Chapter 9 Isabel
ISABEL
The first night, we’d fallen asleep out of exhaustion. The second night, I had no idea what to expect.
We hadn’t talked about the sleeping arrangements. When we decided to go to bed, he’d simply climbed in beside me, and I’d let him. It felt natural. Safe. His hand on my stomach, and his body curved around mine.
Now, two nights later, my fear had faded and my exhaustion had lifted. I lay on my side of the bed—my side, like we’d already established sides—and listened to Kick breathe. He was on his back, one arm flung over his head, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
I should sleep, but I couldn’t. I was too aware of the man lying inches away from me. Very, very aware.
When he shifted and his arm brushed against mine, I held my breath.
“You’re not sleeping,” he said quietly.
“Apparently, neither are you.”
Silence stretched between us. I could hear my own heartbeat, loud in the darkness.
“Is me being here okay?” he asked. “I can sleep in the other room if it isn’t.”
“No.” I answered too quickly. “I mean, yes. I want you here.”
His hand found mine under the covers, and he laced our fingers together. Just that. Just holding hands in the dark.
“Good night, Isabel.”
“Good night.”
I didn’t sleep for another hour.
When morning light filtered through the curtains, I woke to find myself wrapped around him.
At some point in the night, I’d rolled toward his warmth. My head rested on his shoulder, my leg was thrown over his, and my hand was curled on his chest. His arm was around me, holding me close even in sleep.
I should have moved. Should have extracted myself before he woke up and this became awkward.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I lay listening to his heartbeat, feeling his chest rise and fall. He stirred, and his arm tightened around me reflexively.
“Morning,” he mumbled, sounding half asleep.
“Morning.”
Neither of us moved. His hand slid up my back, then down again—a slow, lazy stroke that made my skin prickle.
“Did you sleep?” he asked.
“Eventually.”
He laughed softly. “Yeah. Me too.”
We lay there for another few minutes. I could feel his heart rate picking up, feel the tension building in his body. Feel my own pulse quickening in response.
Then his stomach growled, loud and insistent, and we both laughed.
“Breakfast,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Stay in bed. I’ll bring it to you.”
He slid out from under me, and I immediately missed his warmth.
When Bas first showed me the cottage, it felt too big for me alone. Now that Kick was here, it seemed tiny.
It meant I could hear him everywhere. Making coffee in the kitchen while I lay in bed, listening to the clink of mugs and the gurgle of the pot.
Showering in the bathroom while I tried not to picture the water streaming down his back, his chest, and lower.
Working at the dining table while I sat on the sofa, close enough that his scent drifted in my direction every time he shifted.
It meant his things were everywhere too.
His toothbrush with mine in the holder—blue beside my purple, bristles almost touching.
His jacket on the hook by the door. His boots by the entrance, huge next to my flats.
His laptop on the table, his papers spread across the surface, and his coffee mug leaving rings on the wood.
It meant learning his sounds, his rhythms. The way he hummed when he was thinking—always off-key, always the same nameless tune. The way he cracked his knuckles when he’d been typing for too long. The way he said my name, soft and warm, like it meant something in his mouth.
By Wednesday, I knew his morning routine by heart. Up before me. Shower. Coffee. Breakfast. Check his phone for messages from his family. Start working on the distribution analysis Thomas had sent over.
By Wednesday, I also knew I was in trouble.
“I’ve been looking at their club membership numbers,” I said that afternoon, desperate for something to focus on besides the way his forearms looked when he rolled up his sleeves. “They’re hemorrhaging subscribers.”
“How bad?”
“Fifteen-percent drop in the last two years, with nowhere near enough new sign-ups to keep pace.”
He set his pen down, crossed to the sofa, and sat down too close, yet not close enough. His thigh pressed against mine through the fabric of my leggings.
“Show me,” he said.
I turned the laptop so he could see, hyperaware of his proximity. The warmth of his body. The way he leaned in to look at the screen, his shoulder brushing mine.
“Lack of engagement,” I said. “They send a quarterly shipment and a generic newsletter. No events, no exclusive access, no reason to feel special. Compare that to what boutique wineries are doing—virtual tastings with the winemaker, first access to limited releases, members-only dinners.”
“So they’re competing on price alone.”
“Which they can’t win. Not against the big producers.”
He nodded slowly and studied the screen. “That ties into what I was thinking about the reserve program. They’re underselling their best bottles. The 2019 Estate Pinot is better than half the stuff coming out of Burgundy, and they’re pricing it thirty percent below comparable wines.”
“Scarcity and story,” I said. “Limit production, create a wait list, make people feel like they’re part of something exclusive.”
“Exactly.” He turned to look at me, and suddenly, his face was very close. “If you’re building emotional investment through content, the wait list becomes aspirational. People aren’t just buying wine—they’re buying membership.”
