Chapter 16
Sixteen
Alaric
Iwake to warmth that doesn’t belong to me, a soft press of skin against my arm, the faint hitch of a woman’s breath. For a second, I breathe in the mix of hotel linen, salt air, and coconut lotion—and then it all rushes back. The conference. The flight. Liz. Last night.
I keep my eyes closed and try to rewrite it in my head. Maybe it didn’t happen. Or maybe it was just two overworked people too tired to think straight. Pretending is easier, safer.
She shifts beside me, the mattress dipping as she rolls onto her back. “You’re awake,” she says, her voice still rough with sleep.
I clear my throat. “Barely.”
We don’t talk about last night. Instead, we slip into the easy rhythm we’ve always had, built on sarcasm and carefully measured distance.
“Snore much?” she asks, reaching for the pillow she must have thrown at me during the night.
“You’re one to talk. You stole all the covers.”
“Liar.” She smirks, brushing her hair back with her fingers.
“Evidence suggests otherwise.”
Our banter is light and sharp. I can see it in her eyes too, the relief that we’re pretending. Last night doesn’t need a postmortem.
She sits up and stretches, the sheet sliding down her bare shoulder. I look away because I’m a coward—or because if I don’t, we’ll spend all day here in the room and I’ll remain short on my CMEs.
She catches me looking anyway and raises an eyebrow. “You planning to stare all morning, or are you going to shower before I call room service?”
“Shower,” I say. “You should order coffee for yourself and tea for me. I’ll be quick.”
“I’ll make sure they make it strong,” she says. “You look like you need it.”
I force a laugh and grab my clothes, escaping to the bathroom like a man dodging an ambush.
The door clicks shut behind me, and for one second, I lean against the counter—palms flat, heart pounding—and remind myself that this is temporary and shouldn’t have happened in the first place.
We’re at a conference. It’s a truce. Nothing more.
Still, there’s a flicker of guilt because I liked it. Because I want more. Pretending this means nothing might be the biggest lie I’ve told myself in a long time.
Outside, Liz hums softly, some tune she probably doesn’t realize she’s making. It’s just background noise, I tell myself. But as the mirror fogs, I can still see her behind my eyelids, soft hair, sleepy smile, the faint taste of last night burning on my tongue.
I step into the shower, twist the handle to cold, and wait for the sting. When the water hits, it’s brutal. Cold shocks are supposed to wake up your nervous system, lower your blood pressure, clear your head. That’s what the studies say. I need all three.
The first rush steals my breath but then steadies it. I focus on that instead of the image of Liz in white sheets, her hair fanned across the pillow, her mouth curved in a smile.
I stand under the spray until my skin feels raw and my thoughts are quiet. No more heat. No more want. Just water, white noise, and control.
When I finally turn it off, the air feels warmer, the world smaller. I towel dry quickly, pull on a pair of slacks, and take one last look in the mirror. My reflection looks calm, composed—a man who hasn’t been undone by a single kiss. I almost believe it.
When I return to the bedroom, the smell of coffee engulfs me. Room service has already arrived. A silver carafe and a tea pot with tea bags sits on the table beside two mugs and a plate of fruit.
Liz looks up from her phone. “You survived.”
“Barely,” I say, running a hand through my damp hair. “That water’s straight from the Arctic.”
She smiles, and something soft flickers there, something that could undo all the distance I just rebuilt.
I dunk a bag of strong orange pekoe. “Sessions start in an hour?”
She nods, still smiling. “Plenty of time for you to remember how to act normal.”
“Define normal.”
“Not looking at me like that would be a good start.”
I glance away, pretend to check the schedule on my phone, and tell myself the conference will reset everything. Seminars. Colleagues. The illusion of balance.
Liz disappears into the bathroom, still humming as she gets ready. The sound is faint through the door, and I take the chance to breathe.
I button my shirt, tuck it in, pull it out, then re-tuck it and stare at my reflection. My collar’s fine. I still look like a man who hasn’t slept properly in days. She’s in there brushing her teeth, and the space feels too small for both of us.
The door opens, and she steps out wrapped in that quiet confidence she wears like armor.
Hair up. Lip gloss faintly pink. She’s wearing a sundress she bought in the gift shop that shows off the start of her tan.
Conference badge clipped to her lanyard.
Professional. Contained. Safer than last night.
“You’re awfully happy for someone who hates mornings,” I say.
She gives me that half-smile that could start a war. “Fear of bad lighting, not mornings.”
I let out a short laugh. “I’ll make a note.”
She moves toward the table, slipping on her sandals. “We should head down soon. I want good seats for the keynote.”
