Chapter 16 Gillian #2
We followed Leo along a path cut into the hillside to a stone arch half-veiled in ivy. Marisol fell in step with me, taking my arm as if we were old friends. “Alex seems good. You make him happy.”
“He makes me happy.”
“I’m glad to hear that. We’ve been worried about him and the kids since they lost Mattie. But I could tell when he called yesterday that he’s better. You’ve brought him back to life.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I wasn’t sure what you’d think.”
“We loved Mattie and miss her,” Marisol said. “But Alex and the children have to keep living.”
Inside the caves, the temperature dropped at least a dozen degrees and smelled of wet rock and fermenting wine.
French oak barrels chalked with dates and hand-scrawled lots lined both sides.
In the cool darkness, Alex moved behind me, his chest nearly touching my back, his breath warm against my ear as Leo explained the aging process.
I could barely concentrate on the words.
Leo withdrew the long pipette from the barrel’s opening and poured samples into waiting glasses. Alex’s hand found the small of my back as we tasted the young wine—light, almost reverent, but it sent heat racing up my spine.
“Full of promise,” I said, and, when I looked up at Alex, his eyes darkened in a way that told me he wasn’t thinking about wine at all.
By late afternoon, we hugged Marisol and Leo goodbye, promising to come back for harvest, and headed down the driveway, the dog loping beside us until we reached the gate.
Back in the car, I closed my eyes, pleasantly warm and well fed. Alex reached over and laced his fingers through mine, resting our joined hands on my thigh. The weight of his hand, the warmth of it—I felt myself drifting, safe and content.
I didn’t wake until we were climbing Rutherford Hill Road, switchbacks shouldering through olive trees.
“Ah yes, here we are,” Alex said softly, not wanting to startle me.
In a dry-stacked stone wall, the resort’s name, Les Terrasses de Rutherford, in patinated brass, winked in the light as we pulled onto the property.
At the porte cochère, as we waited for the valet to take care of our bags, the warm, dry air brought scents of rosemary, warm rock, and citrus from the planters.
“What is this place?” I asked, still sleepy from my nap.
“A resort that came highly recommended by some friends of mine,” Alex said. “I hope it’s as good as everyone says.”
Minutes later, a host led us along a hushed path to a freestanding private maison set on its own terrace above the valley.
The nameplate read Maison étoile. Iron-framed windows faced the endless sweep of vines and low hills, and French doors opened onto a trellised patio with a sculpted outdoor soaking tub and a rain shower aimed audaciously at the view.
Inside felt like what I imagined the south of France would be, with clean lines, warm tones, and space that invited slow, purposeful breaths.
A separate living room held a stone fireplace, low sofa, and dining alcove.
A built-in bar gleamed beside an espresso machine.
The management had left a chilled bottle of champagne in a silver bucket with two flutes and a note in neat script: Bienvenue.
I laughed, delighted. “Alex, this is wonderful.”
“It doesn’t disappoint,” Alex said, grinning. “I’ve not been here before, so it was a bit of a risk.” He nodded toward a small card listing amenities, including in-room breakfast on the terrace and a personal winery tour in the afternoon.
“I’m in heaven,” I said.
I wandered through the maison, acutely aware of him moving behind me. The main bedroom hosted a California king with its own fireplace and sitting area. But there was a second bedroom, also with a king bed.
My pulse quickened. Two bedrooms. Was this his way of being a gentleman, giving me space? Or did he think I wanted distance? The uncertainty made my stomach flutter with something between disappointment and anticipation.
The terrace ran the length of the maison, pale stone underfoot, and a wooden trellis casting stripes of shade that drifted across the floor as the sun slid west. A low apricot wall topped with a slim black railing framed the whole valley—folds of oak and olive, a far blue seam where the vines met the hills.
I caught hints of the scents of warm stone, rosemary, and sun-crushed leaves.
Every so often a tractor murmured somewhere below, and the vines made that soft, silk-on-silk sound when the breeze moved through.
I stepped out of my sandals, the stone pleasantly warm under my bare feet. Alex came up behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, and handed me a glass of champagne.
“Shall we toast to the beginning of our holiday?” His voice was low, intimate.
I took the champagne from his outstretched hand and turned to face him. “Holiday sounds so fancy and European.” I clinked my glass to his. “Cheers.”
