Chapter Eight
Belle
I stood outside the heavy wooden door, my hand hovering over the handle.
The simple dress I'd chosen that morning suddenly felt inadequate for this meeting with Dario Luca. I smoothed non-existent wrinkles from the fabric and took a steadying breath. This was just a professional tasting, I reminded myself. I had desperately wanted to talk to Sophia before this meeting, but she’d left to visit her family for the rest of the week.
I’d refused twice, yet I still managed to find myself outside the private room I’d been shown to.
Presumably, Dario Luca was inside. With one final deep breath, I knocked.
"Come in." His voice, even muffled by the door, carried an authority that made my stomach flip.
I pushed the door open, stepping into a space that felt worlds away from the service corridors and bustling main floor of The Gray where I usually worked.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through partially frosted windows, casting golden rectangles across polished mahogany and gleaming crystal.
The private tasting room was smaller than I'd imagined, more intimate, with a curved bar dominating one wall and a few leather chairs arranged near the windows.
Everything from the precisely arranged bottles to the perfectly aligned glassware spoke of meticulous attention to detail.
And in the center of it all stood Dario Luca, his tailored suit as impeccable as always, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the light. His blue gaze assessed me with a coolness that made me second-guess my decision to come.
"You're punctual," he said, glancing at his watch. "I appreciate that in my staff."
Staff. Right. That's what I was. An employee.
Not someone worthy of the personal attention he'd shown me when I'd cut my hand. I wrapped my arms around myself, creating as much of an emotional shield as I could. I had to remember what Valentina had said. She might be a vindictive bitch, but she wasn’t wrong.
Men like Dario Luca ate women like me for breakfast. And not in a good way.
"Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Luca," I said, striving to keep my voice steady. "Mr. Longmire explained this would be helpful for my work at The Gray."
I'd debated all night whether to accept this invitation.
After Valentina's warnings, after the rumors already circulating among the staff about why Dario had helped me with my injury, the last thing I needed was more fuel for gossip.
But refusing a direct request from the owner seemed like career suicide, especially when Mr. Longmire had emphasized how unusual it was to be included in such a tasting. Even if I was just a server.
"Please, come in," Dario gestured toward the bar where an array of bottles and glasses awaited. "And call me Dario."
I hesitated, still lingering near the door. The room suddenly felt too small, too private. But I forced myself forward, my heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor. And yeah. No way I was calling him by his first name.
"Mr. Longmire mentioned I should take notes," I said, raising a small notebook slightly.
"If you'd like." He moved behind the bar, and I felt a small measure of relief at having that barrier between us. "We're testing our new seasonal menu before it launches in early spring. Seven cocktails total, starting with lighter flavors and moving toward more complex ones."
I settled onto one of the barstools, perching on the edge rather than leaning comfortably against the backrest. My notebook lay open before me, blank pages ready for notes I wasn't sure I'd be able to concentrate enough to take.
Not only was I incredibly nervous, but I was uncomfortable, mainly because, being this close to Mr. Luca, there was no way I could separate my infatuation enough to get through this.
Before I could excuse myself and leave, he slid a drink in front of me. "This first one is a spring variation on a classic gin fizz," Dario explained, his movements precise as he prepared the cocktail. "Lavender-infused gin, house lemon cordial, egg white, and a dash of violet liqueur."
The tall, elegant glass before me contained a pale lavender crowned with white foam. A tiny purple flower floated on top, so delicate it might have been painted there. "It’s beautiful," I said, not reaching for the glass. “You know, I’m not sure I really need to be here, Mr. Luca.”
He gave a soft snort that grated on my nerves. “You absolutely need to be here, Belle. The staff at The Gray are an extension of my reputation. If you can’t describe what’s in the glass, you might as well be pouring beer at a dive on the pier.”
Jesus. The bluntness. He didn’t even blink as he said it. My cheeks heated immediately and I had to tamp down my temper. I picked up the glass, mostly to keep my hands from fidgeting with the hem of my dress.
“I worked a beer tap once. Not my finest moment.” I caught his gaze over the rim of the glass. “But I’m not exactly a cocktail expert.”
