Chapter 9
NINE
Blackwood Estate Winery
Tank Room
The shift from the air-conditioned office to the main production floor hit like a wall. The breezeway was already a kiln, but the moment Bennett shoved open the insulated double doors to the Tank Room, the air dropped to a damp, echoing chill.
Three-story stainless steel fermentation tanks lined the walls like silver monoliths, their jackets sweating in the humidity. The sloped concrete floor was cut by steel drainage grates that gurgled with water. The air carried a sharp bite—sulfur cleaners, damp stone, the ghost of fermenting grapes.
A pressure washer hummed near the back pad, throwing up plumes of white steam.
“Keep your head up,” Bennett said over the noise as he guided her down the metal catwalk. “Hoses are under pressure. You trip on a manifold down here; you don’t bruise a knee—you break an ankle.”
Aubrey didn’t look at the hoses. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, tracking three men working near the presses.
At the sound of Bennett’s boots on the metal stairs, the pressure washer cut out. Silence dropped, broken only by the drip of water on concrete.
The man holding the spray wand turned.
He was strikingly handsome, with the kind of effortless, rugged appeal that made Aubrey’s corporate poker face slip for half a second.
Early thirties. Sun-bleached brown hair pushed back beneath a backward black ball cap.
Blue eyes with a lazy, assessing glint. His gray work shirt was rolled past his elbows, exposing forearms splattered with grape residue and water. A waterproof apron hung from his neck.
He didn’t look at Bennett. His gaze went straight to Aubrey, a slow grin spreading across his face.
The two cellar hands behind him stopped coiling a hose, their eyes traveling from her slim black heels to the clean lines of her sleeveless black linen top and tailored black pants.
A flush crept up her neck, but years of hard-earned composure shut it down. She straightened, green eyes going cool.
The cellar chill slid under her clothes, raising goosebumps along her bare arms.
Bennett noticed.
The air behind her shifted.
He didn't step in; he claimed the space. He planted himself directly in Zack’s line of sight, closing the distance until his chest settled a breath from her shoulder blades.
Trapped between the cold stainless-steel tank in front of her and the solid wall of Bennett behind her, Aubrey went very still.
She felt the heat coming off him in waves, cutting through the damp chill, the low thunder of his breathing close enough that she could feel it in the sensitive hollow at the base of her neck.
“Zack,” he barked, his voice dropping into a rough register that bounced off the tanks, the vibration running straight through her spine. “The glycol lines on tank four are sweating. Why aren’t you on the gauges instead of playing with the wash-down?”
The handsome man—Zack—didn’t flinch. He slung the spray wand over his shoulder with easy practice, his eyes finally sliding to Bennett with amusement.
“Calm your downforce, Ben,” he drawled. “Lines are fine. We’re finishing the rinse on the destemmer.
” He glanced back at Aubrey, grin widening as he stepped over a puddle.
“You must be Aubrey. Been hearing about you for two days. Nice to finally meet the woman causing all the excitement.” The compliment barely registered.
It wasn’t what made her pulse stutter.
That was the man behind her—his body still braced in that protective, territorial line, as if Zack had pointed a weapon instead of a smile.
“Zack Fowler,” Bennett cut in, stepping those last few inches so his broad chest was a steady, unyielding warmth at her back.
“Cellar master. Handles physical processing, yeast additions, and occasionally remembers to check his logbooks. Zack, this is Aubrey Langford. She’s active management for the next year.
Which means if you ruin a batch of the Cabernet because you were too busy flirting, she’s the one who signs your termination papers. ”
The words were dry. The tone was not.
Zack chuckled, wiping a damp hand on his trousers before extending it past Bennett’s shoulder.
“Don’t let him scare you, Aubrey. Ben thinks the vines will die if he isn’t furious at them. Welcome to Blackwood.”
Aubrey had to shift sideways to reach, her shoulder grazing Bennett’s chest. Heat bled straight through the thin linen of her top.
She ignored it.
Mostly.
Her heels clicked faintly on the damp floor as she took Zack’s hand. His grip was warm and rough.
“Thank you, Zack,” she said, smooth and controlled. “I’ll be reviewing the production labor costs later this afternoon. I look forward to seeing your efficiency logs.”
Zack’s brows lifted, surprise flashing into something sharper before he let out a low laugh.
“Efficiency logs,” he repeated, clearly delighted. “Hear that, Ben? The lady wants data.” His grin sharpened. “I like her already.”
Bennett didn’t look amused.
“Zack.”
“What?”
“Tank four.”
Zack’s grin only widened. “Still jealous of my personality?”
The word lodged under her ribs.
Jealousy.
The idea should have been ridiculous. Instead, something dark and electric slid through her veins.
“Get back to work,” Bennett said, the edge in his voice making it sound a lot less like a joke. He finally stepped away from her orbit, turning toward a heavy wooden door at the back of the tank room.
