Chapter 15 #2
By the time dinner is served, the light over the lake has softened into gold.
We eat on the terrace rather than in the formal dining room, where the table has been set simply with linen, candles, and a view that makes everything else feel unnecessary.
The staff moves quietly between courses, and after the first glass of wine, the conversation settles into something far less structured than an interview.
I ask Julian about the way responsibility moves through the family, not the public version of succession or titles, but the quieter things that never appear in company histories.
“Do you and Adrian ever disagree about what Blackwell should become?” I ask.
“Constantly,” Julian replies, cutting into his dinner.
“Adrian thinks in terms of people and perception. I usually think about whether something works.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“It should.”
I smile and take another sip of wine.
“Does that ever create friction?”
“Sometimes. But he sees things I don’t, and I see things he’d rather not spend six hours analyzing.”
“So somehow the two of you make one functional executive.”
Julian looks at me across the table.
“That’s generous.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
His laugh is quiet, and the sound warms something in me that has very little to do with the wine. The conversation shifts from company decisions to the family itself, and I tell him how strange it has been spending weeks inside a dynasty I knew mostly through headlines before this assignment began.
“It’s different once you start seeing the people underneath it,” I say.
“The public version is much cleaner.”
Julian’s gaze stays on mine.
“You probably say that to everyone you interview.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re a journalist. You’re supposed to make people comfortable.”
“I’m supposed to get people to tell me the truth.”
“That sounds remarkably similar.”
I set my glass down.
“You really think I’m flattering you for the article?”
“I think you’re very good at your job.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Julian studies me for a moment before leaning back in his chair.
“No,” he says. “I don’t think you’re flattering me.”
“Good.”
“But I still don’t know which parts of this you’ll eventually decide belong to the story.”
The honesty in his voice takes some of the playfulness out of the moment.
“Neither do I,” I tell him. “Not yet.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“That worries you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I look down at my wine before answering.
“Because I came here expecting to understand the Blackwells better. I didn’t expect to start caring about how the story affects the people inside it.”
Julian says nothing for a moment.
The air between us changes.
“I thought distance was part of the job,” he says.
“It is.”
“And now?”
I meet his eyes.
“Now it’s more complicated.”
His gaze holds mine long enough that I feel the warmth climb slowly beneath my skin. The staff clears the plates and leaves us alone with the wine. Julian reaches for his glass.
“Is there anyone waiting for you back in Philadelphia?” he asks.
The question catches me completely off guard.
“Waiting for me?”
“A man.”
I stare at him. “That was subtle.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
I laugh despite myself.
“No. There’s no one waiting.”
“Was there?”
I take a sip before answering.
“Henry.”
Julian’s expression remains neutral, but his attention sharpens immediately.
“How long?”
“A little over two years.”
“What happened?”
“You really are interviewing me now.”
“I’m curious.”
The word lands differently coming from him.
I look toward the lake for a moment before answering.
“We were good for a while,” I say.
“Or I thought we were. Then somewhere along the way, it became obvious we wanted different things.”
“What did he want?”
“Something easier.”
Julian’s brows draw together slightly.
“That sounds vague.”
“It is.” I smile faintly.
“Henry wanted a relationship that fit neatly around everything else. I wanted someone who actually showed up.”
Julian goes still. I realize too late how close the words come to other things we have already discussed, but he doesn’t point it out.
“Did he?” Julian asks.
“Not enough.”
He turns his wineglass slowly between his fingers.
“Do you still feel anything for him?”
The question is direct enough that I look at him carefully.
“No.”
He holds my gaze.
“You answered that quickly.”
“Because I know the answer.”
Something eases in his expression.
I notice.
“You’re very interested in Henry,” I say.
“I’m interested in whether he matters.”
“He doesn’t.”
Julian’s eyes remain on mine.
The silence between us is warmer now, stripped of the careful distance we carried into the afternoon.
I finish the wine in my glass.
Julian notices that too.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“The wine?”
“Yes.”
“I do.”
He lifts his own glass. “Good.”
I watch him for a moment.
“You picked this.”
Julian’s mouth shifts faintly.
“I may have made a suggestion.”
“A suggestion.”
“That’s usually how these things work.”
“You remembered what I drank.”
His eyes settle on mine again.
