Chapter 17 #2
Bea gripped the lip gloss in one hand. Her dignity in the other.
GAGE
The cellar was loud. Rafael had just arrived. Gustave was speaking about tannins and rainfall, gesturing toward the barrels like a man presenting his beloved children.
Gage stood near him, nodding when expected. But his eyes had already swept the room—twice. Bea was gone. So was Georgina. Which meant something had gone wrong.
He stepped back from the group and crossed to Naomi, who stood near the end of the table, swirling her wine.
“She leave early?” he asked, low.
“Just stepped out.”
“She alright?”
She blinked. Then, carefully said, “She will be.”
Three minutes later, Georgina reappeared at the cellar entrance, with Bea just behind her. She looked composed.
Gage clocked every detail: lip gloss reapplied, spine straight, expression set with effort. The kind of mask you wore when you’d had to rebuild it in the mirror.
Her hands didn’t tremble. Her walk didn’t falter. But something in her had fractured.
Georgina deposited her safely with Naomi and Isabel, then peeled away from her, and wandered toward the tasting barrels.
He followed, slowly. Chose one—1990, oak-aged.
Tilted his head. Said nothing. Georgina glanced once at Bea, then at him. She knew what he was asking, and gave a slight nod.
They studied the barrel in low voices, just long enough to look like they were speaking about wine.
But Gage wasn’t thinking about vintage. He was thinking about vengeance. Catherine, of all people, should’ve known childhood history wouldn’t give her immunity from touching what was his.
Lunch had been served late and alfresco, beneath a canopy of lemon trees, the tables long and white-linened.
Bea had eaten politely. Spoken when spoken to. Tried to laugh when she was supposed to. Every bite tasted like nothing.
When the plates were cleared, Gage stood beside her chair. “Come for a walk.”
She looked up. Opened her mouth to make an excuse.
“Don’t say no,” he warned. “Change your shoes. Something flat. Closed-toe.”
“Why?”
“The ground’s uneven.”
She didn’t argue, just rose and disappeared inside.
When she returned, he was waiting by the lattice. She’d changed: wide-legged pants, a sleeveless cream top, white sneakers. He led her down the side path, past a row of stone columns. A bird shrieked somewhere in the vines.
Bea didn’t know where they were going. Gage walked beside her, hands in his pockets, sunglasses on, every inch the picture of relaxed control. But she could feel it—that coil of purpose underneath.
“You left the cellar.”
She nodded once.
“Georgina followed.”
Another nod.
He waited. Let her open. Leaves rustled overhead, flashes of orange foliage caught in the branches.
She looked at her shoes. “I needed air.” Tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s not a big deal.”
Bea counted five steps before he spoke.
“It is to me.”
It was starting. She could feel it unspooling. And once it started, she wouldn’t be able to stop it. “I didn’t want to ruin the day.”
For a while, the only sound was the crunch of leaves beneath their feet.
“You know what Catherine’s like.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand. His palm swallowed hers, broad and warm, and something inside her lurched. “You’ve never told me.”
She exhaled slowly, because what would she even say? How could she begin? When there was that much history, it felt almost vindictive to say it all out loud at once.
As if he sensed he wasn’t going to get the information that way, he tried another. “For how long?”
A reply rose…then crashed into second thoughts.
She knew he wouldn’t fill the silence. That was the worst part. He’d just wait. And wait. And wait. Until she cracked open.
“A while.”
His thumb rubbed the back of hers once. “Be specific.”
Her eyes went to the gravel path.
“Bea.” His voice was patient. Endlessly patient.
“The Regatta. Imperium. The beach.”
“Anything else?”
She wanted to say no. Leave it there. But it was impossible to lie to him when he was asking so directly.
And maybe she didn’t want to lie anymore. Maybe she was tired. “The internship.”
He stopped walking. So did she.
“She was at Monaghan and Stowe?”
She nodded, but didn’t look at him. “She was consulting.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She’s your friend,” Bea said softly. “Your family friend.”
“So?”
“So I didn’t want to seem like I couldn’t handle it.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
She looked up at him then. “It’s not your job to manage other women for me.”
“It’s my job to protect you.” His hand was warm over hers.
Bea shook her head. “You didn’t see it. You were never there. It’s not your fault.”
“It is,” he said, stepping closer. His height cast her in his shadow. She could smell his cologne, sharp woods and citrus, slicing through the dust of the vineyard path and the sweetness of crushed leaves. “Because you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”
That broke something in her.
She inhaled once, shallow. The tears didn’t fall. But they burned. The sun had begun to lean west, the air had started to cool, and through her lashes the sky blurred into brightness she couldn’t quite hold.
“I didn’t want to make it hard for you,” she finally said the words out loud. “Didn’t want to make you choose.”
“I already did.” Gage reached up, touching the ends of her hair with his other hand. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever chosen that wasn’t already on the plan.”
The wind stirred the leaves behind them. It felt like something was being cleared.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her throat raw.
“No. I’m sorry.” His eyes were so blue. So sure. His thumbs brushed her tears back gently. “I won’t let it happen again.”