Aubrey offered Zack a brief nod before following, acutely aware of his gaze on her as she crossed the concrete—and of the way the air felt thinner now that Bennett wasn’t pressed like a shield at her back.
“Was that jealousy?” she asked as their footsteps echoed toward the door.
Bennett didn’t look at her.
“No.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“A man trying to keep an employee employed.”
She smiled despite herself.
He noticed.
“Those shoes,” Bennett muttered without looking back. “You know this is a winery tour, not a runway? One bad step on a wet patch and you’re on your ass.”
Her temper flared.
“Ya know,” she snapped over the echo of their footsteps, “I came here for a four-day stay for Mabel’s funeral and a will reading I thought would be simple.
I didn’t pack for field tours and tank room walk-throughs.
I had no idea I’d be doing production chic this week.
So pardon me if my wardrobe offends you. ”
Bennett stopped with his hand on the door latch.
For a beat, all she heard was the drip of water and a distant pump.
“I’m not offended,” he said, quieter now. “Just don’t want you getting hurt.” A pause. “Mabel would’ve skinned me alive if you went down in here.”
Guilt pricked under her anger, but she kept her mouth shut.
He pushed the door open.
The wooden door didn’t lead outside. It opened into a narrow stone corridor that sloped downward, tunneling into the hill behind the barn.
The change was instant. The air turned heavy and still, dropping to a steady fifty-five degrees. Humidity vanished, replaced by an intoxicating blend of toasted French oak, vanilla, and damp earth. The sweet vapor burned the back of her throat—the angel’s share.
Bennett flipped a toggle.
Soft sconces flickered to life along the curved ceiling, revealing a cavern carved into the rock. Hundreds of oak barrels were stacked five high in long, straight rows stretching into the cool dark.
Aubrey shivered, the cold biting at her bare arms as she stared down the endless rows. The walls felt less like a cellar and more like a vault. A place built to protect things worth keeping.
“Cold?” Bennett asked quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shivering.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You always this stubborn?”
“Only around arrogant men.”
“Then you’re gonna have a long year.”
Despite herself, Aubrey’s mouth twitched.
Bennett stopped beside a row marked in cream stencil: Tree of Life – Block 12 – Cabernet Sauvignon Reserve.
“This is where the magic happens?” she asked, her voice muffled in the dense, alcohol-soaked air.
“This is where the work ages,” Bennett said.
He reached into his canvas bag and pulled out a long, curved glass tube with a bulb at the top—a wine thief.
“You can stare at spreadsheets until your eyes bleed, Langford, but this”—he tapped the stenciled block name with his knuckles—“this is the asset. Tree of Life Reserve pays for a lot of salaries.”
He stepped up to a barrel, pulled the silicone bung with a solid pop, and lowered the glass tube into the dark liquid inside. He placed his thumb over the air hole, drawing up a deep, ruby-purple wine that caught the amber light.
He swung around, holding the thief over a clean stemware glass from the rack. He released his thumb, letting the wine stream into the bowl.
He held it out to her. His knuckles were rough, his gaze steady.
“Taste it,” he said softly.
Aubrey hesitated, her fingers brushing his as she took the glass. The stem was icy. She lifted it to her lips; dark cherries, leather, and raw oak hit her at once. She took a sip.
The wine was powerful and unfinished, tannic enough to pull every trace of moisture from her tongue. She coughed once, eyes watering as the heat bloomed in her throat.
Bennett didn’t smile, but something like satisfaction eased into his features.
“Too big for you?” he asked quietly.
Aubrey looked up at him.
“You know,” she said, “for a man who pinned me against a wall at the Drift Bar forty-eight hours ago, you’re awfully committed to acting like I annoy you.”
Bennett went very still beside the barrel.
“That,” he said after a beat, “was before I knew who you were.”
Aubrey tilted her head slightly. “Interesting.”
She searched his face, looking for regret. What she found looked far more like restraint.
His eyes narrowed. “What’s interesting?”
“You’re saying if you’d known who I was…” Her eyes held his. “…you wouldn’t have kissed me?”
Silence stretched between them in the cool barrel cave.
Bennett slowly took the glass from her hand. He didn’t brush her fingers this time; his calloused hand enveloped hers around the icy stem, trapping her hand beneath his. The heat of his skin against her frozen fingers was a shock.
He didn’t pull the glass away immediately. He leaned in, his dark eyes dropping to her mouth, tracking the wet, purple stain on her lower lip.
"I'm saying," he growled, his thumb tracing the racing pulse at her wrist, "I wouldn't have stopped at the patio."
The air left her lungs in a sharp hitch.
Bennett stared at her for one endless, heavy beat, letting the truth burn between them, before he slowly pulled the glass from her fingers. "Now drink your wine, Langford."