Page 63 of Taken Away

Aubrey woke feeling like she’d lost an argument with sleep.

Sun knifed through the guest room windows, burning the mountain fog off the glass in a blinding, aggressive glare that promised brutal June heat by noon.

She sat up, linen sheets sliding off her bare legs. She hadn’t slept. Every time her eyes drifted shut, the tight, dark space of the bedroom doorway closed in around her—the heat of Bennett’s breathing, the solid weight of his hand on her arm, the raw gravel of his voice calling her bluff, her skin still tingling where his rough overnight stubble had brushed her cheek.

Do you want me to kiss you, Princess? Or do you need me to?

“Arrogant vineyard troll,” she muttered, plowing a hand through her unbrushed hair. Her body was stubbornly refusing to forget the absolute certainty of his hold.

Her phone buzzed against the nightstand.

Machelle: Good morning from civilized society. Important update: I have all the clothes and things you wanted shipped boxed up, taped, and ready to go. Julian dropped them off at FedEx this morning, so you should have everything by Thursday afternoon.

Machelle: Also, Julian already moved the rest of your personal items to secure storage and found a new VP in corporate compliance who wants to sublet your West Chester condo until you come home. It’s handled, babe. Your life is officially on ice until next June. Miss you at martinis. Let us know if you need us to mail anything else!

Aubrey blinked, her thumb hovering over the screen.

Julian. Her department's lead acquisitions analyst. Her closest ally on the Ashford board. A man who looked as though he'd stepped straight out of the pages of GQ.

She let out a breath that was half laugh, half a sigh. Her life in Philadelphia was being disassembled, folded into cardboard, taped shut, and loaded onto some anonymous delivery truck, leaving her stranded in a valley that smelled like crushed grapes, cow manure, and Bennett McCrae.

She swung her legs out of bed and forced herself upright, moving on muscle memory. A quick shower. She spent an extra five minutes under the spray, letting the hot water pound against her shoulders, hoping it would quiet everything that had happened the night before.

Why was this man getting under her skin? Good grief, he was sexy—she could admit that much—but the last thing she needed was a man who walked around like he owned this mountain.

She applied moisturizer, then dabbed concealer over the dark shadows under her eyes.

She donned a tailored cream linen blazer over a black silk camisole and slim black trousers, then stepped into the only pair of sensible loafers she’d packed. The thin silk of the camisole brushed against her chest—a stark reminder of his body pressed against hers only hours ago. She looked like she was heading into a merger meeting.

Good.

After last night, she needed every bit of self-control she could muster.

Blackwood Estate Winery

The Mezzanine

The winery was already humming by eight o’clock.

Down on the production floor, a forklift whined as Jack Lockwood directed a pallet of new fermentation valves, his deep voice carrying over the industrial rumble. Stainless-steel tanks gleamed in the high light. Hoses looped across the concrete like coils of sleeping snakes.

Aubrey bypassed the tasting floor, her loafers marking a sharp, disciplined rhythm against the open steel steps as she climbed toward the mezzanine. She did not look toward Bennett’s corner office.

She refused to.

At the top of the stairs, the center glass double doors stood open. Walter Grady sat behind Mabel’s desk. Wire-rimmed glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, silver hair neatly parted, a crisp blue button-down rolled precisely twice at the cuffs. He looked grandfatherly, patient, and completely indispensable. He looked up as her shadow touched the glass, a warm, soft smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well now, look at you,” Walter drawled, his voice a soothing, small-town cadence. “You look like Anne when she had her mind set on getting something done. Come on in, child.”

“Morning, Walter,” Aubrey said, stepping into the office.

“I have the primary asset ledgers from the last five fiscal years laid out for you,” Walter said, patting a thick stack of leather-bound binders. “Bennett handles the dirt, but someone around here has to manage the truth of where the dollars land. I figured a city girl like you would appreciate a clear column.”

“I live for clear columns,” Aubrey admitted, sliding into the leather chair opposite him.

For the next two hours, Walter was the perfect teacher. Patient. Thorough. Completely transparent.

He walked her through distribution margins for Mercer, the rising cost of French oak barrels, and the exact agricultural tax exemptions Mabel had secured for the cattle land across the road. The numbers were complicated, but they made sense.