Chapter 4
(Marcus POV)
By Monday morning, I had a plan. Stay busy. Stay invisible. Stay away from Aria Bennett.
For her sake. For mine.
She’d already pushed me too far, first with that damn picture, then behind the barrel room where her mouth whispered temptation and her body pressed against mine until I almost forgot who I was.
I hadn’t forgotten though. I couldn’t. So I made myself scarce.
I was out in the far rows before dawn, checking drip lines with the irrigation crew instead of walking the crush pad where she’d be.
I scheduled distributor calls smack in the middle of the day, holed up in my office until my voice was raw.
I assigned her to work with Alma, because Alma was sharp enough to keep her focused and stubborn enough not to take no for an answer.
Every time I caught a flash of her sundress in the courtyard, I turned the other way. Every time I heard her laugh from the marketing desk, I ducked into a meeting that didn’t need to exist.
It didn’t stop the thoughts, though.
The way her lips had parted when she whispered Marcus. The heat of her body, soft curves pressed hard against me. Her eyes, daring me to take what I wanted.
Every night, I poured another two fingers of bourbon and told myself the burn in my throat was better than the one in my blood. Every morning, I put distance between us like it was armor.
Alma noticed. “Why’d you send the girl to me all week?” she asked, smirking.
“She’s eager,” I said. “Needs structure.”
But Alma’s eyes narrowed like she knew a lie when she heard one.
Aria noticed too, I could feel it. The way her gaze tracked me across the courtyard, the quick frown when I cut away, the clipped tone when she answered me in meetings.
I was protecting her. Protecting both of us. But the truth? The longer I stayed away, the more I wanted her.
And by Friday, I knew this game couldn’t last. Tom threw a wrench in my plan when he insisted I come over and have dinner that night. I didn’t have an excuse to say no. I did have a few reasons to say yes.
==========
(Aria POV)
“Why did you invite him again?” I asked my dad.
“Because, now that we’re all working together, it’ll be nice for you to know him outside the workplace.”
“Trust me, knowing him in the workplace is enough.” I huffed.
My dad laughed. “Yes, half the employees fear him. But he gets things done. Please be nice to him tonight, for me.”
“Of course.” My dad had no idea how nice I would be.
I changed my clothes. No short sundresses, no steel-toed boots. I pulled on skin-tight shorts, a clingy top, heels to lengthen my legs, and drenched myself in coconut body mist. Summer in a bottle, with my hair yanked into a long ponytail.
I heard the doorbell ring. One extra spritz and I was ready.
The kitchen smelled like rosemary chicken and Dad’s overuse of cracked pepper. He was humming, pouring wine into the good stemware, oblivious to the storm he’d invited through the front door.
Marcus Hale didn’t belong in our dining room. Not really. He belonged on the crush pad, sleeves rolled, radio buzzing. But there he was. Standing in his pressed shirt, clean shaven, and holding a bottle of white. He looked younger out of his vineyard armor, and somehow more dangerous.
“Marcus,” Dad said, clapping his shoulder like a brother. “Glad you came. You’re saving my sanity this season.”
“Happy to,” Marcus said, voice smooth and professional. His eyes flicked to me and I could see him scanning me up and down. And then again.
I set down the basket of bread, brushing past his chair just a little too close. My hip grazed his shoulder. He didn’t move. Didn’t look. But I felt the sharp inhale he tried to hide.
“Aria made the salad,” Dad said proudly, like that was a resume line.
I poured dressing, leaning across to do it, my arm brushing his again. He shifted just enough to avoid me, but not before the fabric of his sleeve skimmed my skin.
Conversation swirled: distribution, vineyard yields, marketing. I chimed in when I had to, but mostly I was aware of Marcus’s presence like heat at my side.
The way his knee stayed carefully away from mine. The way his hand lingered on the stem of his glass. The way his eyes flickered to my thighs under the table.
