Page 71 of Taken Away

Aubrey jolted, her heart slamming against her ribs as she lurched to her feet.

Bennett stood at the base of the gazebo steps.

He leaned against the railing, heavy leather work gloves tucked into the back pocket of his clay-dusted denim. His black T-shirt clung to his powerful frame, damp with sweat, outlining the solid strength of his chest. His gold-flecked eyes didn’t so much blink as slowly assess her, tracing the structured lines of her cream blazer and the low cut of her black silk camisole.

“You are going to give me a heart attack,” Aubrey snapped, pressing a hand to her chest. “Is it a requirement on this mountain to stalk the management?”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re standing in the middle of my afternoon pruning block, Princess. If anyone’s stalking, it’s you.”

He climbed the wooden steps, his heavy work boots sending a dull tremor right through the floorboards—and straight up her spine. The tight space of the gazebo suddenly shrank, consumed by the sheer heat rolling off him. He stopped a foot away, crowding her back against the wooden bench. His gaze dropped to the carved initials.

Aubrey swallowed, her fingers hovering above the letters, hyper-aware of his shoulder.

“Walter showed me a photograph,” she said, her voice losing its defensive edge as she traced the A.M. with the tip of her finger. “My mother never mentioned carving their initials up here. She never mentioned being happy here with Mabel.”

“No?” Bennett asked quietly. He shoved his hands deep into his front pockets and looked out over the valley. “Mabel always said it was good once. Real good. She never talked about what happened to make it go bad.”

Aubrey huffed out a bitter laugh. “So she told you it was good once and then stopped there,” she said, tracing the M.M. again. “That tracks. Everybody’s got a fragment, but nobody will say why it all went to hell, and somehow I’m the one walking around like a ghost in somebody else’s mess.”

Bennett was silent for a long moment. The mountain breeze stirred the hemlocks; the vines below whispered against their trellises.

“Because people prefer villains, Aubrey,” he said at last, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register. “Villains are easy. They give you a clean place to put your anger. Complicated hurts too much.”

The brutal honesty of it knocked the breath from her lungs. She stared up at him, the walls she'd rebuilt after last night useless, against the weight of his gaze.

He looked down at her mouth, his eyes darkening for one heavy, silent beat—bringing back the memory of the bedroom threshold where he’d held her flush against his chest the night before.

"Your aunt wasn't perfect," Bennett added, a humorless smile touching his mouth. "Neither was your mother. Mabel always said it hadn't always been like this. They loved each other once."

Aubrey looked away, her throat burning as she turned back toward the view. Far below, the oldest trunks along the lower ridge cast long, twisted shadows.

“That block down there,” she said, desperate to steer her mind away from his mouth. “Closest to the ridge. That’s the original?”

“Yeah. Harold planted those. Forty-two years old and still producing fruit. The entire winery started right there.”

He stepped past her, his sleeve brushing against her bare arm, leaving a trail of static friction in its wake. He paused at the top of the steps, looking back over his shoulder.

“You’re a long way from your martini bar, Princess,” he said quietly.

Aubrey looked out over the endless green rows, the fight draining right out of her. “Yeah.”

Bennett was quiet for a beat.

“There’s a place in Sylva,” he said. “Best burger in the county. Cold beer that doesn’t come with a tasting note.”

She glanced at him, her carefully rebuilt composure trying to flare. “And?”

“And,” Bennett went on, his tone dropping an octave, “I was thinking we could call it a truce. One night. No ledgers, no inheritance clauses, no trying to fire each other. A burger and a beer so you can see the town you supposedly hate.”

Aubrey hesitated. Her life in Philadelphia was taped into boxes and moving through a FedEx distribution center. Her mother’s stories were cracking at the edges. The dirt beneath her feet had outlived more than one family feud.

“Fine,” she said at last, the word tasting reckless on her tongue. “One burger. One beer. Temporary ceasefire.”

“I’ll take it,” Bennett said, stepping down one stair. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“I can drive myself,” she shot back on reflex, her executive independence slamming down like a shield.

Bennett stopped. He turned slowly, climbing back up that single step until he was towering over her again. He leaned down a fraction of an inch, his eyes locked onto hers, and the look stole whatever argument she’d been about to make.