Chapter Six
Six
Ryker
It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m spending it on a tasting with Beckett and Sadie at Paradise Grill.
I arrive ten minutes late, which means I’m right on time by my standards.
Sadie texted that they’re already seated just as I was parking.
I spot Beckett first—dark suit, stiff posture, classic him. And next to him, is her.
Ginny Dempsey.
She’s wearing a dress that does not belong in this town unless the goal is to ruin men. Her auburn hair’s half up, half down, like she couldn’t decide whether to behave or misbehave. God help me, I hope it’s the second option.
I slide into the seat next to her. “You’re in my spot.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just lifts a brow and takes a sip of wine. “You’re late.”
“I like to make an entrance.”
Beckett clears his throat like he’s warning a toddler. Sadie glares at both of us and gestures to the lineup of appetizers. “Focus, children. We’re tasting, not flirting.”
Ginny stabs her fork into a roasted pear salad. “I can multitask.” She chews thoughtfully and turns to Sadie. “I told Gran I’m going to be in the wedding.”
The table goes still.
“What did she say?” Sadie asks.
Ginny shrugs, trying to play it off. “I didn’t ask for permission. I just told her—more of an FYI situation. She gave me that look. You know the one.”
Sadie winces. “Yikes.”
“But she adores you,” Ginny adds, smiling now. “You and Ric practically kept me out of jail in high school.”
Sadie snorts. “Please. You flirted your way out of every detention and half the town’s speeding tickets. Ric and I just follow your mess.”
“Should I be asking if your new family is okay with me in the wedding?” Ginny presses, looking over at Beckett.
He answers before Sadie can. “They don’t care.”
I school my face, because that’s not entirely true.
They do care. Not because of Sadie’s choice in bridesmaids, but because of the fallout we’re bracing for—the judgment, the whispers, the lines being crossed.
But Beckett’s too good a guy to put that weight on Ginny’s shoulders.
And he would never upset Sadie about it.
We go through grilled prawns, steak bites with chimichurri, and a butternut squash ravioli that’s so good I might propose to the chef. Beckett makes polite noises of approval. Sadie’s taking notes like it’s a tasting for the Queen.
She sets her pen down and dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “Oh, did you see the family vineyard chat this morning?” she asks, like it’s no big deal. “Last night the syrah took a gold, and they gave our pinot ninety-two points at the International Wine Festival.”
I glance at Ginny. “I did see that.” Sadie has to know I did.
“That’s fantastic.” Ginny smiles graciously. “The more award-winning wines we can get here in the valley, the better we all do.”
“Do you know how Black Bear did this year?” Sadie asks.
“Josie called late last night and said another gold for our pinot and for the red blend.”
I nod along, pretending I’m listening, but I’m not. Not when Ginny keeps twirling the stem of her wineglass like it’s more interesting than anything else on the table.
But it’s the cake that does me in. Three options—Vanilla almond, chocolate truffle, and one with Champagne and berries that tastes like a damn love letter written in sugar and silk.
“Holy hell,” I mutter after a bite, shaking my head.
Ginny closes her eyes and lets out the softest, most satisfied hum I’ve ever heard. It’s not loud. It’s barely there. But I feel it like a hit to the ribs.
I nearly choke.
Sadie kicks me under the table, hard enough to make me jerk. “Behave,” she hisses, shooting me a pointed look.
I sit straighter, schooling my expression. “What? She made a noise. I’m just reacting to the environment.”
Ginny opens one eye. Her lips quirk, just slightly. “You should see what kind of noise I make over crème br?lée.”
Shifting in my seat, my pulse thuds through my body. I’m not sure if she means that or if I even care. Because now I want to hear it. And now, I’m picturing things I have no business imagining at a cake tasting in front of my brother and his fiancée.
Ginny reaches for another bite, her fingers brushing mine where they rest near the tray. That simple touch short-circuits something inside me. I steal a glance at her. She doesn’t meet my eyes, but her lips twitch like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I clear my throat and stab my fork into the next option, trying to focus on cake instead of undressing her with my eyes.
Not flirting. Just advanced dessert appreciation.
And if that’s the story I’ve got to tell myself, so be it.
When Beckett shifts forward to talk to the chef about guest counts and timing, I take my shot.
I shift closer to Ginny until my shoulder brushes hers. Close enough that she can probably smell the citrus from the beer I barely touched. Close enough that if she turned her head, her lips would be just a breath from mine.
“You’re going to wreck me, Red. And I think you know it,” I murmur.
She doesn’t flinch. Just licks a crumb off her thumb, slow and deliberate. “You keep acting like I’m not used to the burn.”
Damn.
