Chapter 17
When we pulled up to the front of Black Ember Distilling, my pulse jumped as if it were trying to break out of my chest. Part anxiety over this fake marriage charade, part Aris’s hand on my knee, stroking like he had every right to touch me.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. The last thing these babies needed was their mama’s blood pressure shooting through the roof.
It had only been a week since that night in the SUV, but Aris had turned “pretend husband” into a full-time occupation. When he wasn’t in meetings, he was everywhere.
Every morning I walked three-miles, and there he’d be, already dressed in workout clothes, smoothie in hand, looking annoyingly alert despite being in meetings until four AM because of the time difference with Greece.
“You need sleep,” I’d said.
“I need to ensure my wife, she is cared for,” he’d replied, like that settled it.
Then there was Wednesday, when I’d been hunched over my laptop for six hours straight, preparing for this presentation. He’d appeared with food, sat down on the couch, and pulled my feet into his lap without asking permission.
“Aris, I’m working—”
“And you will work better after a foot massage, yes.” His thumbs found the arch of my left foot, and I’d almost moaned out loud. “Tell me about your presentation while I do this.”
I’d tried to stay annoyed. Really tried. But explaining my campaign concepts while he rubbed my feet had somehow made the whole thing clearer in my mind.
Now I was starting to expect it. I listened for his footsteps in the evenings and looked for him when I woke up.
The SUV stopped, and Markos opened my door. Aris was there immediately, offering his hand to help me out. His palm was steady against mine as I extracted myself from the backseat with as much dignity as a pregnant woman could manage.
“Ready?” he asked as his hand settled at the small of my back.
I nodded, even though my heart was hammering.
Maxwell Werner met us at the entrance, eyeing Aris with obvious approval. As we shook hands, Maxwell leaned in and murmured, “I’m glad you found a solution to your little problem.”
Aris’s arm slid firmly around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. “Aristides Christakis. Deanna’s husband.”
Maxwell straightened, shaking Aris’s hand. “Of course, of course. Welcome to Black Ember Distillery, Mr. Christakis.”
“Thank you for having us,” Aris replied, his hand remaining at my waist. He leaned down to whisper in my ear, “You are alright, agápi mou?”
“I’m fine,” I muttered through a tight smile. The feminist in me was screaming about having to put on this whole married woman show just to get my foot in the door. But I knew better than to blow this opportunity.
Maxwell cleared his throat. “I know you’ve just arrived, but if you’re not too tired, I’d be happy to show you around the distillery before you settle in.”
“Now would be perfect,” I said. “I’d love to see everything.”
I’d managed to catch a solid hour of sleep on Aris’s private jet during the short flight from Montrose. Being able to stretch out completely and nap without strangers breathing down my neck had helped rejuvenate me.
“You are sure, agápi mou?”
“Absolutely.” I wasn’t about to show any weakness here.
“Wonderful!” Maxwell beamed. “Right this way, then.”
Aris walked by my side as Maxwell led us into the barrel room, where the smell of oak and char hit me. The temperature dropped as we entered; the thick stone walls keeping the bourbon at a steady sixty-five degrees.
I stopped walking, just staring up at the racks that stretched to the ceiling. Hundreds of barrels, each one marked with dates and batch numbers. Generations of family history aging in the dark.
“This is incredible,” I breathed.
“The oak barrels are critical to the aging process,” Maxwell explained. “Each one imparts its own character to the bourbon.”
Aris moved closer to one of the barrels, studying the charred interior visible through the bung hole. “I understand you char the inside first, yes. Is that to caramelize the natural sugars in the wood?”
Maxwell looked surprised. “That’s exactly right. Are you familiar with bourbon production, Mr. Christakis?”
I glanced at Aris, equally curious. When had he learned about bourbon making?
“Please call me Aristides.” Aris hand found the small of my back again. “I have developed an interest in American whiskey recently.”
“I’m impressed,” I whispered when Maxwell stopped to speak to a worker.
Our final stop was the massive, oak-paneled office of Douglas Embers. The seventy-year-old patriarch sat in his wheelchair, but there wasn’t anything frail about him. His handshake was firm.
“So you’re the woman Maxwell’s been tellin’ me about,” Douglas drawled. “Welcome.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“The distillery is quite impressive,” Aris added.