“And if you combine that with the right distribution partners—”
“You create buzz from multiple directions.” His eyes were bright now, animated. “Influencers find you on social media. Sommeliers discover you through distribution. They start talking to each other, and suddenly, Whitmore isn’t a legacy winery trying to stay relevant—”
“It’s the place everyone wants to be a member of,” I finished.
“A rediscovery narrative.”
We stared at each other. The air felt charged. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then traveled back up.
“We should write this up,” Kick said. “Then present it to Thomas together.”
“Together?”
“You have the marketing vision. I have the distribution connections.” He paused. “If you want to. I don’t want to step on—”
“No. Yes. We should.” I was aware I was rambling, aware I was still looking at his mouth. “This makes sense.”
He smiled, slow and warm. “We make a good team, Van Orr.”
“Don’t let it go to your head, Avila.”
His smile widened into a grin. He didn’t move away. Neither did I.
For several seconds, we just sat there, too close, the tension humming between us.
Then his phone buzzed on the table, and the spell was broken.
That night was worse.
I lay in bed, listening to Kick move around the bathroom. The water running. The brush of teeth. The flush of the toilet. Such mundane sounds, but I was tracking every one of them, my whole body attuned to his presence.
The bathroom door opened. His footsteps crossed the floor. The mattress dipped as he climbed into bed.
“Still awake?” he asked.
“Still awake.”
He rolled onto his side, facing me. In the dim light from the moon, I could see his slight smile and the shadow of stubble on his jaw.
“What are you thinking about?”
You. Your hands. The way you looked at me today. The way I wanted you to kiss me.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just, um, adjusting.”
“To what?”
“This. Living with someone.” I paused. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Never?”
“Boarding schools. Then my own apartment at Berkeley. Then back to the mansion, but that was just me and the staff. My father was barely there.” I stared at the ceiling. “I didn’t realize how quiet my life was until you showed up and made it loud.”
“I’m loud?”
“You hum when you think. You talk to yourself when you’re reading. You sing in the shower—badly, by the way.”
“Wrong. I have a beautiful singing voice.” He laughed. “But sorry, I’ll try to keep it down.”
“I didn’t say I minded.”
Silence. I could feel him looking at me.
“Isabel,” he said softly.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad I’m here.”
My throat tightened. “Me too.”
He reached out and took my hand, lifted it to his lips, and pressed a kiss to my knuckles that made my heart stutter.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night.”
He didn’t let go of my hand. We fell asleep with our fingers intertwined.
Thursday morning, I woke to an empty bed and the smell of bacon frying.
I padded out to the kitchen to find Kick at the stove, shirtless, wearing only his sweats. His back was to me, and I could see his muscles shift as he worked the spatula.
I stopped in the doorway and stared.
This was unfair. Completely, utterly unfair. How was I supposed to maintain any kind of emotional distance when he looked like that? When he moved like that? When he was standing in my kitchen, making me breakfast but looking sexy as fuck?
“Morning,” he said without turning around. “Coffee’s ready.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Heard you.” He glanced over his shoulder, caught me staring, and smiled. “Like what you see?”
“Put a shirt on.”
“Why?” He turned back to the stove. “You’ve seen me in less.”
My face went hot. “That was different.”
“How so?”
“We were—that was—” I gave up and poured myself a cup of coffee. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it.”
I did. That was the problem.
After breakfast, he went to shower and I stayed on the sofa, with my laptop, trying to focus on the membership analysis and not to think about him naked in the other room.
The water turned off, the bathroom door opened, and he walked out with a towel around his waist and nothing else.
Water droplets clung to his shoulders and his chest. His hair was dark and wet, pushed back from his face. The towel sat low on his hips, revealing the cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the white cotton.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Forgot my clothes,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. His eyes held mine as he passed, slow, deliberate.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
But two could play this game.
That afternoon, I changed into a tank top and shorts. Nothing I wouldn’t normally wear around the cottage. But I made sure to stretch and lean over my laptop in a way that gave him a view.
His jaw tightened, his eyes darkened, and his pen stopped moving across his notepad.
“Problem?” I asked innocently.
“You’re playing with fire, Van Orr.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He set his pen down, stood up, and crossed the room in three long strides.
“I mean,” he said, standing over me, “that I’m trying very hard to be a gentleman here. But you’re making it extremely difficult.”
I looked up at him. “Maybe I don’t want you to be a gentleman.”
Something shifted in his expression. Want. Need. Restraint straining at the edges.
“Isabel, if we do this—”
“I know.”
“Once we cross the line, we can’t go back.”
“I know.”
“And you still—”
“Kick.” I reached up and grabbed his shirt. “Stop talking.”