He didn’t look away. Just watched me, that smile barely curving his mouth. “You’re here to learn. And I’d bet money you’ll be the best I’ve ever trained, if you want it.”
My brain stuttered. The best? I barely got through a shift on two functional hands. “Have you lost your mind?” Not what I should have blurted out, but there it was.
“Try the drink, Belle,” he said, voice low, his gaze steady on my face.
With a very put-out sigh, I took a careful sip, letting the foam brush my lips. The taste was so soft and floral it almost shocked me—a little tart, but not sour, and the lavender clung on my tongue after I swallowed. I closed my eyes for a second, caught off-guard by how good the drink tasted.
“Wow,” I finally said. “That’s actually…really good.”
Dario’s intense gaze didn’t move from my face. “Describe it.”
I hesitated, but he just waited. Silent.
Patient. Intense as hell. “Um, it’s soft.
A little tart, but then there’s the lavender?
Not soapy or anything. Just fresh. Smooth.
” I took another sip because why not, we were here for this, weren’t we?
“It kind of sticks around. The floral. Like getting kissed by a flower but in a nice way.” I shrugged, feeling like an idiot.
“Sorry. I sound like an ad for perfume.”
Dario raised an eyebrow. “On the contrary. That’s exactly the kind of description customers respond to.” His mouth twitched. Just a fraction, but it was there. “That’s the exact reaction I hoped for, Belle. Most people just say ‘floral’ and leave it at that.”
The way he said my name. Like a dare. Like he was waiting to see if I’d break. There was something uncomfortably intimate about being watched so closely. Studied. And some masochistic part of me didn’t want to look away.
"Ready for the next one?" Dario asked, his voice betraying nothing of what he might have read in my expression.
"Yes," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. "I'm ready."
The words felt like a lie even as I spoke them.
I wasn't ready, not for whatever was happening in this room, not for the way my body responded to his proximity, not for the dangerous path I sensed opening before me.
But as Dario slid the second cocktail across the polished surface of the bar, his fingers brushing mine once more in what couldn't possibly be another accident, I knew I wouldn't be leaving. Not yet.
By the third cocktail my shoulders had dropped from their defensive position near my ears, and I'd settled more comfortably onto the barstool.
The notebook lay open beside me, a few hastily scribbled notes and sketches scattered across pages that should have been filled with professional observations.
Instead, I found myself watching Dario's hands as he prepared each drink, how his eyes lit with subtle pride when I identified a particularly elusive flavor note.
His gaze held mine for a moment longer than necessary before he turned to prepare the fourth drink. "How did you learn about spirits?”
The question caught me off guard. It seemed too personal for what was supposed to be a professional tasting, yet I found myself wanting to answer, to share something of myself with this enigmatic man. Probably the alcohol, but… fuck it.
"Um… Well, my grandmother, actually," I admitted, watching as he expertly measured rum into a shaker.
"Every summer when I visited, we'd make blackberry cordial from berries we picked ourselves.
" The memory rose vivid and sweet, bringing an involuntary smile to my face.
"She let me taste just a drop when I was eight.
I thought it was the most magical thing I'd ever experienced, capturing summer in a bottle.
" I could still see my grandmother's kitchen, sunlight streaming through gingham curtains, the huge pot of berries simmering on the stove filling the air with their sweet-tart scent.
My hands had been stained purple for days afterward, no matter how much I scrubbed them.
"We had to wait weeks for it to be ready," I continued, caught in the memory.
"I'd check it every day, watching the color deepen.
When we finally bottled it, she saved one small jar for me to take home.
Not to drink, of course, I was far too young.
But to remind me of our summer together. "
I looked up to find Dario watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read, something softer than his usual calculated gaze. The elegant cocktail sat forgotten in the shaker.
"My first taste was less charming," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.
"I was twelve. My father caught me sneaking into his study to look at his collection.
Instead of punishing me, he poured a finger of Scotch older than I was and told me to drink it.
" The personal disclosure surprised me. I couldn't imagine the intimidating Dario Luca as a curious twelve-year-old, sneaking around his father's study.