“Yes.”
The answer is simple enough to make my pulse jump. I look down at the empty glass before he can see too much in my face. Julian reaches for the bottle and pours a little more into both glasses.
“Another?” he asks.
“You already poured it.”
“I was being polite.”
“That would’ve been more effective before the pouring.”
His smile deepens. I lift the glass and take a slow sip, aware of him watching me over the rim of his own.
The wine has loosened something between us, but neither of us is drunk.
If anything, I feel more conscious of him now than I did when dinner began.
Every held glance lasts a fraction too long.
Every pause carries more than the words around it.
After dinner, Julian takes my glass from the table and nods toward the corridor.
“Come with me.”
I lift an eyebrow.
“That sounded commanding.”
“It wasn’t meant to.”
“That makes it worse.”
His mouth curves as he starts walking, and I follow him through a quieter part of the house, down a wide stone staircase that leads beneath the main level. The temperature drops gradually, the air cooler and drier as we descend.
At the bottom, Julian opens a heavy wooden door.
The wine cellar beyond it is nothing like the cramped brick rooms I have seen in restaurants.
It stretches beneath a series of low arches, climate-controlled and softly lit, with dark wood shelving lining the walls from floor to ceiling.
Hundreds of bottles rest in precise rows, divided by region and vintage.
A long tasting table sits beneath pendant lights in the center of the room, with decanters, crystal glasses, and polished tools arranged at one end.
I stop just inside.
“This is excessive.”
Julian looks back at me.
“You say that about everything here.”
“Because everything here is excessive.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.”
I walk farther into the cellar, trailing my fingers lightly along the edge of one shelf without touching the bottles.
“What am I looking for?” I ask.
“Anything you want.”
“That is an irresponsible thing to say to someone standing in this room.”
“I’ll take the risk.”
I glance over my shoulder. Julian is watching me. The easy warmth from dinner remains in his expression, but something underneath it has sharpened. Maybe it is the wine. Maybe it is the quiet. Maybe it is the fact that there is no one else down here to interrupt the way his eyes move over me.
I turn back toward the shelves. After several minutes, I stop in front of a section of French reds and point toward one of the bottles.
“That one.”
Julian comes up beside me.
“Good choice.”
“You’re not going to tell me I picked the wrong year?”
“No.”
“Disappointing.”
He reaches past me for the bottle and his arm brushes mine. The contact is slight, but my entire body reacts as though he has done something far more deliberate. Heat moves low through me, and I step aside just enough to give him room without creating any real distance.
Julian carries the bottle to the tasting table and removes the cork with practiced ease.
“You do this often?” I ask.
“Open wine?”
“Show journalists around private cellars after dinner.”
His eyes lift to mine.
“No.”
The answer lands cleanly between us.
I move closer to the table.
Julian pours a small amount into one glass, then turns toward me rather than setting it down.
“Smell it first,” he says.
I reach for the glass.
He doesn’t release it.
My fingers close around the stem beneath his hand.
Julian brings the glass slowly toward me.
“Closer.”
My pulse jumps.
I lean in and breathe in the wine, dark fruit and something warmer beneath it. Julian watches my face instead of the glass.
“Well?” he asks.
“It smells good.”
“That’s very technical.”
“I’m off duty.”
“Apparently.”
His voice is lower now. I look up, and can see that we are standing close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through the narrow space between our bodies.
His shirt sleeves are still rolled back from dinner, exposing his forearms, and my attention catches briefly on the strength of his hand around the glass before returning to his face.
“Taste it,” Julian says.
I wrap my hand more securely around his and guide the glass toward my mouth. His gaze drops to my lips. I take a slow sip. The wine is rich and smooth, but I barely register the flavor because Julian’s attention has become impossible to ignore.
I swallow.
“How is it?” he asks.
“Better than the first bottle.”
“That’s insulting.”
“You asked.”
I take another sip without releasing his hand. When I lower the glass, Julian steps closer. My breathing changes. His eyes move over my face, settling briefly on my mouth before returning to mine. Neither of us speaks. Then Julian leans in.
The kiss begins slowly, his mouth brushing mine once as though he is testing the decision before making it. I taste wine on his lips, warm and faintly sharp, and when I kiss him back, the restraint between us collapses almost immediately.