Chapter 3
Three
Elise
Steam clings to my skin as I step out of the bathroom and into the guest room. The bed is neatly made, a folded bundle placed at the foot like a hotel turn-down. A giant T-shirt and an even larger pair of sweatpants—Kingston must’ve slipped them in while I was showering.
I tug on the shirt—it could be a dress—and roll the waistband of the pants again and again until it’s bunched thick like an inflatable inner tube. I catch my reflection in the mirror and snort. If he doesn’t laugh when he sees me, I’ll know he’s not paying attention.
The fabric smells faintly of him—cedar, citrus, and something darker I can’t place. It’s ridiculous how quickly that smell makes me aware of every inch of skin underneath his clothes. I’m supposed to be worrying about my truck, not have Kingston Paradise’s laundry giving me goose bumps.
I almost convince myself to stay in the guest room and starve, but my stomach has other ideas. Besides, hiding feels childish. If I’m going to wait out this snowstorm, I might as well face the man who owns the house.
The scent of garlic and herbs drifts down the hallway, my stomach growling so loud it echoes in the quiet.
A draft sneaks under the door, carrying the distant rattle of the storm outside, which is now making its arrival known.
I climb the stairs carefully, the too-long sweatpants dragging like a mop.
Kingston is at the counter, sleeves shoved up, reheating a dish in the microwave.
His hair is still a little mussed, and the sight of him here—big, capable, calm—does something odd to my pulse.
The windows behind him are dark, filled with whirling snowflakes illuminated by the kitchen lights.
It feels like the house is an island in the storm.
“Sorry about the drop-in,” I say, tugging at the hem of the shirt. “I promise I don’t make a habit of showing up half-drowned and uninvited.”
His eyes flick down to the clothes hanging off me, but his expression barely shifts. He’s always controlled. “And I’m sorry you’re stuck here. If I’d been home earlier, I would’ve caught the water running and dealt with it.”
“Where were you this week?” I ask, mostly just to fill the silence.
“London.” He says this like someone else would say Paradise. “Work. Surgeries. Meetings. I flew back early this morning and slept most of the day.”
His casual nature makes me blink. London.
While I was doing prep work for the spring growth, he was…
I don’t know, changing lives, building empires.
Kingston has developed a new type of replacement joint, and he often does the surgery to show other doctors how they can be used.
We live in two different universes, and right now, they’re colliding in his kitchen.
“So jet-lagged billionaire doctor saves runaway truck girl.” I give a wobbly smile. “That’s not intimidating at all.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and it feels like a small victory.
He plates the food—Tuscan chicken, creamy and fragrant—and sets one serving in front of me. Steam curls upward, carrying the smell of garlic, tomatoes, and cream. My stomach clenches with hunger, but my chest feels strange—too full, too aware of him.
“Truck girl might be here a while,” he notes. “I’m not sure when the storm will make freeing her vehicle possible.”
“Really?” My voice pitches embarrassingly high. “You’re joking, right?”
He shakes his head.
I groan. “Tarryn is going to kill me.”
The silence stretches between us as we eat, broken only by the whistle of wind against the glass. For a flicker of a second, it feels like we’re a couple sharing a late dinner after a long day, and that thought jolts me straight to my phone. I need to check in before anyone worries.
My phone is still in my bag. I dig it out and quickly text both Tarryn and Dad.
Me: Staying at Kingston’s. Truck stuck, but I’m safe, and the problem is managed for now.
Tarryn’s reply comes fast.
Tarryn: Glad he was home. Don’t worry about the truck. We’ll get it out later.
Dad’s message is slower but steadier.
Dad: Good you’re with Kingston. Family taking care of you makes me feel better.
Family. He trusts Kingston without question.
I want to. I think I do. But he’s still Kingston Paradise, the grown-up version of the boy who thought his sister and I were a nuisance.
Now, he’s a self-made billionaire, larger than life, and a little intimidating in the way only people who never seem to stumble can be.
The first bite of chicken melts in my mouth, and I almost moan. It’s worlds better than the reheated sandwiches I usually wolf down after a twelve-hour day. “Okay, your chef is a genius.”
He shrugs. “Simone.”
