Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Blackwood Ridge Road
Mabel’s House
The ride back down the mountain was wrapped in a heavy silence.
The Range Rover’s headlights sliced through the thick hemlock branches lining the narrow switchbacks, the dashboard casting a soft blue glow over the dark leather interior.
Low from the speakers, the blues-soaked rasp of Chris Stapleton’s guitar vibrated through the floorboards—a slow, gravelly track about old ghosts and cold whiskey that filled the cabin without requiring either of them to break the quiet.
Outside, the mountain fog had rolled back in, thick and spectral, swallowing the valley below.
Aubrey leaned her head against the headrest. The polished composure she'd worn through dinner had completely faded, leaving her hollowed out by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The music played softly, making it easier not to say anything at all.
Bennett kept his eyes on the dark road, one hand loose on the top of the wheel. He’d unbuttoned his charcoal jacket, his broad frame relaxed into the driver’s seat, but the tension hadn’t left him. He hadn’t spoken since they left the valet.
The Range Rover slowed as they cleared the final vineyard turn, the white hydrangeas of the Victorian appearing in the high beams. Bennett pulled the vehicle under the porte-cochere and shifted into park, but he didn’t turn the engine off. The music drifted down to a quiet murmur.
“Eli swapped the locks, and Moose is inside,” Bennett said, his rough baritone steady against the low idle of the engine. “You’re secure, Langford. I’m heading back up to the ridge.”
Aubrey's hand hovered over the door handle. A sudden, ridiculous cold hit her at the words. She didn't want him to leave—didn't want to step over that threshold alone into a massive, dark house haunted by Mabel's memory and the prowler she'd seen outside its windows.
She swallowed the pride that had been keeping her upright all night and turned to look at him.
“At least come in and check the house,” she said, her voice sounding small. “Just the downstairs. Then you can leave.”
Bennett’s eyes flicked to her, his gold-flecked gaze narrowing in the dashboard light. He tracked the tight line of her shoulders beneath the emerald silk, recognizing the first crack in her carefully maintained composure. He didn’t drop a smug remark. He didn’t needle her.
“Yeah,” he muttered, reaching for the ignition. “All right.”
He cut the engine. The sudden silence of the mountain night rushed into the car, cutting Stapleton’s voice off mid-verse.
They walked up the porch steps together, the humid June air settling over them like a damp blanket.
Aubrey’s keys chimed softly in the quiet.
When she threw the door back, the amber foyer light caught Moose already waiting, his heavy tail giving a single, lazy thud against the floorboards before he stepped up to nudge Aubrey’s hand.
Bennett stepped past her into the dark living room, his tall frame throwing a long shadow across the pine floors.
He didn’t rush. He moved through the downstairs with a quiet, practiced deliberateness, checking the window seals Eli had worked on, testing the heavy deadbolt on the back sunroom door, and checking the pantry locks.
His boots were silent against the rugs, his jacket already slung over the back of a kitchen stool.
Aubrey waited by the island, heels kicked off, standing barefoot on the cool soapstone as she watched him finish the sweep.
Bennett walked back into the kitchen, plowing a hand through his dark hair. “Everything’s tight, Aubrey. Windows are pinned. The dog’s settled.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her shoulders finally dropping. “Thank you.”
Bennett picked up his suit jacket, but he didn’t put it back on.
He hooked it over one finger, his large frame taking up entirely too much space in the quiet kitchen.
He looked at her for a long moment, tracking the light in her hair against the emerald dress.
The arrogant, teasing viticulturist from the patio was gone.
In his place stood the man who’d made a life out of the dirt.
“You belong at the head of that table,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, rough register that carried an absolute, protective weight. “Don’t let Vanessa or anyone else make you think you don’t belong here.”
Aubrey’s throat went dry, and she couldn’t summon her polished reply fast enough.
Bennett’s mouth twitched into the briefest ghost of a smile, his eyes lingering on her mouth for one final, critical beat. He glanced toward the staircase, then back at her bare feet on the cool stone.
“Downstairs is tight,” Bennett muttered, his voice a low rumble in the quiet house as he swung his jacket back over his shoulder and started toward the foyer. “Let’s check the wings.”
Blackwood Estate
Upstairs
Aubrey followed a step behind him up the staircase, acutely aware of the broad set of his shoulders beneath his crisp white shirt and the way the amber hallway sconces caught the hard angles of his jaw.
