Page 39 of Taken Away

Bennett nodded toward the far corner office with a view of the vineyards and production floor.

“That one.”

Of course. Corner office. Best view.

Her gaze slid back to the center office.

Mabel’s.

Even from below, it felt different.

Glass walls made it visible from nearly everywhere in the building.

Like the whole place had been designed around her.

NINE

Blackwood Estate Winery

Tank Room

The shift from the air-conditioned office to the main production floor hit like a wall. The breezeway was already a kiln, but the moment Bennett shoved open the insulated double doors to the Tank Room, the air dropped to a damp, echoing chill.

Three-story stainless steel fermentation tanks lined the walls like silver monoliths, their jackets sweating in the humidity. The sloped concrete floor was cut by steel drainage grates that gurgled with water. The air carried a sharp bite—sulfur cleaners, damp stone, the ghost of fermenting grapes.

A pressure washer hummed near the back pad, throwing up plumes of white steam.

“Keep your head up,” Bennett said over the noise as he guided her down the metal catwalk. “Hoses are under pressure. You trip on a manifold down here; you don’t bruise a knee—you break an ankle.”

Aubrey didn’t look at the hoses. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, tracking three men working near the presses.

At the sound of Bennett’s boots on the metal stairs, the pressure washer cut out. Silence dropped, broken only by the drip of water on concrete.

The man holding the spray wand turned.

He was strikingly handsome, with the kind of effortless, rugged appeal that made Aubrey’s corporate poker face slip for half a second. Early thirties. Sun-bleached brown hair pushed back beneath a backward black ball cap. Blue eyes with a lazy, assessing glint. His gray work shirt was rolled past his elbows, exposing forearms splattered with grape residue and water. A waterproof apron hung from his neck.

He didn’t look at Bennett. His gaze went straight to Aubrey, a slow grin spreading across his face.

The two cellar hands behind him stopped coiling a hose, their eyes traveling from her slim black heels to the clean lines of her sleeveless black linen top and tailored black pants.

A flush crept up her neck, but years of hard-earned composure shut it down. She straightened, green eyes going cool.

The cellar chill slid under her clothes, raising goosebumps along her bare arms.

Bennett noticed.

The air behind her shifted.

He didn't step in; he claimed the space. He planted himself directly in Zack’s line of sight, closing the distance until his chest settled a breath from her shoulder blades. Trapped between the cold stainless-steel tank in front of her and the solid wall of Bennett behind her, Aubrey went very still.

She felt the heat coming off him in waves, cutting through the damp chill, the low thunder of his breathing close enough that she could feel it in the sensitive hollow at the base of her neck.

“Zack,” he barked, his voice dropping into a rough register that bounced off the tanks, the vibration running straight through her spine. “The glycol lines on tank four are sweating. Why aren’t you on the gauges instead of playing with the wash-down?”

The handsome man—Zack—didn’t flinch. He slung the spray wand over his shoulder with easy practice, his eyes finally sliding to Bennett with amusement.

“Calm your downforce, Ben,” he drawled. “Lines are fine. We’re finishing the rinse on the destemmer.” He glanced back at Aubrey, grin widening as he stepped over a puddle. “You must be Aubrey. Been hearing about you for two days. Nice to finally meet the woman causing all the excitement.” The compliment barely registered.