“To our first trip together.” His eyes held mine as we drank, and something in that gaze made my breath catch.
“I could live here,” I said.
“You will be—for two days anyway. If you like it, I’ll bring you back anytime you want.”
“This is all really special,” I said. “Thank you. I can’t remember the last time I took a vacation of any kind.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
I leaned against the railing, taking in the view as the valley changed color by degree, vines deepening from green to pewter as the sun slid west.
“You look good standing there.” His voice had gone rough, and, when I turned, he was watching me with an intensity that stole my breath. He lifted his phone as if to take a photo, but his eyes never left mine—the camera was just an excuse. He was memorizing me, burning this moment into his memory.
“Come in for a moment,” Alex said, setting down his glass and taking my hand. “I have something for you.”
On the bed lay a garment box and a folded card that read: *For our dinner, if you so choose.*
“What’s this?” I asked, my heart already racing.
“You said you had more leggings than dresses, so I thought I’d be so bold as to choose one for you to wear to dinner. Open it.”
Inside, under tissue paper, lay a Galvan silk-charmeuse slip dress in an indigo hue that looked stolen from last night’s sky. A soft cowl skimmed the collarbone, and fine straps crossed low at the back. When I picked it up, the material felt as smooth as cascading water.
My breath caught. “Alex. This color.”
“I know. It took some doing to find the exact right one.” He said it quietly, almost shy, his hands in his pockets. “For many, many nights after you left, I would look up at the sky just after twilight and think of you. Wonder where you were and if the sky was worthy of your eyes.”
My throat tightened. That he’d remembered—that he’d thought about it enough to choose this specific shade—brought me to tears.
“Are you sure?” Alex asked, watching my face. “If you don’t want to wear it, don’t worry. I won’t be hurt.”
“Are you kidding?” I held it close to me, delighting in the silky material against my warm skin. “I would be devastated if I’d picked out something this exquisite and it wasn’t appreciated. Honestly, I can’t wait.”
He gave me a look that implied he couldn’t wait to take it off me. I shivered, craving him, anticipating what might come later.
We spent the rest of the afternoon on the terrace.
Alex ran a bath in the soaking tub, bubbles smelling faintly of gardenia, then turned away so I could shrug out of my robe and into the water.
Although I was hidden by the layer of bubbles, I would have felt comfortable regardless.
This was Alex. I’d known every inch of his body back that summer.
We’d been intimate in the way only young adults can be—which is to say, a lot.
We hadn’t talked about sleeping arrangements for tonight, but I’d clocked the two bedrooms and felt both a pinch of disappointment and a wash of relief.
Steam billowed up as I slipped lower into the water. Alex, wearing a pair of shorts but no shirt, sat on the stone rim, bare feet in the water. He rested his forearms on his knees, watching me with a soft smile that made my stomach flip.
“Could anything be as beautiful as you in that tub?”
“The view?” I asked, laughing. “Or you without your shirt?”
“I’m not so skinny now,” Alex said.
“The years have been kind to you.” I looked up at him from beneath my lashes, letting my gaze travel over his chest and shoulders. A bolt of desire made me shiver despite the warmth of the bath.
I put my wicked, delicious thoughts aside and asked him to tell me more about his company.
He did so, sharing details about the initial years and then the utter disbelief he’d felt when they’d gone public and he realized his net worth.
His fingers trailed absently in the water near my shoulder, not quite touching but close enough that I felt the wake of their movement.
When the water cooled, he stood and offered me his hand. “There’s an outdoor shower. I’ll go inside so you can have the patio to yourself. I promise not to peek.”
My heart thudded. One of us had to bring up the subject. It was now or never.
“Don’t go.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “Stay. Shower with me.”
His eyes darkened, his hand tightening around mine. “Gillie, do you know what you’re saying?”
“Alex Garcia, I’m a grown woman who knows her own mind. And her body.”
“Are you sure?” His voice had gone low, rough.
“Positive. I just didn’t know how to bring it up. You know, once I saw the two bedrooms.”
“It’s your choice,” Alex said, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist where my pulse hammered. “Always your choice.”
“Well, then, let’s take a shower and see where that leads us.”
“Good lord.” He pulled me gently to my feet, water sluicing off my skin. “I hope you don’t give me a heart attack.”
“Doubtful.” I smiled at him, feeling almost wanton and not caring one bit.