Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
The Ridge
Aubrey
The drive up to the ridge was vertical, winding, and silent.
Aubrey sat in the passenger seat of Bennett’s truck, her fingers tightly interlaced in her lap. Moose occupied the entire backseat, his massive head resting on the console between them, his warm breath huffing occasionally against her shoulder.
After Burke and the CSI team had spent grueling hours bagging evidence and pacing through Mabel’s bedroom, Burke had pulled Bennett aside. “The Victorian is a crime scene now,” he’d said bluntly. “I don’t want her sleeping under that roof tonight. Take her up to your place.”
She hadn’t argued when Burke told Bennett to take her up to the ridge, but every mile they climbed sent a new, uneasy thought skittering through her chest. Her aunt had been murdered, and she was headed to spend the night in the middle of nowhere with the man who made her knees go weak.
As the truck cleared the final, steep switchback, the dense canopy of Carolina pines suddenly gave way, and Aubrey’s breath caught in her throat.
“Wow,” she murmured, the word slipping out before she could stop it.
Perched on the highest crest of the ridge was a house that looked like it had been ripped out of Malibu or Napa and dropped into the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Clean white stucco. Black-framed windows.
Long horizontal lines softened by warm cedar accents and wide glass panels.
It didn’t try to blend into the mountains.
“Not exactly a Sylva cabin, is it?” Bennett asked quietly, cutting the engine.
“No,” Aubrey said, her eyes tracking the soft architectural lighting along the stone paths. “It’s spectacular, Bennett. I didn’t realize they allowed houses like this out here.”
“They don’t,” he said, a faint, humorless tug at the corner of his mouth.
“The local zoning board gave me hell for a year. Said it didn’t fit the ‘Appalachian aesthetic.’ But I wanted light.
The Victorian is beautiful, but it holds too many shadows.
Out in California, we build to bring the outside in. ”
He got out of the truck, and Aubrey followed, Moose instantly trotting to her side like a personal security detail.
When Bennett unlocked the heavy, pivoting glass front door and ushered her inside, relief washed over her so quickly her knees nearly buckled.
The Victorian was a web of small, closed-off rooms, heavy drapes, and creaking nineteenth-century floorboards that seemed to whisper with secrets.
This place was a sanctuary of open space and industrial stillness.
Polished concrete floors stretched beneath soaring ceilings, everything clean, uncluttered, and unmistakably Bennett.
Moose padded straight across the concrete and made a beeline for a thick gray dog bed tucked into the corner of the living room. He turned once, then flopped down with a sigh, like he’d done it a hundred times.
Aubrey blinked. “He’s… comfortable.”
“He’s stayed up here with me before,” Bennett said, following her gaze. “Figured he’d want his own spot.”
But the true showstopper was the back wall.
It was entirely glass, opening onto a massive cantilevered deck that seemed to float out into the abyss.
Below them, the Blackwood vineyards were a faint, dark patchwork in the valley, but out here, the night sky was an infinite, terrifyingly beautiful bowl of stars.
“It’s wide open,” Aubrey whispered, walking toward the glass, her arms wrapping around herself.
She drew a full breath.
“There’s nowhere for anyone to hide. You can see everything.”
“That was the idea,” Bennett said. He tossed his keys onto a minimalist concrete island in the kitchen. “No blind spots. No uninvited guests climbing onto a porch latch without me seeing them from a mile away.”
He crossed to a sleek, integrated wine fridge and pulled out a chilled bottle, along with two stemless crystal glasses. “You look like you need a drink. And don’t worry, it’s not a Blackwood label. It’s a Sauvignon Blanc from a buddy of mine back in St. Helena. Crisp, clean, zero drama.”
He poured a glass and handed it to her. As Aubrey took it, her fingers brushed his.
The brief touch carried an unexpected charge in the quiet house, a sharp reminder of the rain-slicked Drift Bar patio and the reckless kiss they’d shared just nights ago—the one that had left her lips swollen and her entire system permanently compromised.
She cleared her throat, stepping back to look around the vast, minimalist living area, needing to regain her professional composure. A low-profile leather sofa faced a sleek concrete fireplace, and a floating steel staircase led to a lofted second floor.
“Where… where am I staying?” she asked, her voice a little uneven. Part of her wanted to say she’d booked a last-minute flight back to Philadelphia instead, that she’d rather face Center City at rush hour than the quiet of this mountain with her thoughts—and him—for company.
Bennett took a slow sip of his wine, his gold-flecked eyes tracking her over the rim of his glass. The protective edge he'd carried all afternoon hadn't faded. If anything, inside these walls, it seemed even stronger.
“Guest suite is through those double doors past the kitchen,” he said, nodding toward the left wing of the house. “It has its own bath, its own view of the valley, and a lock on the door if it makes you feel better.”
Aubrey looked down at her wine, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through her exhaustion. “And where will you be?”
“Upstairs,” Bennett said, pointing a thumb toward the loft.
“Direct line of sight to the front door, the back deck, and the hallway to your room.” He stepped a fraction closer, his voice dropping into a low, steady register that made her pulse do dangerous things.
“Nobody gets into this house without going through me first, Aubrey. I mean it. You’re safe here. ”
Safe. The word felt foreign after a morning of hearing Mabel described as ‘the decedent’ and ‘homicide victim’ and realizing murdered wasn’t just something that happened on the news. It had happened to her aunt. In her house.
Aubrey looked up, meeting his fierce, unyielding gaze. For a week, she had viewed Bennett McCrae as the obstacle—the stubborn vineyard manager standing between her and a clean exit back to Philadelphia.
Standing in his house now, watching him quietly take charge of a situation neither of them wanted, she realized she’d gotten at least one thing wrong.
Bennett McCrae wasn’t the problem.
Right now, he was the only thing that felt steady.
“Thank you, Bennett,” she said softly.
Moose let out another low sigh, stretching on his bed in the corner, effectively anchoring them both in place.
Bennett looked down at the dog, then back up at Aubrey, the tension in his shoulders finally easing into a small, rare smile that reached his eyes.
“Don’t thank me yet, Princess. I still expect you to balance those 2023 casing margins tomorrow morning.”