Chapter 27 Louise
LOUISE
Pushing through the heavy door, I flicked on a light switch. A soft golden glow spilled down a curved stone staircase, the steps descending in a gentle spiral like something out of an old European estate. The air shifted instantly—cooler, heavier, laced with the scent of earth, dust, and aged wood.
I crept down, one hand trailing the wrought iron railing, and emerged into what could only be described as the mother of all man caves.
The basement stretched out before me, massive and dimly lit, with hand-chiseled stone walls and vaulted ceilings supported by exposed timber beams. A long mahogany bar ran the length of one wall, polished to a soft gleam, flanked by high-backed leather stools.
To the side, a chef’s kitchen sat quietly in wait, stainless steel appliances gleaming like silver armor in the low light.
Despite the luxury, the space was empty. Not a glass on the bar. Not a single chair out of place. Like the rest of the house, it was pristine—almost untouched. And cold. Ten degrees colder than upstairs, which meant my blood would freeze in exactly eight minutes.
I wrapped my arms around myself and stepped deeper into the room. That’s when I saw it.
A wide stone archway on the far side of the bar, carved with ornate flourishes and nestled in a wall of granite. I stepped closer, drawn in by the faintest glint of glass. Beyond the arch, I entered a room that quite literally took my breath away.
It was a wine cellar—but not just any wine cellar.
A work of art. The walls were carved directly into the mountain rock, their surfaces lined with handcrafted stone shelves that bowed gently under the weight of bottles.
Hundreds of them. Recessed lighting behind the shelves cast a warm, amber glow, reflecting off glass in soft, golden halos.
The bottles were exquisite. No bargain-bin selections here.
Burgundy, Bordeaux, Barolo—all perfectly aged, many with handwritten labels in elegant script.
Some were wrapped in velvet ribbons, sealed with wax, or tucked into wooden crates with delicate straw.
I recognized a few from the top shelf at high-end bars—wines that cost more than my car payment.
Others were labeled in French, Italian, even Greek.
One bottle in particular caught my eye—tall, slender, wrapped in gold twine with a wax-stamped seal across the cork. The label was faded, handwritten, and unmistakably French. I had no idea what it said, but it looked expensive. Really expensive.
Smirking to myself, I reached up on tiptoe and plucked it from the shelf, the bottle cool and smooth in my hand.
“Don’t mind if I do,” I whispered, glancing back toward the staircase with a grin.
I danced back up the steps with my prize where the scent of Cajun spices mingled with baking bread. As I walked into the kitchen, Ryder was pulling golden-brown hush puppies from the oven. Catfish sizzled on the stove’s grill top.
Hush puppies? That’s it. I was officially in love.
He glanced at the bottle in my hand and popped a brow. Yep, definitely expensive, and nope, I didn’t care one bit.
“Wineglasses are in the cabinet to my left.”
“Thanks.” I breezed past him, pulled open the door and retrieved the largest glass I could find, a copper goblet with antler ears shooting out the sides.
Grinning, I lifted the cup. “Is there a sense of humor here that I’m not aware of?”
“Absolutely not. I got it for free with a case of beer—not wine, to be clear.” He slid me the side-eye.
“Ah. Ryder disapproves of the glass I’ve chosen.
What a surprise. Well I think it’s perfect for wine.
Actually… wait.” I sauntered into the utility closet, found the duct tape, tore off a piece with my teeth, then went back to the kitchen and wrapped it around one of the antlers. “Now it’s perfect.”
Ryder cleared his throat.
I wanted to yank out the cork with my teeth, but since that wasn’t possible, I found a wine opener with the wineglasses. That chore done, I poured a third of the bottle into the cup and held it up in a toast. Ryder was giving me his full attention now.
“Cheers.” I sipped. “Holy smokes.”
He nodded, pleased with the reaction, then went back to cooking the filets.
The wine was like nothing I’d ever tasted before, smooth and smoky with a chocolate finish. Not bitter or tart; perfection in a bottle. I began to wonder if the gold strings around the neck were real.
I watched him set the first batch of catfish on a cooling rack, then drop a few more into the pan.
“Are you sure I can’t help with anything?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” I didn’t sit but stayed next to the breakfast nook, which was where I felt like he wanted me.
An energy seemed to bounce between us now that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
I took another gulp. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“I feed myself.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“When you feed yourself, you cook.”
“Hush puppies and catfish from scratch isn’t just feeding yourself. I don’t know how to make either of those things. Shocker, I know.”
“Well, you might want to sit down for this, Louise, because you’re about to watch me make a salad from scratch.”
“That I can do.” I set down the wine and stepped over to the kitchen, eager to do something. I turned on the faucet. “Don’t worry, I’ll wash my hands real good for you. And I’m up to date on all my vaccines.”
“It’s fine. I can handle it.”
“Let me help. What’s wrong with you? Geez. Accept the help.”
I wiped my hands on the towel, watching him. What an interesting creature he was.
I pulled open the refrigerator door. “Whoa…”
Much like the utility closet, the refrigerator was spotless and organized by size and shape, but it was the fact that everything appeared to be homemade or harvested that made my jaw drop.
Nothing was factory-packaged with a name brand.