Douglas tilted his head, studying Aris. “That accent you got there. It ain’t from anywhere in this country I recognize.”
“I am Greek. From Athens.”
“Is that right?” Douglas leaned forward with interest. “Always been fascinated by the Old World. Y’all make any spirits over there worth talkin’ about?”
“Greek distillation methods, they go back millennia. We were making perfumes and creating alcoholic concoctions for religious ceremonies almost two thousand years before Christian era.”
Douglas’s eyes lit up. “You don’t say!” He slapped his knee. “We gotta talk more about that later. Maybe over a good pour?”
I stood there, caught between impressed and irritated. Here I was, prepared for months just to get in this door, and Aris walks in talking about ancient Greek liquor and suddenly they’re thick as thieves?
Douglas leaned back in his wheelchair, studying me with those sharp eyes. “Now, Mrs. Christakis, tell me why a small agency like yours thinks it can handle a national campaign for Black Ember.”
“Because small doesn’t mean incapable, Mr. Embers. It means nimble. Focused. Personal.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got fire, I’ll give you that.”
“I’ve got more than fire, sir. I’ve got strategy, creativity—”
The door opened and a white-haired woman in her late sixties breezed in.
“Douglas Embers, you better not be intimidating this poor woman.” She extended her hand to me.
“I’m Mariela, and shame on my husband. How long have you been on your feet?
You should have been allowed to settle into your accommodations and catch your breath before you talk business. ”
I opened my mouth to shut that down quickly. I might be pregnant, but I wasn’t fragile. But Mariela had already threaded her arm through mine and was leading me away.
Mariela paused to shake a warning finger at her husband. “Now, you leave the third degree until after supper, do you hear me?”
Douglas looked sheepish and indulgent. “Of course, dear.”
I smiled at that. The real power behind the throne had just revealed herself.
Aris kept pace with us as Mariela led us back outside into the sunshine, around the southern side of the building.
She pointed out the original cooperage where they still made their barrels by hand, and the limestone spring house that had kept the family’s provisions cold for over a century.
Beyond it sat a well-maintained, white-painted carriage house.
“I hope you’ll find these accommodations satisfactory,” she said. “We refer to it as the honeymoon suite.”
I looked around with pleasure as she walked us through, noting the lacy, fluttering curtains, vintage lighting and furniture, and a bronze claw-footed tub. In the bedroom, draped with thick handmade quilts, was a large four-poster bed.
“We have several other guest cottages,” Mariela declared, “but this is our best. All five of my children were conceived in this cottage.” She giggled like a schoolgirl and then looked from my swollen belly to Aris. “Although it’s clear that you’ve already taken care of that!”
Aris smiled, took Mariela’s hand, and kissed the back of it. “I cannot thank you enough for being such gracious hostess. My wife and I, we will be extremely comfortable here.”
This made the woman simper like a teenager. I swear, that man could charm the scales off a snake.
As soon as Mariela left, I stared at that four-poster bed. I’d known this was coming. Had mentally prepared for it during the flight. But being alone with Aris and the bed made it real.
The last time I’d shared a bed with Aris Christakis, I’d woken up warm and safe and satisfied in ways nobody else could match. Ways I’d convinced myself I didn’t need anymore when I crept out.
“At least it’s large enough for us not to touch,” I said.
Aris moved up behind me, close enough to share his body heat. “If that is what you need to tell yourself, agápi mou.”
I turned to face him, which was a mistake because now we were inches apart and I could see the amusement in his dark eyes.
“We both know you sleep better when I am close, yes,” he continued.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I stepped back, putting distance between us. “I sleep good anywhere.”
“Then the next two nights, they should be easy for you.” He moved past me to unpack his bag, completely unbothered, while I stood there trying to slow my racing heart.
The conversation was still rolling around in my mind hours later as we entered the formal dining room. Antique brass fixtures cast light over the long mahogany table, and the scent of bread filled the air.
I was working overtime to keep my professional face on while also playing the loving new wife. The crazy attraction I felt for Aris made the second part easy, but it also made it hard to keep my head in the game.
Douglas was already seated at the head of the table, Mariela at his right. Maxwell sat beside a woman who had to be his wife. She favored Mariela in coloring and style.