Chapter 6
Alexander
I don’t know what makes me follow her. I never chase after anyone—never have to. But something in Mia’s voice, the pain just under the surface, pulls me in before I can think better of it.
“What’s wrong with her?” Marcus mutters, frustration in his voice.
Tyler shakes his head, looking guilty. “We’re acting like asses. All three of us.”
I don’t wait for the rest.
I leave them on the balcony, letting my feet follow her down winding halls and old stairways, finally into the cool stone quiet of the wine cellar.
The memory of her expression—defiant, hurting—echoes in my mind.
She’s Jarrod’s daughter, she’s Sarah’s best friend, but right now, she’s just Mia, hiding in a room that smells like old secrets.
The wine cellar is cool and shadowed, lined with aged bottles and memories. She’s there, her back to the shelves, pretending to study the old vintages. When she hears me, she squares her shoulders, lifting her chin, calm and proud. She plays it cool, but I can see the anger burning under her skin.
I step closer, watching the way her breathing quickens, the little flare of her nostrils, the pulse fluttering at her throat. “You have the same stubborn streak your father has,” I say quietly, the words soft but pointed.
She lifts her eyes to mine, refusing to back down. “Maybe I do. Maybe it’s the only thing keeping me together right now.”
I close the distance between us, drawn in by something I can’t name. I reach out, running my finger gently along her cheek, feeling her warmth, the way she tenses at my touch.
Her eyes blaze, fierce and bright in the dim light. “Don’t touch me,” she snaps, every word daring me to try again.
A slow smile touches my lips. “I think you need touching. Often.”
Her chin lifts, lips parted, eyes flashing. “But no one says it should be you doing it.”
There’s a beat of silence, the air electric between us. For a moment, I almost forget why I came down here at all.
She glares at me, defiance in every inch of her. I know she’s hurting, so I don’t press closer, even if every nerve is pulling me that way. Instead, I let my hand fall away, slow, letting my fingers brush her jaw as I withdraw.
She keeps her chin high. “You think you know what I need?” she taunts, crossing her arms.
“I have my guesses,” I reply, watching her, a smirk tugging at my mouth. “I know an expensive vintage won’t solve your problems right now.”
She rolls her eyes and leans back against the shelf, deliberately casual, trying to keep the upper hand. “What do you even drink—ice-cold scotch and the tears of your rivals?”
For the first time tonight, I let myself laugh. The sound is rough, genuine. “I’ll have you know, I know more about these bottles than your father’s entire sommelier staff.”
She quirks an eyebrow, skeptical. “Prove it. Pick the best one in here. If you’re wrong, you owe me a real apology. If you’re right, I’ll drink with you.”
I arch a brow, stepping closer. “You think I don’t appreciate good wine?”
“Most men like you only pretend,” she says, a challenge glinting in her eyes. “But maybe you can prove me wrong.”
I let my gaze linger on her, slow and deliberate, before turning to scan the racks. I run my fingers over labels until I find one tucked away near the back—a deep, dusky Bordeaux, old and rare. I pluck it from the shelf and hold it up, the dust catching the cellar’s muted light.
“This,” I say, showing her the label, “is the best in the room. Full-bodied, dark fruit, a little pepper on the finish. Not everyone can handle it.”
She crosses her arms, clearly trying not to show how intrigued she is. “Big words for someone who might just be bluffing.”
I grab a nearby corkscrew and remove the cork. Then, instead of searching for glasses, I lift the bottle, letting it catch the golden cellar light.
She watches me, eyes full of challenge and something far hotter. “Not even going to bother with a glass?”
I smirk. “Why waste time?”
I tip the bottle, take a slow, deep sip, letting the wine roll over my tongue.
Bold, dark, a hint of wildness—perfect. I keep my gaze on hers, letting her see just how much I enjoy it.
When I lower the bottle, I offer it to her, my fingers brushing hers in the exchange, lingering just a little too long.
Her lips curve with a reckless grin. “All right, Alexander. Let’s see if you know what you’re talking about.”
She raises the bottle, her mouth closing over the rim where mine just was. She takes a long, confident sip, throat working as she swallows, never looking away. Her cheeks flush, whether from the wine or from the way I’m watching her, I can’t tell.