Her heart was already beating a fraction too fast—the lingering adrenaline of the prowler mixing with the sheer, suffocating proximity of the man in front of her.
They checked the master bedroom first—both of them avoiding looking too closely at the massive four-poster bed—before Bennett turned toward the eastern wing.
He pushed open the door to the guest room.
The amber nightlight from the hall spilled across the crisp white linen duvet, catching on a small pile of black silk and sheer lace she’d left at the foot of the mattress before dressing for dinner.
Aubrey froze in the doorway.
Bennett stopped dead. His gaze dropped to the black silk, stayed there for one agonizing second, and then slid slowly back to her. The gold flecks in his eyes had gone entirely dark in the shadows of the room.
Aubrey’s defense mechanisms slammed down instantly to cover the sudden, hot flush creeping up her neck. She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe with a look of cool, untouchable detachment.
“It’s called lingerie, McCrae,” she said, her voice aiming for a smooth purr and landing shy. “You going to take a picture or just stare?”
Bennett didn’t answer right away. He turned slowly, closing the distance between them until his broad frame blocked out the light from the hallway, crowding her back against the wooden doorframe. Heat settled between them, neither of them willing to step away.
“You’re awfully loud for a woman who was shaking in my car ten minutes ago,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that dangerous, gravelly register.
Aubrey lifted her chin. “I wasn’t shaking. And I don’t need a lecture on boundaries from you. Drift Bar. That patio tonight. What is it with you and corners anyway?”
Bennett’s eyes narrowed, a sudden, dark flare cutting through the gold flecks.
Before she could even finish the sentence, his hand snapped out. His fingers closed around her upper arm—warm, heavy, and completely immovable—and he drew her forward, pulling her flush against the solid, unyielding heat of his chest.
The impact knocked the breath from her lungs.
Her hands came up instinctively to push him away, but her knees betrayed her, turning completely to liquid against his frame.
He didn’t let her fall. He trapped her there, his left hand bracing against the small of her back through the emerald silk, flexing his fingers to drag her flush against the hard, unyielding line of his hips.
He leaned down, his mouth a fraction of an inch from hers, his rough stubble brushing her cheek. She could feel the heat of his breathing on her bare skin. God help her, her eyes drifted shut, her lips parting slightly as she waited for the hard, demanding impact of his mouth.
But he held her there, suspended in the dark, torturing her with the agonizing space between them.
“Do you want me to kiss you, Princess?” Bennett whispered harshly against her lips, his voice dropping an octave into pure gravel. “Or do you just need me to?”
Aubrey’s eyes snapped open, her chest heaving against his. Her defenses fractured into dust. She wanted to bite back, but she couldn’t form a single syllable.
His calloused thumb slid up her jawline, a light pressure that held her gaze locked to his.
“Because you’re standing here throwing a tantrum about boundaries,” he murmured, his gaze dropping heavily to her mouth, his own breathing turning ragged as he felt her heart hammering against his chest. “But your body’s begging me to quiet you down.
In fact…”—his mouth curved, barely—“I think you want it more.” The arrogance in his tone was quiet, ruthless, and entirely accurate.
Then, slowly, he released his grip on her arm and stepped back into the doorway, the sudden distance hitting her like ice water.
Aubrey stood frozen, her lips still parted, fingers digging into the doorframe to stay upright, exposed and trembling in the dim gray light.
Bennett picked up his suit jacket from where he'd slung it over a nearby chair.
"Windows are pinned," he said quietly. "Lock the deadbolt behind me."
He turned on his heel and walked down the stairs.
A sudden, ridiculous cold washed through her as she watched him go. She didn't want him to leave.
She followed him to the foyer in a daze, turning the heavy brass deadbolt the second the screen door closed.
A sharp wave of panic hit her as the lock clicked into place.
I should have told him about the note. I should have handed it to him.
But even as the fear coiled in her stomach, her stubborn pride dug in its heels.
Showing him that paper meant showing him how vulnerable she really was—and after what had happened upstairs, she refused to give Bennett McCrae another inch of power over her.
The house immediately felt too big. Too empty. Too haunted by things she couldn’t name.
Moose’s claws clicked softly on the pine as he padded over, pressing his heavy head against her hip.
Aubrey curled her fingers into the fur at his neck, her voice coming out rough.
“Hey, boy,” she whispered. “You’re sleeping in my room tonight, okay? Between that man, the prowler, and Mabel dying in this house, I’d really appreciate the company.”