Chapter 7
SEVEN
Blackwood Estate
Evening
By the time Aubrey pulled the rental car beneath the wide timber overhang of the Blackwood Estate porte-cochere, full dark had settled over the valley.
Moose met her at the front door.
The Great Pyrenees didn’t bark. He simply pressed his one-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame against her legs the moment she stepped into the echoing silence of the foyer.
For a long, motionless minute, Aubrey stood there with her designer handbag slung over her arm, one hand buried deep in the thick, slightly matted ruff of his neck.
The suffocating scent of funeral lilies still clung to the fibers of her trench coat.
Treasure. Generous. Loyal. Beloved.
Fragments of the eulogies looped relentlessly through her head.
You should’ve known her better.
The thought hit hardest of all, a sudden, heavy ache that caught in her throat.
A flash of light cut through the gloom. Headlights swept briefly across the tall front windows, throwing long, skeletal silhouettes of the porch rockers across the pale walls.
A diesel truck rolled slowly past the house, its tires crunching over the wet gravel before idling to a stop at the foot of the steps.
Bennett.
He didn’t get out. Through the rain-streaked glass of the sidelight, Aubrey watched him reach across the bench seat and lower the passenger window. He sat in the wash of dashboard light, completely motionless, swallowed by the gloom of the truck cab.
Aubrey pushed the heavy front door open, stepping onto the dry expanse of the porch. The cool mountain air moved softly between them.
For a second, neither of them spoke. The truck engine rattled, a low, mechanical heartbeat in the dark.
Finally, Bennett glanced up toward the house, his jaw tight, his dark hair slightly rumpled where he’d clearly plowed a hand through it.
“I’ll be by in the morning,” he said quietly, his low, smoke-roughened growl carrying through the damp air. “First thing. Somebody has to take you through the winery and show you the books.”
Aubrey stepped closer to the railing, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “You volunteered?”
The corner of his mouth moved—a brief, grim twitch—but the hollow, bloodshot sadness in his eyes didn’t budge.
“No,” he said flatly, shifting the truck into reverse. “I lost a bet with a dead woman.”
He let the clutch out. The truck backed down the circle, its taillights bleeding into the gray drizzle before vanishing beyond the thick line of cedar trees guarding the main road.
Behind her, Moose let out a soft, lonely sigh that rattled through his ribs.
Aubrey stood on the porch another moment, staring into the darkness where Bennett's truck had disappeared.
Then she turned toward the front door.
Something white protruded from beneath it.
She frowned.
A folded piece of paper.
Kneeling, she pulled it free and unfolded it.
Four words stared back at her.
GO BACK TO PHILADELPHIA.
She turned the paper over.
Blank.
A chill crept up the back of her neck.
She lifted her gaze, scanning the empty porch before looking out across the rain-soaked vineyards. The mist drifted low between the rows of vines. Nothing moved.
She read the words again.
Yeah?
Whoever had left the note had no idea.
Going back to Philadelphia was exactly what she wanted.
Back to a life she actually understood.
But if she left Blackwood...
...it wouldn't be because someone had told her to.
It would be because she decided to.
She folded the paper into quarters and slipped it into the inside pocket of her trench coat.
Then she stepped inside, locked the front door behind her, and rested her forehead against the cool wood for just a second before following Moose deeper into the silent house.
Vanessa’s House
Night
Vanessa Mercer’s house sat tucked into the trees outside Cullowhee, far enough from Sylva that nobody dropped by unexpectedly and close enough to Asheville to justify the drive during distribution weeks.
The low-slung craftsman glowed beneath the storm, cedar beams and stacked stone washed gold in the soft exterior light while rain whispered through the hemlocks. Wide windows spilled amber light into the dark woods, and inside, low jazz drifted through the quiet mountain night.
Vanessa's presence announced itself the moment Bennett stepped through the door. Warm cedar. Expensive candles. A hint of smoky vanilla and amber. She stood near the glass-fronted wine chiller already holding two stems.
She’d changed out of the black funeral dress into an oversized gray cashmere sweater and dark leggings, her dark hair pinned loosely up with a silver clip that looked expensive without trying to.
A few soft strands framed her face, elegant and composed in a way that always made Bennett feel rougher at the edges standing near her.
She looked up as he entered, her expression softening with that familiar, unruffled calm that never demanded more from him than he knew how to give.
“I figured you’d either end up here,” she said quietly, “or halfway through a bottle of Eagle Rare alone on the ridge.”
“Brought the Tree of Life Reserve,” Bennett muttered, setting the bottle on the soapstone counter.
Vanessa glanced at the label and sighed.
“The First Harvest.” Her eyes lifted back to his. “Mabel would’ve approved of the dramatics.”
Bennett huffed something that almost resembled a laugh.
“Go sit down, Ben,” she said gently. “You look exhausted.”
He didn’t sit.
Instead he drifted toward the windows overlooking the dark line of trees beyond the deck while rain slid steadily down the glass.
Vanessa stepped into his space without crowding him. She took the bottle from his hand, fingers brushing his wrist—a warm, familiar contact that grounded him more than he’d ever admit—and moved back to open it.
