Chapter 31
MINJI
When I got out of the shower, Aaron was already gone for his interview.
He texted me, said he was in the hotel conference room, and that I was more than welcome to join.
I decided not to go. I still needed more time to sort out my feelings.
An hour passes. Then nearly two. The movie I was watching ended as Aaron finally got back to the room.
He looks slightly drained but wears a smile.
“That went longer than expected. The interviewer was a fan and kept going off script.”
“How was it?”
“Good. Great, actually.” He pauses, studying my face. “You, okay?”
“I’m fine,” my voice wobbles. “What time is the wine tasting? I should probably get dressed,” I add, pasting on a smile that feels thin and see-through.
“You’re not fine, but I’m not the type to pry.” He crosses the room to where I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed. He places a small bakery box in my lap—a single golden kouign-amann—and settles beside me, close but not crowding.
I break off a piece of pastry, its warmth and crispness grounding me as I nibble. Aaron scrolls his phone, quietly offering me space. When I’m ready, he senses it—maybe from the way my chewing falters or the sigh I can’t hide. He looks up, thumb pausing mid-scroll, and sets his phone aside.
“Are you regretting this?” he asks gently.
“Not in the way you think.” I wipe my fingers, reach for my water, and lower my voice.
“Happy endings are hard for me to trust, you know?” I confess.
“I see couples come in, treating their marriage like a broken umbrella they’re desperate to return.
” My laugh is thin, almost sharp. “At first, they’re generous.
‘I just want her to be happy’ or ‘As long as he’s comfortable, I don’t care.
’ But then discovery starts, depositions pile up, and by the time the papers are signed, they want each other obliterated.
” I draw in a shaky breath. “There’s this point where love curdles into revenge, and it terrifies me. ”
“You think we’re on the clock, counting down to mutually assured destruction?”
“Not exactly. But if we’re talking odds, us making it past the next six months feels about as likely as me ever sleeping a full eight hours.” I try for a smile, but anxiety prickles at the corners of my eyes.
“I don’t care about statistics,” he says.
“You’re not a statistic. And we don’t have to jump into a relationship right now.
We’re just rekindling, reconnecting. It’d feel inauthentic to rush it.
I don’t want you to confuse great sex with what could be between us.
As much as I love the sex, and believe me, I do, the part I can’t get out of my head is when you relax, when you stop being a lawyer and just exist here. With me.”
I turn to the window, watching the world blur by. “It’s easier for you. You manufacture hope for a living.”
He laughs, not mocking. “I manufacture escapism for a living. People read my books because their lives are messy. Sometimes, I even forget what’s real and what’s just plot.
You know what’s always missing? The morning after.
The days when everyone’s hungover, insecure, and unsure if admitting fear makes them weak or strong. ”
I draw in a shaky breath. “I’m terrified,” I murmur. “Even now, I feel like one wrong word will expose the anxious, tangled mess I really am.”
“You said it yourself, Minji.” He half-smiles, maybe out of relief, maybe nerves. “A decade ago, you tore my heart out and handed it back. I survived.”
“That’s not exactly an endorsement for trying again.”
“No, but it’s proof we’ll survive, even if we mess this up.” He shrugs, palms up. “Besides, I now know where you live and work. I will stop at nothing to make you mine.”
The world is always more than it seems. Every moment, even this one, is tangled with risk and the constant pull of ‘What if?’ But right now, sitting here, I want to try it his way. For once, hope flickers brighter than doubt, kindling something warm inside me.
“Okay.” The word feels like a dare, the bravest thing I can manage. “But if I torch your life again, you’ll only have yourself to blame.” He grins, all wild sunshine and dimples, the sort of smile that could light up a city.
“I’m flame resistant,” he promises, and for a moment, I almost believe him.
We lie there for a long time, side by side on the rumpled comforter, not touching but not quite apart.
The TV murmurs in the background—some Netflix documentary with penguins and soothing narration—but I can’t recall a single fact.
I’m too busy memorizing this new kind of quiet, the way it settles around us.
Eventually, the clock nudges us back to reality: we can’t show up to the tasting in pajamas and bedhead.
Aaron is up first, stretching with the lazy confidence of someone who knows he looks good in any light.
He pulls on black jeans, a blue Oxford with the collar open showing his gold chain, sleeves rolled, and a watch so understated it takes me a moment to spot its quiet luxury.
He doesn’t flaunt his wealth, but I know for a fact that Aaron gets paid handsomely for his books.
I choose a pink knit dress that signals laid-back sophistication from a distance, but up close, it’s all soft lines and clever tailoring. The label is forgettable, but I love how it makes my arms look strong. I add a navy blazer and low boots.
The elevator ride is a private event, just us and the lingering echo of our conversation.
I lean against the mirrored wall, watching us reflected in triplicate, and wonder which version of me Aaron prefers: the smiling one, the anxious one, the one who sometimes forgets to breathe when she’s happy.
He doesn’t say anything, just offers his hand in that small but deliberate way, and I take it.
For the first time, the gesture isn’t just a means of steadying myself—it’s something I want.
Downstairs, the concierge has a car waiting—nothing flashy, just quietly luxurious, with black-tinted windows and an interior that swallows up the world outside.
I half-expect Aaron to crack a joke about being chauffeured, but he just slides in next to me, gaze fixed on the skyline.
He has a way of turning even a car ride into the start of something, and I catch his mood.
By the time we’re halfway to the winery, my pulse has steadied, and my mind has stopped interrogating itself.
We glide past rolling fields and neat suburban houses, each one placed with the precision of a meticulous, design-obsessed deity. The car is so quiet I can hear Aaron’s breathing, and for a moment, I match mine to his, an accidental meditation.
