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“I’ll bring back my recommendation. Okay?”
She nodded. “I’ll get in the shower while you’re down there hunting for the best bottle you can find. From this end of the house, go through the kitchen and when you turn for the dining room you’ll have to walk through the butler’s pantry. It’s the door on the left. The light switch is inside the door. Pick anything you want.”
“I know my way around wine cellars. I’ll be all right.” I kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll surprise you.” I threw a T-shirt on over my head and pulled it over my chest.
It was the first time I had left her set of rooms in twenty-four hours. I needed air. I needed to think. I needed to reconcile that she might be right about my family. And if she was, what did that mean for us?
I jogged to the first level of the house. Kimble was standing in the foyer. Damn it.
“Leaving?” he asked.
His suit was crisp as if he had just gotten dressed. I never saw the man rumpled. Kennedy owed him her life. I was somehow indebted to him too. I felt gratitude, but it was almost suffocated by the jealousy I carried. He was the one who saved her—not me. He was the one who was there when Lucien died—not me. Fucking Kimble held her when she cried—not me.
“No. Sorry to disappoint you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m grabbing another bottle of wine.” I wasn’t sure why I explained myself to him, other than I now had a new understanding of why Kennedy had kept him on her staff. It didn’t mean I suddenly liked him. I would tolerate him for her sake. For now, he only needed to know was that I was staying in her bed tonight.
He stepped aside so I could turn the corner for the kitchen, ducking into the connection to the dining room. I strolled through. I could still feel his eyes staring at the back of my neck. The door to the cellar was easy to find. I flipped the light switch against the wall.
As soon as I descended into the basement it was like being back in France. The smell of a good wine cellar was something I had learned to discern. It was cool. The perfect temperature. I reached the bottom step.
I liked her setup. There was a small sitting area for tasting, surrounded by cases and ordered rows. I studied the first row. It was taller than me. I was about to slide the ladder in place. People usually put their best wines out of reach. I was about to climb the ladder when I caught a glimpse of what was in front of me. I couldn’t believe it. I spotted the Corban family crest. There was one bottle after another of Corban wine. I lifted one from the rack. They were from the years I had worked the vineyards in Epernay. All the years were there. Every grape. She’d never mentioned she had acquired all the wines I worked on since the fire. I was proud of those wines. Proud that I built something out of ashes.
I placed the bottle back, walking to the next stack. Kennedy had an incredible collection. There were priceless rows of wine and champagne. The woman had good taste. Expensive taste. Exotic taste. She had curated a collection from around the world. Some of the selections were not easy to find.
What the hell? I spotted the label. It was unmistakable. It was a Château Pichon. I lifted it carefully. The last time I had read about this bottle it was sold to an unnamed buyer for nearly $7,000. Was it Kennedy? Was she the mystery buyer? When had she become this interested in wines? She was always a champagne drinker. Although, the girl I had met liked to party a little too late and made questionable social media decisions. That was five years ago. I handled the pricey bottle carefully, placing it on the table used to examine labels and coloration during tastings. I sat in a leather chair, staring at the bottle. It was tempting to pop the cork. I’d heard things about this Bordeaux. It was legendary wine. I was ogling it like a high school kid about to have his first drink.
I looked up just as her feet touched the cellar floor. I’d been too immersed in studying the curves of the bottle to hear her descend the staircase. It was easy for her to be quiet on the tips of her toes.
“About to break into my most expensive bottle I see,” she teased. Kennedy’s hair was wet from the shower. It was layered in damp tendrils around her shoulders. A robe was wrapped around her shoulders, but the water droplets had seeped through.
“Thinking about it.” I smirked. “Not without you of course.”
“Of course.” She walked toward me in her bare feet. “I wondered what was keeping you down here.”
I chuckled. “Sorry, I got a little lost in your collection. You hadn’t mentioned your hobby.”
She blushed. “A new one. It works well in the business.”
“And the Corban wines?” I tested.
“You saw those too, huh?” She stood in front of me. I could smell the lotion on her skin. The shampoo on her hair. She drove me fucking wild, even after spending twenty-four hours locked in her room.
“Hard to
miss my own name on every bottle on this side of the cellar.”
She laughed. “Okay. Maybe I thought it was like having a little piece of you, having the wine from your vineyards.” She shrugged lightly. “I guess it’s silly when I say it out loud.”
“Not silly,” I replied.
“Embarrassing then.”
“No. Neither. I wished I had something of yours too. Maybe it would have helped.”
“I guess I do have a few bottles.” Her eyes traveled over my head to where the cases began lining up.
“I’m flattered. Doesn’t hurt that it’s good wine.” I waggled my eyebrows.
“I didn’t say I drank it.” She winked.