She lowers the bottle, lips glistening, eyes blazing with a heat that makes me want to forget every rule I ever made about what’s off-limits. “Not bad,” she says, her voice low and slightly rough. “You have good taste.”
I step closer, just enough to close the last of the distance between us. “It’s a good vintage,” I murmur, voice almost touching her skin. “Strong, bold, leaves an impression.”
She’s still holding the bottle, her lips stained dark from the wine, the flush in her cheeks making her look almost wicked. I can’t stop watching her.
I realize I’ve been unraveling since the moment I saw her at the rental counter in Boston.
I’d noticed her right away, even before I realized who she was.
That stubborn, self-possessed air. The way she spoke to the desk clerk—firm, almost amused, absolutely unwilling to let anyone bulldoze her.
I remember being struck by her beauty, but it was the quiet strength that got my attention.
Even annoyed, she had poise. I’d found myself wanting to know who she was.
I should have known then to keep my distance. But I didn’t.
Later, at the lodge, I walked into the lobby to find Tyler already orbiting her, tossing out jokes and flirtatious grins.
It was like watching a spark hit dry grass.
She lit up around him, laughing, her guard falling away piece by piece as he worked his easy charm.
I stood there, feeling an unfamiliar prickle of jealousy—a feeling I rarely allow myself, and never for a woman I barely know.
It’s ridiculous, but I can’t shake it. Tyler’s good at winning people over. He’s reckless with his affection, and women never stay angry with him for long. But with Mia, I want to be the reason she smiles, the reason she lets go. I want to see her eyes change when she looks at me, not my brother.
Now, in the cool shadows of the wine cellar, watching the flush bloom on her cheeks and the fire in her eyes as she holds the bottle out to me again, I realize the feeling has only grown stronger.
I want her—her sass, her courage, her honesty.
I want to burn in this heat, even if it means crossing every line I once swore I wouldn’t.
I step a little closer, letting the tension stretch between us. My voice drops low, almost a whisper. “You know, I’ve been wanting to get you alone since the first moment I saw you at the airport.”
She tilts her chin up, daring me. “You think you’re so smooth.”
I let my knuckles brush her jaw, slow and deliberate. “I know what I want,” I say, my voice as steady as I can manage. “And right now, it’s you.”
The silence between us grows heavy, each heartbeat thick with possibility.
Mia’s eyes linger on my mouth as I move a little closer, close enough to feel her breath mingling with mine, scented with wine and something sweetly her own.
Down here, in the hush of old stone and oak, everything feels more dangerous, more private, more real.
I reach for the bottle in her hand, my fingers brushing along hers, slow and deliberate, and I set the wine aside on a nearby table. Our gazes tangle, the air practically vibrating with the want swirling between us.
She tilts her head back, eyes blazing, lips parted—an invitation and a challenge all at once. I slide my hand to the back of her neck, gentle at first, testing her resistance. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she presses into my touch, her breath coming quicker now.
She doesn’t hesitate anymore. Her hands curl into the front of my shirt, pulling me to her.
Her lips crash against mine—hungry, daring, letting me feel all that defiance and longing in a single, burning kiss.
The taste of wine, sweet and dark, mixes with the hot slide of her tongue, and it’s all I can do not to lose myself completely.
My hands roam, gripping her waist, drawing her closer until there’s not even a breath between us. Bottles rattle behind her, but neither of us cares. She arches into me, her hands pulling me closer by my shirt, mouth parting for me.
She kisses me fiercely, her fingers tracing the muscles of my shoulders, her body molding to mine in the narrow space. Her leg slips between mine, her hips rolling up, seeking friction, her hands sliding beneath my jacket, finding skin.
I break away just long enough to look at her, both of us breathless, lips swollen and eyes dark with need. “Are you sure?” I murmur, voice rough.
Her answer is to pull me down, her mouth claiming mine, hungrier, more desperate.
I let my hands explore her curves, memorizing the press of her waist, the shape of her thighs, the heat radiating through every layer between us.
Her fingers find my belt, teasing, daring, her nails scratching lightly at my skin.
We lose ourselves in that secret corner of the cellar, the old stone and ancient vintages bearing silent witness as we let go of everything but each other.
My mouth trails down her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, her head tipping back as a soft moan escapes her lips.
I want to devour her, savor every inch, leave her marked with the memory of this night.