us instead of walking away like most people would. There are no words for how grateful I’m feeling right now!
Sadie shuffles forward, her bloodhound nose sniffing madly. As soon as she reaches Mr. Bozhidar, she goes crazy sniffing him from crotch to toes. Her head jerks up, and she bares her teeth in a low growl.
My mom gets a hold of Sadie’s collar. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s come over her. She’s usually so docile. She’s getting old and senile.” She pulls Sadie away to the far side of the living room and makes her sit.
Mr. Bozhidar looks down at me and flashes a smile that makes my knees weak. Have his lips always been this sensual and full? Maybe he got stung by a bee.
“Oh! You got a haircut,” I say, though that’s not quite it. My pulse is racing, and all of my nerve endings are tingling. “It looks good on you.”
“You also look lovely, sweet Stella.”
“Invite them in,” Dad says from behind me.
“Sorry. Yes, come in. Hi, Neli, good to see you too.” I was so taken with Mr. Bozhidar that I didn’t notice her standing there. My parents introduce themselves and my sisters to Mr. Bozhidar with no help from me. I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s wearing a black polo shirt with faded jeans that cling to his muscular thighs. He doesn’t look goth anymore. Maybe that’s what has me so enthralled. Before he covered himself in a strange costume, and the full beauty of his face was hidden by his long raven hair. But now he’s showing off every breathtaking, virile, manly inch. It reminds me exactly what lies beneath those formfitting clothes. I can barely think straight with the lust coursing through my veins.
And then Sadie stands up and howls. Mr. Bozhidar grimaces. So strange.
“Must be a full moon tonight,” Dad says jovially. “I’ll put her in our room.” He guides Sadie up the stairs to their bedroom, where she normally sleeps.
“Stella,” my mom snaps, drawing my attention, “everyone’s going to the living room for drinks. Could you help me bring the bruschetta in?”
“Yes, of course,” I mumble. The twins must’ve left.
I follow her, the hairs on the back of my neck rising. I stop and slowly turn my head to find Mr. Bozhidar standing in the archway of the living room, his legs shoulder width apart. He looks powerful, confident, and his gaze is eating me up. I flush hot and quickly turn away, heading into the kitchen.
I wonder what it would be like to feel those powerful-looking shoulders and chest—ow! I knocked into a kitchen stool.
“Are you okay?” Mom asks. “Did you have enough to eat today? You seem really out of it.”
I stare at the counter, not really seeing it. Everything’s a blur, like I’m swimming in a fog. “I’m fine. Maybe I’ll have some coffee. I’m a little unfocused.”
“You’re working too hard.” She gives my arm a squeeze. “I think things are going to start turning around for us now that we have a working relationship with Castle Sangria Vineyards. Knock wood.” She knocks on her head.
I smile. “Okay, let’s do this.”
A short while later, we’re all settled in the living room with sparkling water and a platter of bruschetta. The twins too, who apparently didn’t leave, instead settling in the living room to not so casually check out Mr. Bozhidar. Our living room is a cozy space with a fireplace, built-in bookcases behind glass doors, and ornate crown molding typical of old Victorian homes. I’m on the plush blue sofa with my parents, the twins are perched on the arms of the sofa, and Neli and Mr. Bozhidar are on the adjacent light blue upholstered armchairs. Neli has been explaining about the process of mixing different varietals, but I can barely focus. My gaze is drawn again and again to Mr. Bozhidar sitting in his chair like he’s the king. This is not a man who slouches. He owns the space. He hasn’t taken a single sip of sparkling water or eaten a bite of bruschetta. For some reason it bothers me. Like maybe he thinks our food and drink are substandard just like he said about our wine.