Chapter 20
(Aria POV)
I was still floating, skin warm from his hands, his breath, his words. My cheek against his chest, listening to his heart settle back into its steady rhythm. For one blissful second, it felt like the world could wait.
It didn’t.
Marcus’s phone buzzed against the nightstand. Once. Twice. Then again, more insistent.
He muttered a curse, reached for it, and sat up, muscles tensing the way they always did when reality clawed its way in.
“Yeah,” he answered, voice clipped. A pause, then a grim nod. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
My stomach sank.
When he hung up, I asked, “What happened?”
“Tank Four is down. If it doesn’t come back up, we could lose a whole batch.” His jaw flexed. “I need to get there now.”
I glanced at the sunlight streaming through the curtains, the sheets tangled around us. My skin still tingled from his touch. But already, the vineyard was calling him back.
Us back.
He swung his legs off the bed, standing up, all business again. “Get dressed. No one waits on grapes.”
I sat there for a beat longer, hugging the pillow, watching him move around the room. My Marcus…the man who’d held me all night, whispered he liked trouble, laughed in my hair. And also, the Marcus, who belonged to the vines first, last, always.
I pulled his shirt from the chair, slipping it over my head as I stood. “Guess we don’t get a day off.”
He shot me a quick look, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Not when you’re the boss.”
And just like that, we were out the door, rushing back to the world that owned him. The world that, for better or worse, I was starting to claim too.
The drive back to the vineyard was quiet, tension thrumming between us. Not like the night where it had all been heat and tenderness, dizzying and unreal. This was different. Business. Urgent.
When Marcus swung the truck into the gravel lot, the place was already alive. The crew clustered outside the production building, radios crackling, voices sharp.
As soon as he climbed out, heads turned. And then turned again, toward me, climbing down from the passenger side, tugging his shirt closer around me like a shield.
The silence lasted a beat too long. Long enough to sting. “Isn’t it his day off?” someone muttered.
Marcus didn’t break stride. “Where’s maintenance?” he barked, and the crew snapped back into motion, scattering like birds.
I hurried after him, cheeks burning. I felt every glance, every whisper, and told myself it didn’t matter. What mattered was Tank Four.
Inside, the air was sharp with disinfectant and metal. The pump sat idle, hoses limp. Marcus crouched beside the casing, running a hand over the valves. “Get me a wrench,” he ordered, and I scrambled to grab one from the wall.
He took it from me without looking, shoulders tense, forearms straining as he worked. Sweat already prickled at his temples, his jaw set.
“What can I do?” I asked.
“Hold the light.” He jerked his chin at the flashlight on the table.
I grabbed it, knelt beside him, and angled the beam where he needed it to go. My pulse was still racing, but this time it wasn’t nerves or scandal. It was focus. Us against the problem.
Minutes stretched. The crew hovered outside, waiting. Finally, with a grunt and one last twist, Marcus shoved the wrench aside. The pump sputtered, then roared back to life.
A cheer went up from the crush pad.
He sat back on his heels, wiping his forearm across his forehead. “Good,” he said simply. Then his eyes cut to me, steady, unreadable. For a second it was just us in the quiet thrum of machinery.
“You did good,” he added.
Heat bloomed in my chest, stronger than all the stares outside. Because he wasn’t just talking about the flashlight.
The pump roared back to life, rattling the lines. “Back online,” he called, and the crew moved in fast, checking gauges, reconnecting clamps, shouting instructions across the pad.
But I still felt eyes. Curious, measuring eyes. Because they’d seen us arrive together. Because I was in his shirt, hair mussed, looking nothing like a polished manager’s daughter.
Marcus didn’t flinch. He just stood, rolled his shoulders, and handed the wrench back like nothing about this morning had been unusual.
“Good work,” he told one of the cellar hands, then winked at me.
The crew filed back to work, but the whispers lingered like static in the air. My dad wasn’t there, of course he wasn’t. He’d be in the office with invoices, permits, and a spreadsheet glowing on his screen. He never came out for mechanical failures or sticky hoses.
But the men and women who had seen? They wouldn’t forget. And sooner or later, word would make its way back.
For now, though, it was just us, standing in the hum of Tank Four’s steady rhythm. And I couldn’t stop smiling.
==========
(Marcus POV)
The pump was humming, the crew was settling, and the crisis was contained. But I could feel it, the shift in the air, the weight of their eyes.
They’d seen us arrive together. They’d seen her in my shirt, thank God her pajama bottoms passed as real pants.
Or did they? Didn’t really matter to me at this point.
They’d seen me hand her the wrench, stand too close, speak too low.
And when I walked her back to the truck, I didn’t bother hiding it.
I held the door for her, steady, deliberate. Let them see. Her cheeks flushed when she slid into the seat, but she didn’t look away. Not from me.
Once I circled around and settled behind the wheel, she tilted her head. “What do you want to do now?” She asked.
I kept my eyes on the gravel drive as I pulled out. “It’s still my day off. I’m going back to bed. Care to join me?”
Her little gasp was worth it. The nod of her head, quick and eager, even more so. “Maybe some food first,” she said, smiling.
“The lady wants to be wined and dined?” I shot her a look, letting my mouth tip into the rarest thing I gave anyone…a grin. “I can do that. I know a greasy spoon just up the road.”
Her eyes widened like I’d offered her Paris. I chuckled under my breath, turning the wheel. She had no idea how easy she was to surprise. Or how much I wanted to keep surprising her.
Because the truth was simple, dangerous, and undeniable: I didn’t want her to go.
==========
(Aria POV)
The diner was small, loud, and smelled like coffee that had been burning since sunrise. Vinyl booths, chipped mugs, a waitress who called Marcus “hon” without blinking.
I slid into the booth across from him, half laughing at how wrong it looked. Marcus Hale, brooding vineyard tyrant, sitting under a neon sign shaped like a pig, the plastic menu unfolded like he actually cared about hashbrowns.
“You’ve been here before,” I accused.
“Every harvest,” he admitted, shrugging. “Sometimes the only thing keeping me upright is coffee from this place.”
“You? Upright? You don’t even blink tired.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t tell anyone.”
The waitress came, and he ordered for both of us without asking. I should have objected. Instead, I found myself smiling into my coffee mug, warmth curling in my stomach.
When the food came, eggs, bacon, and pancakes big enough to cover the plate, he pushed the syrup toward me first. “Ladies first,” he said, mock-formal, like we were at some five-star restaurant instead of a booth with a torn cushion.
I rolled my eyes, but he caught the way I was smiling.
At some point, his hand stretched across the table, covering mine where it rested near the fork. Heavy, steady, public. My breath caught.
And then the waitress was back, refilling mugs. I snatched my hand away.
But the weight of his touch lingered.