When she came up behind him, she slid a glass into his hand and took her place at his shoulder, leaning lightly against his upper arm. She didn’t ask how he was holding up. She never pushed.
“Biltmore Distribution called twice while I was dressing for the service,” Vanessa said softly, watching the rain. “Their restaurant accounts are already nervous about the inheritance.”
Bennett’s expression hardened.
“If she starts gutting this place to impress investors, I’ll burn the tasting brochures myself.”
Vanessa let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh.
“She’s a hospitality executive, Ben. She understands structure and margins, not vineyards. She’s probably overwhelmed.”
“She’s arrogant,” he growled, taking a long swallow of Cabernet. Oak and dark cherry rolled across his tongue, but it didn’t touch the cold sitting in his chest. “She walked into Eleanor’s office acting like everybody around her was trying to steal something.”
“And you provoked her,” Vanessa murmured, studying him over the rim of her glass. There was no jealousy in her gaze, only clear-eyed perception. “Because that’s what you do when someone threatens your perimeter.”
He didn’t answer.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
Vanessa set her glass on the side table and stepped fully into his front, her hands sliding up to rest against the lapels of his open black suit jacket. The front of her sweater brushed his shirt, warm and soft.
"You don't have to pretend you're okay with me," she whispered softly. "Come here."
She wasn’t offering forever. She was offering what she always had: predictable, contained intimacy. Dinners, movies, a bed, and no promises.
Bennett dropped his glass onto the table beside hers. He needed another heartbeat pressed against his. Claire was gone. Now Mabel was gone. The world felt like it was tilting, and Vanessa was the only anchor that still made sense.
Anything was better than the inside of his own head.
He hauled her against him, his fingers tightening on her waist through the expensive sweater. Her breath hitched against his throat. He bent his head and took her mouth in a hard, hungry kiss that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with survival.
Vanessa met him evenly, arms looping around his neck, body molding into his with the easy familiarity of a woman who knew exactly what he could give and what he couldn’t. The soft drag of her sweater against his knuckles, the warmth of her, the faint taste of wine on her lips—it all hit at once.
He angled her head, deepening the kiss. Her nails slid up the back of his neck, a light scrape that made his grip on her hips tighten.
And then, as his mouth pressed harder, a jolt went straight down his spine.
It wasn’t Vanessa he felt.
Jesus.
Behind his closed eyes, rain lashed a dark wood patio. A stubborn chin tipped up in defiance. The taste of blackberries and salt. The exact second Aubrey Langford had gone soft in his arms, fingers fisted in his flannel to stay upright.
Bennett’s breath caught, a rough, unsteady sound against Vanessa’s mouth.
He forced himself to keep going, hands sliding up her back like pressure alone could shove the memory down.
He tugged her sweater over her head, movements quick and almost sharp.
He needed to smother the thought of Aubrey before it rooted any deeper, before it breached his carefully built perimeter.
When they moved to the bedroom, the sex was hard and wordless.
Vanessa met his urgency with her own quiet heat, nails skimming his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his hips with practiced ease.
He gave himself over to motion and muscle and the wet drag of skin on skin, using her body as a shield against the grief, against the valley, against the weight of tomorrow.
He drove into sensation until thinking blurred, until all that existed was breath and heat and the thud of his heart. For a few blessed seconds there was no casket, no will, no green Victorian on the hill.
But when he buried his face in the hollow of Vanessa’s neck, jasmine and expensive shampoo couldn’t quite drown out the ghost of blackberries and rain.
Aubrey bled through in one sharp, unwelcome flash—and then he shoved the memory down hard enough to make his teeth clench.
The moment it was over, while Vanessa’s breathing was still slowing beside him in the dark, Bennett slid out from under the sheets.
“Ben?” she murmured sleepily, reaching toward the empty space.
“Bathroom,” he said, his voice scraped down to gravel.
He walked into the stone-tiled bathroom and shut the door. He didn’t turn on the light. He planted both hands on the edge of the sink, head hanging between his shoulders, chest heaving like he’d climbed the ridge.
He twisted the tap and splashed freezing mountain water over his face again and again, chasing numbness.
In the dim reflection, the thin spill of light from the bedroom cut across the hard lines of his face.
Get a grip, he snarled inwardly. She’s a headache from Philadelphia. She’s Mabel’s niece. A year from now he’d buy her out and forget she was ever here.
The lie tasted like iron on his tongue.
His fingers still trembled against the cold porcelain.
Even this—this one safe, compartmentalized thing with Vanessa—was already being poisoned by a memory he hadn’t asked for and couldn’t control.
He shook his face dry, shoved a hand through his hair, and stood there in the dark for a long time listening to the rain against the small window.
When he finally walked back into the bedroom, he slid in behind Vanessa. She shifted automatically, curling her back against his chest, her breathing deep and even.
He slung an arm over her waist and closed his eyes, forcing his mind to go blank, trying to outrun the dawn.
But somewhere down in the valley, the lights of the green Victorian were still burning through the mist.
And Bennett knew he wasn’t going to get a single minute of sleep before he had to face her.