Page 72 of Taken Away

“I know you can, Princess,” he murmured. “I’m still picking you up at seven.”

She opened her mouth to argue, her breath catching as his gaze settled on her lower lip, intentionally letting her know exactly how far her authority extended where he was concerned.

She closed her mouth again.

“Seven,” she repeated instead.

Bennett’s smile deepened. “Try not to overthink it, Langford. It’s a burger, not a merger.”

He turned and walked down the steps, heading toward the pruning block as if he hadn’t just detonated her defenses.

Aubrey stayed where she was, the late sun warm on her shoulders, her inner wrist tingling where her pulse was still racing.

She was supposed to be proving she could run a winery with a man who owned forty percent of it—not replaying the way her knees had buckled when he’d held her against him the night before and brought his mouth within a breath of hers.

She watched him walk down the lane until he disappeared into the shadows of the lower vines.

She reached back, her thumb tracing the faint carved edges of A.M. and M.M. in the aged wood, then smoothed down the lapels of her cream blazer.

Seven o'clock.

She drew in a deep, unsteady breath of mountain air. It was just a burger, she told herself. Just a temporary ceasefire.

But as she looked back out over the rolling green hills, she had an unsettling feeling that Blackwood was already winning.

EIGHTEEN

Sylva, Main Street

Catch my Draft Bar & Grill

The neon sign buzzed softly above the entrance.

CATCH MY DRAFT

Aubrey stopped on the sidewalk and looked up. “You brought me to a place called Catch My Draft.”

Bennett held the door open, his large frame framing the warm light from within. “I warned you about the trout.”

“How unfortunate?”

“Mounted.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, his eyes raking over her cream blazer and the glimpse of black silk beneath it. “Come on, Princess.”

Burgers sizzled on the grill while ceiling fans turned lazily overhead. Country music drifted beneath the hum of voices. Every booth seemed filled with people who knew each other by name, knew each other's families, and had probably been eating here for years.

Conversation dipped for half a second when they walked in. Not enough to be rude. Just long enough for Aubrey to notice.

As they threaded through the crowded floor, Bennett stepped up behind her. His hand settled flat against the small of her back—warm, heavy, and possessive right through the thin, slick silk of her camisole. The sudden friction of his calloused palm against her spine sent a violent spike of heat straight down to her thighs and wiped out any chance of playing it cool before they even reached the table.

Behind the bar, a man in a faded ball cap looked up from drying a glass. Mid-thirties, dark beard—good-looking in a rough, outdoorsy way.

Recognition flashed across his face. “Well, hey there.”

Bennett let out a low sigh, his hand pressing once against the small of her back before dropping away.