We stay like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, hearts racing, bodies pressed together and slick with sweat. Slowly, carefully, he shifts us until we're lying down, me still on top of him, his cock still inside me though softening now. I can feel his release starting to leak out of me and it should probably gross me out but instead it just feels intimate.
He pulls out slowly, then he's shifting me to his side, tucking me against him. I curl into his warmth automatically, my head on his chest, his arm around me, his other hand tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder.
"So," I say after my breathing returns to somethingresembling normal, trying for casual and probably failing spectacularly. "That was... good stress relief. Post-opening celebration and all that."
He makes a sound that might be agreement, his hand still moving on my shoulder.
"Just so we're clear," I continue. “This was a one-time thing. Obviously. We got it out of our systems, and now we can go back to being professional."
"Obviously," he agrees easily, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
"I mean it, Alex. One night. That's it."
"As you wish, princess," he says softly, pulling me closer, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "As you wish."
I should get up. I should go back to my cottage right now, put some physical distance between us, make it clear that tonight was just a one-time celebration, stress relief, nothing more. Boundaries are important to make sure this doesn’t get more messy than it already has.
But that thought feels so far away right now, distant and unimportant compared to how warm he is, how safe I feel in his arms, how his heartbeat is steady under my ear. My eyelids are so heavy. Just a few minutes, I tell myself. I'll rest for just a few minutes and then I'll go.
I feel him pull a blanket over us, tucking it around my shoulders, and his arm tightens around me.
Just a few more minutes.
I fall asleep in his arms, and if some small part of me knows I'm making a mistake, that I should have left while I still could, I'm too far gone to care.
CHAPTER 12
Alex
I roll over, reaching for her on instinct, but the sheets are cool on her side, which means she snuck out a while ago. The image of Isabelle tiptoing barefoot across the gravel path back to her cottage in the dark like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene makes me smile into the pillow.
I lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, letting last night settle over me like something I can touch. The warmth of her skin, the sound of her laugh, the way she looked at me—all of it is running through my head on a loop I'm not interested in stopping.
She was very clear about what she wanted—one night, nothing more, keep it simple. I want the exact opposite, which is more of her, more of whatever this is, as much as the month allows and probably longer than that if I'm being honest with myself.
Though there's the Jean-Pierre issue, which is no small thing. The man explicitly told me to stay away from his daughter and I have now spectacularly failed to do that. AndTheo would have a coronary if he knew, since he's risk-averse in the way that older brothers who have mortgages and children and a sensible retirement plan tend to be.
He would see this as exactly the kind of reckless behavior he's been warning me about since I was fifteen, the kind that gets people in trouble they can't talk their way out of.
And to be fair to him, it is. But Isabelle is worth the trouble.
Eventually I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water work on muscles that are pleasantly sore. I get dressed and take my time heading down to the kitchen, in no particular hurry to face the day but knowing I need to get down there eventually. It's the second night of the pop-up tonight, and we've got another full house. The kitchen should be in full prep mode by now, which means I need to see where we're at and what needs my attention.
The path from the cottages cuts through the eastern edge of the vineyard, the air still cool from overnight, carrying that morning smell of dew on the vines and earth warming up. I'm running on maybe four hours of sleep, but I feel more awake than I have in weeks.
The main building comes into view, old stone catching the morning light, and I can already hear the faint sounds of the kitchen through the open windows. Music, the clatter of pans, voices calling out orders formise. I take the steps up to the entrance and pull open the kitchen door.
Sofia and Martinez are at their stations, one of the prep cooks is brunoise-ing shallots, and classical music is playing from someone's phone, something orchestral that I don't recognize. The air is thick with the smell of stock reducing and butter warming and aromatics going into pans.
Isabelle is at the center station in her usual uniform—t-shirt, linen pants, hair slicked back into her bun with not a strand out of place. She's whisking a small saucepan over low heat, her movements precise and rhythmic, and she looks up when thedoor closes. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before she immediately looks back down at her pan, but I catch the slight flush that colors her cheeks.
"Morning," she says, and keeps whisking.
"Morning," I say, crossing to the espresso machine beside her station and pulling a cup from the rack. Sofia glances up from her station and smiles at me, and I nod back. Martinez doesn't even look up, too focused on portioning duck breast with surgical precision.
"What's in the pan?" I ask Isabelle, keeping my voice casual.
"Beurre blanc," she says, adjusting the flame with her free hand. "Testing a yuzu finish instead of lemon. The lemon's been too direct for the halibut, it hits you over the head. Yuzu might give me floral brightness without pushing the whole sauce citrus-forward."