Before I can answer, Sadie lets out a dramatic gasp about the steak entrée we had—something about the pepper crust—and the moment vanishes like smoke in the wind.
Ginny reaches for her water. I do the same.
But under the table, her knee finds mine. And lingers.
I could shift. Should move. But I don’t. I sit here like a man holding a lit match, waiting for it to burn down to his fingers.
The rest of the afternoon moves in a blur.
We vote on dinner options, sample one last wine pairing.
Pretend we’re all very serious about wedding logistics when every part of me is focused on the woman beside me and the way she hasn’t once looked my way since dessert. She’s cool. Effortless. Untouchable.
Except for the knee.
When the tasting wraps, Sadie pulls Beckett into conversation with the chef again, giving me exactly ten seconds of space.
Ginny stands and slips her purse over one shoulder.
“You keep looking at me like I’m some kind of bad idea,” I say, rising beside her.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “You are a bad idea.”
I grin. “Then why are you smiling?”
She shrugs, eyes cutting toward me with heat I feel in my bones. “Because bad ideas make for fun nights.” Then she turns and heads out, hips swaying like a dare.
I’m supposed to be wrapping things up—thanking the staff, getting the timeline from Sadie—but Ginny’s slipping away. Not out the front, but down the side path that leads behind the restaurant, toward the row of wine barrels the Grill uses for storage.
She pauses once to glance back, just long enough for me to catch the invitation in her eyes.
And I follow. Of course I do.
Because I’ve never been great at walking away from temptation. Especially when she’s wrapped in a sweater dress and smells like peaches and danger.
I say goodbye to Sadie and Beckett, and once I’m out the door, no one sees me follow. No one calls my name. The world shrinks to the sound of my heartbeat and the path Ginny left behind. The air shifts the moment I turn the corner.
It’s quieter back here—muted sounds from the dining room fading behind the wall, the wind in the vineyard beyond, the sky blushed with the last light of sunset.
The barrels are stacked in neat rows, towering and solid, their wood aged and sun-warmed.
And Ginny’s there, tucked in the shadows between two stacks, her back against one, arms loosely folded.
She doesn’t say a word. Just watches me.
And I watch her right back.
“Thought you said I was a bad idea,” I murmur, closing the space between us.
“I did.”
“You always lure bad ideas into dark corners?”
Her lips twitch. “Only the ones who follow me.”
She hesitates, just for a breath, like she’s fighting herself. But then she steps closer, and I know she’s lost that battle.
That’s all I need.
I crowd her back against the barrel, my hands braced on either side of her head. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Her eyes move to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and I kiss her.
Hard. Deep. Like I’ve been waiting years instead of months.
She melts into me, her hands fisting in my shirt, dragging me closer.
I slide her winter coat off her shoulders and move one hand to her waist, the other into her hair and tilt her head to get a better angle.
Her lips are soft and hot, tasting like sparkling wine and rebellion.
My tongue slides against hers and she moans, the sound vibrating through me like a match strike.
Her body arches into mine, and suddenly, it’s not just a kiss.
It’s a tangle of limbs and want. I grip her hips, pull her flush against me, and press her against the barrel, letting her feel every ounce of what she does to me.
“Jesus. You’re driving me insane,” I whisper against her mouth, my forehead resting against hers for a beat. “Tell me you want this.”
“I don’t,” she says, breathless.
But her hands are still on me. Still pulling. Still clutching.
I search her face. “Liar.”
Her fingers slide into my hair, yanking me back into another kiss, this one slower, deeper, like she’s memorizing the taste of me. My hands slip beneath the hem of her dress, tracing the smooth skin of her thighs. She lets me, for a beat. Just long enough to spark hope.
Then she pulls back.
Her breathing is uneven. Her lipstick’s smeared. She looks like a fever dream.
“This isn’t anything,” she says. “It can’t be.”
I blink. “That felt like more than nothing.”
She straightens her dress. “It’s not.”
“You sure about that?”
She steps around me, not meeting my eyes. “I don’t do complicated either. Not right now. This wedding is complicated enough.”
“But you do me?”
She pauses, then looks back over her shoulder. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “That’s the problem.”
And then she’s gone, walking back toward the restaurant like nothing happened, like my mouth wasn’t just on hers and her body wasn’t pressed against mine like we were the last two people on Earth.
I sink back against the barrel and stare at the sky, trying to catch my breath.
“This isn’t anything.”
She said it like a fact.
But every nerve in my body is still lit up. Because she almost let me in.
And almost? Almost is a hell of a drug. It’s the kind of thing that makes a man chase a woman who already said no. And worse, it makes him believe she might change her mind.