The fridge was filled to the brim with stacks of glass containers, plastic containers, and jugs of liquid.
“Where do you get all this food?”
“Like I said, I feed myself.”
“How?”
“My land.”
“All this comes from your land?”
“Did you sleep through Agri in high school?”
“I slept through a lot of things in high school.”
He grabbed his whiskey and took a deep sip.
“Do you really hunt and fish for all your food?”
“And farm. Do you understand how refrigerators work?”
I realized I was standing there with the door open. Rolling my eyes, I muttered, “It’s not like there’s a bunch of heat getting in.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. If you really want to help, grab the lettuce, tomato, cucumbers, and peppers.”
I piled the ingredients in my arms. “How did you grow this in the winter?”
“I have a greenhouse.”
I dumped them onto the counter, kicking the fridge door closed with my boot. “Are you some sort of survivalist or something? Where are your bowls?”
“No. Cabinet next to the wineglasses.”
I grabbed a knife and a cutting board, and began chopping the salad.
The oven dinged.
“I’ve never had baked hush puppies before,” I said.
“They’re healthier.”
“But are they as good?”
“I’m on pins and needles for your review, Louise.”
“I’ll bet you are.” I grinned. “I tried the organic thing once. Didn’t stick.”
“Try growing the food yourself. There’s pride in it. Makes it taste better.”
“Okay, but that only gets me fruits and veggies. You saw how I handled fish heads.”
“There used to be a great meat market in town. You should check it out while you’re here. They have catfish too. You could stock up and freeze it.”
“Where is it?”
“Used to be off the square.”
“Used to be?”
“Not sure if it’s still there.”
“Don’t you ever go into town?”
“No.”
With that single word, the conversation died.
A few minutes passed as I made the salad and Ryder finished grilling the fish. As I worked, I inventoried everything I knew about him.
Antisocial hermit? Check. Arrogant? Check. Minimalist? Check. No furniture, electronics, or clothes. Yet he appeared to indulge in luxuries such as a bed to rival the queen of England’s, a wine cellar to rival a five-star resort, and a million-dollar house.
Nothing about Ryder added up.
I added the last of the cucumber slices to the salad. “Done.”
“Good. Sit.”
“You’re welcome.”
He rearranged my salad, not pleased with my toss. Next, he plated the fried catfish and hush puppies. One by one, he brought the plates over, including a side dish with sliced lemons. Because catfish wasn’t catfish without lemons.
Lastly, he placed a glass jar on the table. “Lemon vinaigrette for the salad.”
“Homemade?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ma’am. I stared at him a moment. There appeared to be little flashes of chivalry in the man, buried deep inside as if he’d either intentionally pushed the manners away, or had simply fallen out of practice.
Ryder didn’t serve me. Instead, he slipped an empty plate and silverware in front of me.
When he nodded for me to go ahead, I loaded my plate with a third of the amount I really wanted. He, on the other hand, loaded his to the rim.
Leaving me at the table, Ryder took his plate to the counter, leaned against it, and dug in. Message received. And just as well, because now I didn’t have to worry about him judging how much I ate or how much I drank.
I gulped my wine and bit into a hush puppy. When I looked up, he was eyeing me over his whiskey.
“Okay,” I mumbled around chewing. “That’s really good.” It was. No lie.
“Told you.”
I grabbed a lemon slice and squeezed it on my fish. This also seemed to please him. The fish was delicious, light and flavorful.
A few minutes passed while we ate in silence. Ryder was a fantastic cook. I noticed that he ate slowly, as if savoring each bite. This surprised me, but worked to my favor as I slipped seconds onto my plate without him noticing.
He even used a napkin.
“What kind of wine is this?” I asked, the buzz beginning to kick in.
“A fifteen-hundred-dollar one.”
“What?” I gaped. “You let me drink a fifteen-hundred-dollar bottle of wine with river fish?”
“Don’t insult my fish.”
“You should have said something! I feel terrible.”
“You should. Catfish are some of the best fish to grill.”
“I meant about the wine. I didn’t realize I’d grabbed the most expensive bottle.”
“You didn’t. The row above is the twenty-K bottles.”
“You have twenty-thousand-dollar bottles of wine?”
“Those are reserved for crawdad legs,” he deadpanned.
I laughed. “Can I ask you something?”
“You already have. Many, many things, in fact.”
“You said you’ve been here for almost two years, right?”
He popped a hush puppy into his mouth.
“What’s with the lack of furniture?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed deeply. Finally, he said, “I like my space.”
“Why?”
He picked up his drink and drained the contents. It was the first time I saw something other than cool confidence in the guy. He was immediately uncomfortable.
“And why no TVs?” I pressed.
“I don’t like background noise.”
“So keep them off. Don’t you care to watch the news? Check it from time to time, at least?”
“I despise the news.”
A moment stretched out. He began to eat faster. The mood in the room had completely shifted.
I drained my wine.
“Okay. One more question. I’d like to know what it is about me that bothers you so much.”
He narrowed his eyes, his head tilting to the side. “My turn to ask the questions, Miss Sloane. For starters, I’d like to know what brought you to Berry Springs in the middle of a snowstorm.”