As the car slows at the entrance to Napa Valley Reserve, I brace for showy architecture, but the estate is quietly elegant.
Manicured, but not cold: gravel paths winding past low stone buildings draped in vines, everything bathed in late-afternoon gold.
The fountain is more whisper than showpiece, water slipping over mossy stone into a lavender-ringed pool.
I notice I’m gripping my clutch with both hands and will myself to relax.
“This place is gorgeous.” I exhale, and it comes out more honest than intended. Aaron glances over, smiling. “Right? Wait until you see the inside. It’s like being inside a wine bottle, but in a good way.”
A valet opens my door, and we step inside, greeted by a hostess with the posture of a sommelier or maybe a retired ballerina—her posture is that good.
She takes Aaron’s name, her face brightening with a mix of recognition and secret delight.
For a heartbeat, I wonder if he’s brought someone else here before, but the thought dissolves when he threads his fingers through mine and lets me lead.
Inside, the centerpiece is a glass-walled atrium with a sweeping view of the vineyard.
The light is golden and diffuse, softening every edge like a film set.
Our table for two is dressed in white linen and delicate china, special enough to be a little daunting.
I let Aaron have the seat with the view—not just because he’ll love it, but because I like watching him take it all in.
The hostess—Linda—asks if we’re celebrating. I almost say no, but Aaron jumps in, “Yes, absolutely.” Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. I shoot him a look, but he just grins, shameless and bright.
When Linda finally departs, he lowers his voice. “I hope that’s not too much. You just look like someone who deserves to be celebrated today.”
I snort, but it’s not mean. “You don’t even know what I did.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re here. That’s enough.”
The waiter sets down a tiny amuse-bouche—something that looks like futuristic bruschetta and tastes like a brief escape from my own mind.
The sommelier arrives, sleeves rolled, voice smooth as velvet, describing wine like its poetry.
Aaron keeps pace, tossing out tasting notes and technical terms, and I realize he’s not showing off—he’s just genuinely lit up by this, the same way he is about his writing.
My phone buzzes on the table, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I sneak a glance.
Demi
You haven’t called in hours, so it seems like everything is going well. Checked your location, and you are at a winery. Bring me back a bottle or three. And if Aaron is paying, get the good stuff.
Me
I’ll think about it.
I flip my phone over and meet Aaron’s gaze.
The wine tasting becomes a playful duel of palates and banter.
He swirls his glass, inhales, and declares with mock drama and an eyebrow arched in challenge, “Notes of dark cherry.” I sip slowly, letting the wine linger before replying, “Heavy on plum skin, with a finish that promises regret tomorrow.” His laughter rings out, turning heads.
Something stirs low in my belly—equal parts affection and want.
The wine hits me quicker than I’d like to admit.
The charcuterie board arrives—jamón sliced paper-thin, honeycomb glistening, cheeses with names that sound like French villages.
Aaron pinches a wedge, leans in, and promptly drops it on the tablecloth.
I snort, unable to help myself. He just grins, dimples deepening, and pops it into his mouth without hesitation.
The server brings a fifth pour, something rare from the reserve.
“For luck.” I know he’s just pushing the envelope, as always.
Between sips, our conversation slips into childhood—not the polished stories, but the odd, vivid memories that made us.
I admit to skipping school for a disastrous K-pop audition.
He confesses to stealing books from the orphanage’s library, desperate to own something in a world where nothing was his.
Our stories weave together in the golden light until the world narrows to this: his voice, my laughter, and the warmth blooming inside me.
After a few minutes, he excuses himself from the table.
I watch him weave through the tiled path toward the fancy bathrooms, hands in his pockets, body language finally loose.
When the glass doors close behind him, I exhale for the first time in ages.
My heart buzzes. It’s like the moment after a roller coaster lets you go—it surprises you, how much you craved the drop.
My phone pings, and I’m reluctant to look, but Aaron isn’t at the table, so it should be fine.
Aaron
Grab your things and come inside. I was able to finesse us a private room.
Aaron
Never mind, I’m coming back for you. I don’t need you stumbling with all that wine you had lol.
He reappears from the main atrium, a little flushed, carrying a breath of fresh air with him.
“Minji Lee, your chariot awaits,” he announces, hand extended.
I laugh—awkward and surprised at first, but it softens as my fingers slip into his.
The staff nods as we pass, but I can’t help noticing how their eyes linger.
Maybe it’s the city-girl-in-Napa effect, or maybe Aaron’s right and we just look like people who wear their old heartbreaks like badges.
The private room is just as I imagined, tucked away at the back of the winery with no windows.
Inside, it’s beautiful and softly lit, old cinderblock walls lined with wine bottles sorted by year and region.
A sturdy oak table waits for just the two of us.
The air is cool, the concrete floor echoing our footsteps as Aaron pulls out my chair.
“I took the liberty of ordering us an early dinner, and once dinner arrives, we won’t be disturbed until I open that door.” He smiles and those dimples are on full display.
Oh.
My heart skids in my chest, fully aware of what ‘undisturbed’ means with Aaron.
I sink lower in my chair, giddy and restless, twisting my napkin as the staff delivers a dazzling spread.
Perfectly rare steak with seared shallots, vivid greens, and crispy potatoes.
But it’s the glasses of ruby cabernet that hold my gaze—three for each of us, flighted and numbered on a tiny card.
Aaron watches me as I take small sips. He’s tempting me with the sweetest kind of poison.
And I’m ready to let him.
He watches me with a hunger that dares me to look away first. I don’t. Instead, I swirl the last of my wine and bring it to my lips, slowly. “You know this is all a seduction, right?” I flirt, matching his energy.
Aaron nods, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Is it working?”
I put the glass down and push my chair back, bracing both hands on the iron-studded edge of the table. The world tilts just enough. “Let’s find out.”