“You mean the ones with the best exit strategy.”
“Obviously.” She grabs her tablet and glances at the door. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
We fall into step, the hallway echoing with soft footfalls.
The elevator doors open with a polite chime, and we step inside. We’re two professionals heading to a conference, nothing more. I focus on the floor numbers ticking down. She folds her arms, looking straight ahead. The quiet isn’t awkward. It’s charged, like the air before a storm.
Then my phone rings, and I glance down at the screen. Evie.
Liz catches the look on my face. “You can answer,” she says, her voice careful.
“I should.”
She nods. “I’ll look for you later.”
The elevator slows, the lights flicker with the shift in power, and she steps back.
As the doors open on the lobby, I lift my phone. “Sorry,” I mouth.
Her eyes soften. “Good luck,” she mouths back.
Then she’s gone, heels clicking across marble, disappearing into the crowd—while I hit accept and brace myself for the hurricane on the other end of the line.
“Do you have any idea what’s happening at the vineyard?
” Evie doesn’t bother with a greeting. Her voice is full of outrage and disbelief.
“They’re tearing through my people like vultures, calling it an investigation.
Half of them couldn’t find a corkscrew without a manual, and they’re questioning me as if I have time to pour vinegar into barrels. ”
“Max Paradise named you as a co-conspirator. It’s standard procedure.”
“Don’t patronize me.” Her voice sharpens. “I built that place from dirt and debt. There was no procedure when everyone else was too busy doubting I could pull it off. Now, suddenly, I’m the villain because he said so? I can’t stand the man. I had nothing to do with their made-up drama. Please.”
Breathe in. Count to four. Breathe out. Count to four.
“They have to follow leads.”
“Leads?” She lets out a bitter laugh. “They’re chasing ghosts.
You know what this really is? Weak men covering their incompetence with suspicion.
They think they can drag my name through the mud, and I’ll sit quietly, polishing my medals.
I don’t sit quietly, Alaric. Not ever.” Her breathing changes, short and uneven, the edge of fury giving way to something colder.
“You’ve got that calm voice, that reasonable tone everyone loves so much,” she continues.
“Use it. Talk to them. Make this disappear before it grows teeth.”
I sigh. “That’s not how it works.”
“Then learn how it works. Because if they think I’m going down for this, I’ll take the whole goddamn hill with me.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone and stare out at the ocean. The tide is high, and the waves are big, crashing in slow motion under the morning sun. For a moment, I can’t tell if the sound in my ears is surf or blood.
I hope I still look composed, but I don’t feel it. Instead, I feel cracked open.
The air in the lobby feels thick as I put my phone in my pocket.
I pull in a breath. Years of psychology training whisper the same list I always run through when it comes to Evie—narcissistic grandiosity.
Paranoia under pressure. Deflection of blame.
Classic traits. Textbook. Predictable. And still, she lands a punch every time she opens her mouth.
I take a deep breath in and hold it for four, doing the box breathing I preach to my patients with anxiety. It’s the only way to get beyond talking to my grandmother.
I pause at the edge of the crowd and let the noise close in around me. Voices. Clinking mugs. The faint echo of the ocean. But inside, I’m still standing in the eye of the storm, wondering how many more people Evelyn Dempsey will pull into her mess before the wind finally breaks everything down.
Then I see Liz. She’s by the coffee station, laughing with a few other attendees. The sound is soft, warm, the opposite of everything I just heard. When she spots me, her expression shifts to concern a moment before returning to composure.
“Everything okay?” she asks when I reach her.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “Family drama.”
“Evie?”
“Evie.”
Her eyes narrow. “I can tell by your jaw you didn’t win that round.”
I almost smile. “No one wins with Evie. You just try not to drown.”
Liz hands me a cup of dark tea. “Here. Fuel. You could use it.”
“Thanks.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “First keynote’s on physician burnout. Think you’ll make it through without diagnosing yourself?”
“Doubtful.”
Her laugh is quiet, and it cuts through the static in my chest better than caffeine ever could. For a second, I forget about Evie, the vineyard, and everything waiting back home.
Liz glances toward the conference room doors. “We should go in. They’re starting soon.”
We fall into step together, the crowd funneling around us.
The room is full of large tables, and we find one in the middle where, hopefully, we can see.
As we sit, I set my phone face down on the table.
Evie’s words still echo at the edges of my thoughts, sharp as broken glass.
If she’s under investigation, things are worse than she’s admitting.
And if she means what she said about taking the whole hill with her, there won’t be a clean way out.
But for now, I do what I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting. I take a breath, pull my shoulders back, and pretend I’m fine.