I step into my room, breathless from running, my pulse hammering against my ribs with desperate urgency.
The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I reach for the door handle, ready to put wood and distance between myself and the mistake I almost made on that hillside.
But Estienne is already there.
His hand catches the edge of the door before it can close, and he slips through the gap with a grace that steals the air from my lungs.
The latch clicks softly behind him, sealing us both inside this small space under the eaves.
"You ran," he says, and his voice carries no accusation, only wonder.
"I had to." I take a step backward as he advances, then another, until my spine meets the window frame and the cool glass presses sharp against the heat building beneath my skin. "Estienne, this is a terrible idea, and you know it as well as I do."
"I know." He moves closer, slow and deliberate, giving me every opportunity to tell him to stop. "This is reckless. You're trouble. I can feel it."
"So leave."
"I can't." His fingers find my jaw, tilting my face toward his. "You ruined that option the moment you looked at me like you're looking at me right now."
Every rational thought screams at me to confess, to shatter this before it becomes something I cannot undo.
But wanting floods through me, hot and reckless, drowning out the voice that says I don't deserve this, that I'm a liar, that he would hate me if he knew.
I don't care. I don't care. I don't care anymore.
I rise onto my toes and press my mouth to his.
For one heartbeat, the kiss is gentle, questioning—and then it isn't. His hand fists in my hair, angling my head back, and careful becomes a memory.
I gasp against his lips, and he swallows the sound, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a hunger that steals every thought from my head.
My fingers claw at his shirt, desperate for purchase, desperate for more, desperate in ways I haven't let myself be in years.
"You're shaking," he whispers, his lips brushing mine with each word.
"So are you."
"I know." His laugh is breathless, broken. "You terrify me."
"Good." I nip at his bottom lip.
His mouth opens under mine, hot and seeking, and I pour twenty years of wondering into the kiss.
My hands find his hair, pulling him deeper, and when he groans against my tongue, I feel it low in my stomach.
His lips trail from my mouth to my jaw, then lower, tracing a path of heat down the column of my throat.
I tilt my head back, gasping, my spine arching toward him like a vine reaching for sunlight.
"You're all I think about," he confesses against my pulse point, tongue tasting my heartbeat. "It's obscene, the things I want to do to you."
"Tell me." I fist his hair, pulling his mouth closer. "I want to hear every one."
"I want these legs wrapped around my head." His hands grip my thighs, lifting me against him.
Fuck.
Fuck…
"I want to find out how wet you get when I use my tongue." His hips roll into mine, and I feel exactly how much he means it. "I want to bury myself so deep inside you that you feel me for days."
I pull his face back to mine, kissing him with an urgency that borders on desperation.
I lock my ankles behind him, and when he groans at the shift in angle, I feel the vibration everywhere our bodies touch.
"We should slow down," he manages between kisses, though his body makes no move to follow his words. "I don't want you to regret this in the morning."
"The only thing I regret," I gasp as his teeth graze my earlobe, "is every moment I wasted running from you tonight."
He carries me toward the narrow bed with steps that never break the rhythm of our kiss. The mattress receives us both, and the weight of him above me feels like shelter.
His hand slides beneath the hem of my shirt, palm flat against my stomach, and the contact sends electricity singing through every nerve ending I possess.
"Valérie," he whispers, and my false name on his lips cuts through the haze of desire.
That's not my name. That's not who I am.
But I pull him closer anyway, because the girl I used to be would never have this.
"Stay with me," I breathe against his mouth. "Please, just stay."
His answer is another kiss, deeper than before, and I lose myself in the sensation of his weight pressing me into the mattress.
The heat builds between us, urgent and consuming, and I'm reaching for the buttons of his shirt when—
A knock shatters the silence.
I jolt upright, disoriented, my heart slamming against my ribs.
The room is empty. The bed is cold.
Gray dawn light seeps through the curtains, and I am alone beneath tangled sheets, my body still humming with the ghost of a touch that never happened.
It was only a dream.
The knock comes again, sharp and impatient.
"Martin." Henri's voice cuts through the door. "Get dressed and meet me at the fermentation barn in one hour. We have a problem with tank seven."
I press my palms against my eyes, willing my pulse to slow. "What kind of problem?"
"The kind that requires someone who claims their grandmother taught them laboratory-grade quality assessment." His tone carries skepticism wrapped in grudging need. "One hour. Do not be late."
His footsteps retreat down the hallway, and I collapse back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling beams I have already memorized.
I shower quickly, the cold water shocking away the last remnants of sleep and fantasy.
By the time I reach the fermentation barn, my hair is still damp, but my mind has sharpened to a professional edge.
Henri stands beside tank seven, his weathered face creased with worry.
The smell hits me before I reach him—slightly acetic, sharp with volatile compounds that should not be present this early in fermentation.
"The temperature spiked overnight," he says without preamble. "The night crew didn't catch it until two hours ago, and by then the yeast had already started producing off-flavors."
I approach the tank, inhaling deeply, analyzing the chemical signature of the wine in distress. "How high did it spike, and for how long?"
"Thirty-two degrees for at least four hours before we got it back down." Henri's jaw tightens. "The whole batch might be ruined, and we cannot afford to lose it."
I circle the tank, running my hand along the steel surface, feeling for irregularities.
My mind falls into the familiar rhythm of problem-solving, the one arena where my training cannot betray me.
"It's not ruined," I say finally. "The acetaldehyde levels are elevated, but if we rack it off the lees immediately and add a fresh yeast culture, we can restart the fermentation at a controlled temperature."
Henri stares at me, his expression cycling through disbelief, assessment, and reluctant hope. "You're absolutely certain about this approach?"
"My grandmother dealt with worse situations than this one." I meet his gaze steadily. "Rack it now, inoculate with a vigorous strain, and keep the temperature at eighteen degrees for the next seventy-two hours. The wine will recover completely."
He holds my stare for a long moment, then nods once—a gesture that carries more weight than any compliment he could offer.
"Alright then, Martin." He moves toward the equipment rack, already preparing for the procedure. "Let's see if your grandmother knew what she was talking about."
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