I’ve known Simone my whole life. Her brother was in my year at school, and she’s a few years older.
His voice goes flat. “Cara picked her and everything in this house. At least, Simone stayed with me when Cara left.”
The words hang in the air, and I remember now that Kingston has stumbled a bit.
His marriage to Cara ended with her choosing his best friend.
He’s been different ever since, but right now, he doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, just carries on with his meal like he hasn’t detonated a landmine between us.
I stab at my chicken, pretending to focus, but the truth is I don’t have any idea how to respond.
I know that story, but I certainly never envisioned myself talking to him about it.
Should I say I’m sorry, or just sit in the silence with him?
“They live at the north end of the lake up in Vernon now,” he adds after a moment. “They have a small winery.” His face gives nothing away, but I can feel the steel under his words. It’s like he’s locked that part of his life in a vault and welded the door shut.
I just keep chewing. I want to ask if he’s okay, but I can’t quite get there.
“So,” he says, tilting his head. “Master vintner. You ready for your dad to retire?”
“Yes.” I nod, slightly bewildered that we’ve now moved on but thankful for the new topic.
I want him to see me as more than Tarryn’s sidekick.
“My red blend won again at the International Wine Festival earlier this month. And…I’ve been invited to Chateau for a three-month work exchange. I leave next week.”
That gets his full attention. Fork clatters against porcelain. “Exchange? Or are they trying to recruit you?”
I shrug, even though my stomach flips. “Maybe both. Sebastian Bernard thinks he’s God’s gift, but I’m not going for him. I want to learn from their process, see their operation. Chateau is on the Left Bank. Legendary.”
If Kingston notices the crack in my voice, he doesn’t show it. And I don’t say the other part, that I’m terrified. Terrified of being exposed as not good enough, of standing in one of the most famous vineyards in the world and hearing the whisper in my head, You don’t belong here.
I also worry that the assistant vintner who’s coming over to step in here while I’m gone could be better than me, and everyone might like him more.
I should be proud, even thrilled, at this opportunity, and I am, but reality still gnaws at me.
Leaving means putting more pressure on Tarryn, and I have to admit that I might be running from the hardest thing of all—proving I can lead on my own soil instead of someone else’s.
“Tarryn will be lost without you,” Kingston notes.
I shake my head. “She won’t. She’s brilliant. She has the vision, and Trinity, Sadie, Ginny—they’re the soldiers making it happen. I just keep things moving. Plus, they’re sending an assistant vintner over to help out here as part of the exchange.”
He leans back, studying me. “Strange. None of us brothers wanted the vineyard. We followed Mom into medicine. And now, they’ve all partnered with women who are moving the business farther along than we ever imagined.”
I laugh. “Maybe that’s the secret.”
For a second, our eyes lock, and warmth flows through me. He’s close enough that I notice the faint shadows under his eyes, the tired crease at the corner of his mouth, vulnerable details that make him seem more human. Then he scoffs, though he doesn’t elaborate.
I look away, busying myself with chasing sauce around my plate. Dangerous territory.
When we finish, I stack the dishes in the sink, rinsing them as the snowflakes swirl outside the windows. The kitchen is too pristine, too curated, like a life someone else designed and abandoned. I guess that’s what he said it was. I wonder if Kingston ever feels like a guest in his own home.
When I finally turn, he’s half-asleep at the counter, and something inside me softens. The great Kingston Paradise, undone by jetlag. I nudge him and gesture toward the hall. “Go. Bed. Doctor’s orders.”
He gives me a half-smile, almost boyish in its exhaustion, and disappears into his room.
The click of his bedroom door echoes in the stillness. I stand here for a moment, caught between feeling like an intruder and…something else. Something I don’t want to name. I finish cleaning up and retreat to the guest room while the storm swallows the world whole.
The wind buffets the windows, wet, heavy, snow thickening by the minute. But inside, it’s warm, still, almost too quiet.
I pull back the curtain. Outside, snow piles higher and higher, and it may be just what we need to avoid losing the blocks of vines. It’s like a giant, insulating blanket. And my truck is buried somewhere under it, frozen in place, just like me.
I press my hand to the cold glass. I don’t know when I’ll get home.
But I’m also not sure being here is so bad.