At one point, I dropped my napkin. When I bent to pick it up, my hand brushed his boot under the table. Steel-toed, but warm from his body heat. When I straightened, his eyes met mine, dark and warning, before he turned back to answer Dad’s question about irrigation.
Halfway through dessert, Dad excused himself to take a call. The room shrank by half the moment he was gone.
“You’re playing with fire,” Marcus said quietly, not looking at me.
I tilted my head. “It’s just dinner.”
“It’s just dinner,” he echoed, voice low, “until your father walks back in and wonders why you can’t sit in a chair without leaning all over me.”
“Maybe I like sitting close.”
“Is this what you want?” He put his hand on my thigh.
“Yes.” I know he could feel the heat coming off me.
“What about now?” He moved his hand higher.
“Yes.” I spread my legs for him.
“And now?” His hand was between my thighs.
“Yes.” I could barely get the word out.
He didn’t move it away. He rubbed me once, slowly, over my shorts.
I let out a soft moan. He rubbed me again.
“I should stop,” he said finally, still not looking at me.
“Should,” I murmured, letting my knee brush him under the table. I could feel the dampness spreading in my panties.
He broke before I did. Putting his hand around the stem of his glass instead of me. I thought he might break the delicate stem, he gripped it so hard.
“You enjoy playing games with me?” He growled.
Before I could reply, Dad came back into the room, cheerful as ever, pouring another splash of wine into Marcus’s barely-touched glass.
The moment broke, but the air between us stayed thick.
==========
(Marcus POV)
The drive back to my place was a blur of headlights and fury. Not at her. Never at her. At myself.
Her father had been a room away, bragging about yields, while my hand was between his daughter’s thighs. Jesus Christ.
I parked too hard, the tires squealing against gravel, and sat there for a long minute with the engine ticking. I gripped the wheel until the leather groaned, furious, ashamed, still feeling her heat against my palm.
The way she opened for me under the table. The way her voice went breathless on that one small word: yes.
Inside, my house was dark, I didn’t bother with lights. I didn’t need to see the wreck I was becoming.
Her father trusted me. Every contract, every harvest, every night he put his head down to sleep, he trusted that Marcus Hale would carry the weight of this place, of his people, of his daughter.
And tonight I proved him a fool.
I dropped into the chair by the window, elbows on my knees, dragging in air. I told myself it was just a slip. Just a mistake. But I couldn’t get the look on her face out of my head. Those wide, daring eyes. That smile when she leaned just a little too close, like she already knew she’d won.
And God help me, she had.
I reached into my pocket before I even realized what I was doing. Pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered. I shouldn’t. But I did.
The photo lit up the screen, the one she’d taken in my office, white panties, hem tugged high, lips parted like she was already waiting for me. I should’ve deleted it days ago. Instead, I’d kept it. Looked. Wanted. Burned.
I shouldn’t. God, I shouldn’t. But my body didn’t care. I unzipped my jeans.
My hand moved slowly at first, then faster, chasing the fire she lit in me without even touching me. I imagined her hand, her mouth, her breathy yes spilling hot against my ear.
Release hit hard, sharp and shuddering, my body breaking apart around her name. Relief tore through me, shaking me, a low curse caught in my teeth.
For a moment, it felt like enough. My chest heaved, my temples dampened, my muscles loosened with the kind of pleasure I hadn’t allowed for ages.
But then my gaze slid back to the photo glowing on the phone, and relief curdled into hunger. Even spent, I wanted her again. Needed her again. Always.
The shame followed close behind, hollowing me out. Her father’s trust. My vow never to lose control again. And here I was, alone in the dark, already undone by a girl I had no right to touch.
I leaned back, fists tight, hating myself for giving in, hating that even now, in the aftermath, all I wanted was more.
By the time I dragged myself to bed, the sky was paling. Sleep never came. I lay there staring at the ceiling, hearing her laugh from the dining room, feeling her warmth under the table, wondering how many more “mistakes” it would take before I stopped calling them mistakes at all.