Page 33 of Taken Away

Vanessa's presence announced itself the moment Bennett stepped through the door. Warm cedar. Expensive candles. A hint of smoky vanilla and amber. She stood near the glass-fronted wine chiller already holding two stems.

She’d changed out of the black funeral dress into an oversized gray cashmere sweater and dark leggings, her dark hair pinned loosely up with a silver clip that looked expensive without trying to. A few soft strands framed her face, elegant and composed in a way that always made Bennett feel rougher at the edges standing near her.

She looked up as he entered, her expression softening with that familiar, unruffled calm that never demanded more from him than he knew how to give.

“I figured you’d either end up here,” she said quietly, “or halfway through a bottle of Eagle Rare alone on the ridge.”

“Brought the Tree of Life Reserve,” Bennett muttered, setting the bottle on the soapstone counter.

Vanessa glanced at the label and sighed.

“The First Harvest.” Her eyes lifted back to his. “Mabel would’ve approved of the dramatics.”

Bennett huffed something that almost resembled a laugh.

“Go sit down, Ben,” she said gently. “You look exhausted.”

He didn’t sit.

Instead he drifted toward the windows overlooking the dark line of trees beyond the deck while rain slid steadily down the glass.

Vanessa stepped into his space without crowding him. She took the bottle from his hand, fingers brushing his wrist—a warm, familiar contact that grounded him more than he’d ever admit—and moved back to open it.

When she came up behind him, she slid a glass into his hand and took her place at his shoulder, leaning lightly against his upper arm. She didn’t ask how he was holding up. She never pushed.

“Biltmore Distribution called twice while I was dressing for the service,” Vanessa said softly, watching the rain. “Their restaurant accounts are already nervous about the inheritance.”

Bennett’s expression hardened.

“If she starts gutting this place to impress investors, I’ll burn the tasting brochures myself.”

Vanessa let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh.

“She’s a hospitality executive, Ben. She understands structure and margins, not vineyards. She’s probably overwhelmed.”

“She’s arrogant,” he growled, taking a long swallow of Cabernet. Oak and dark cherry rolled across his tongue, but it didn’t touch the cold sitting in his chest. “She walked into Eleanor’s office acting like everybody around her was trying to steal something.”

“And you provoked her,” Vanessa murmured, studying him over the rim of her glass. There was no jealousy in her gaze, only clear-eyed perception. “Because that’s what you do when someone threatens your perimeter.”

He didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

Vanessa set her glass on the side table and stepped fully into his front, her hands sliding up to rest against the lapels of his open black suit jacket. The front of her sweater brushed his shirt, warm and soft.

"You don't have to pretend you're okay with me," she whispered softly. "Come here."

She wasn’t offering forever. She was offering what she always had: predictable, contained intimacy. Dinners, movies, a bed, and no promises.

Bennett dropped his glass onto the table beside hers. He needed another heartbeat pressed against his. Claire was gone. Now Mabel was gone. The world felt like it was tilting, and Vanessa was the only anchor that still made sense.

Anything was better than the inside of his own head.

He hauled her against him, his fingers tightening on her waist through the expensive sweater. Her breath hitched against his throat. He bent his head and took her mouth in a hard, hungry kiss that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with survival.

Vanessa met him evenly, arms looping around his neck, body molding into his with the easy familiarity of a woman who knew exactly what he could give and what he couldn’t. The soft drag of her sweater against his knuckles, the warmth of her, the faint taste of wine on her lips—it all hit at once.

He angled her head, deepening the kiss. Her nails slid up the back of his neck, a light scrape that made his grip on her hips tighten.