She's standing exactly where I left her, arms wrapped around herself even though it's not cold out, and she looks up when I step outside. The solar lights cast her face in shadow, but I can see the tracks on her cheeks where tears have fallen.
"Are you alright?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle.
"Yeah," she says, and her voice is a little shaky. She wipes at her cheeks quickly, like she's embarrassed to be caught crying. "I’ve just never had anyone talk to me like that. And he just freaked me out a bit. That's all."
I reach out and touch her arm gently, and she reaches up and squeezes my hand, her fingers wrapping around mine and holding on tight. She blinks up at me with those hazel eyes that are constantly haunting me whenever I'm away from her.
And I can't help it. I cup her face with both hands, tilting her chin up so I can see her properly in the dim light, so I can check that she's actually okay.
Her skin is warm and impossibly soft, and I wipe away the remaining tears gently, brushing them across her cheekbones, feeling the dampness on my skin. She leans into my touch, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly into my hand, her breath warm against my palm. The whole moment feels impossibly tender and I can barely breathe.
"You didn't have to do that," she whispers, opening her eyes to look up at me.
"Yes, I did," I say, still brushing against her cheek. "I couldn't just let him get away with that"
She's quiet for a second, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read, before nodding. "Thank you."
"Come on," I say, dropping my hands reluctantly, already missing the warmth of her skin. "Let me walk you home."
We start down the stone path that leads away from the main building, past the terrace where we had that first dinner service what feels like a lifetime ago, past the gardens that smell like rosemary and lavender in the night air, the scent mixing with the cooler evening breeze coming off the vineyard.
Neither of us says anything for a while. The only sounds are our footsteps on the stone, the rhythmic crunch and scrape, and the endless chorus of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl somewhere in the vineyard, calling out into the darkness.
The path transitions from stone to packed dirt as we enter the vineyard, and our footsteps are quieter here, muffled by the soft ground, almost silent. The grapevines stretch out on either side of us, row after row disappearing into darkness, the leaves rustling slightly in the breeze, creating shadows that shift and move.
We're maybe halfway to the cottages when Isabelle stops walking abruptly. I turn to look at her, and she's standing there in the middle of the path.
"What's wrong?" I ask, taking a step toward her.
"I'm a bit mad at you," she says.
I blink, thrown by the sudden shift, trying to figure out what I could have possibly done wrong in the last five minutes. "For threatening Olivier? Because I?—"
"What? No, I'm not upset about you threatening Olivier!" She waves a hand dismissively. "The opposite. That washot. Obviously that was extremely hot!"
I stare at her for a second, trying to catch up to whatever'shappening here. "Okay, well, I'm very glad to hear that. But then I have absolutely no idea why you're mad at me."
She rubs her face with both hands, her fingers pressing into her temples like she has a headache. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. Why did you have to go back in there and defend me like some—some?—"
"Knight in shining armor?" I offer helpfully.
She glares at me. "I was already fighting so hard not to come to your cottage tonight. I had a whole plan. I was gonna go over the menu for the NYC restaurant, then check over the seating chart for tomorrow night's service, then take a nice cold shower and not think about you at all."
"That'syour plan for sexual frustration? Menu review and seating charts?" I can't help the amusement in my voice.
"Yes, that is my plan," she says defensively, her chin lifting. "They're distracting and practical and they usually work. But now it's completely ruined because you had to go and nearly punch someone for being an ass to me. Do you know how hard it is to stick to a plan when someone does that? When someone defends you like that?"
"I can't say that I do," I admit. "And I'm flattered that?—"
"Don't be flattered," she cuts me off. "I'm trying to be smart about this. I'm trying to focus on my career and not complicate things and keep my father from destroying both our futures. And then you go and do something like that and all I can think about is how much I want to—" She stops abruptly.
"You want to what?" I ask, taking another step closer.
"I want to hate you. See! This is exactly what I'm talking about." She throws one hand up in frustration. "You can't just— I mean— if we slept together again or dated or whatever this is, I can't control if my father decides to ruin your career, no matter how much I fight it, he will. And I'm going back to New York, and I don't even want a boyfriend, and Ireallyfucking hate you for making me want one."
She's breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling with it, her eyes bright in the moonlight. Her hair has half-fallen out of whatever she'd done to keep it back, strands loose around her face and moving in the breeze, and she looks furious.
I have never wanted to kiss someone more in my entire life.