Page 9 of Bottles & Blades

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Page 9 of Bottles & Blades

“Well, Tiffany,Tiff, Hernandez”—I hear theripof the check being torn free—“thank you again for your kindness.”

His head lifts, eyes locking onto mine as he extends the slip of paper.

“I didn’t do it to get paid back,” I whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing it into the palm of my hand, waiting until my fingers close around it to let go.

“Right,” I say into the silence that falls. I hitch my head toward my car. “Well, I should?—”

“Go,” he agrees, leaning back and opening the driver’s side door.

The disappointment in my belly isn’t just a flicker this time.

It’s…

“Dumb,” I whisper, shoving the check into my pocket and reaching for the handle.

But before I can wrap my fingers around the lever, the door is opened with acreakand Jean-Michel reaches for my forearm, helping me down from the seat.

It’s such a small thing, an effortless motion—one he doesn’t seem to even think about, just offering up on instinct.

Yet, it feels…

Huge.

Like I said,dumb.

I step away from the door, reach into my purse for my keys.

He takes them from me and unlocks my car, then tugs open the metal panel, nodding at me to climb in.

I sink into my seat, shove my keys into the ignition, and wrack my brain for something to say.

Only, I don’t get around to it.

“Drive safe, buttercup,” he murmurs and closes the door.

It takes me a minute to unstick and back out.

But—my eyes flick to the rearview as I exit the lot and turn toward my apartment—I don’t miss that he waits until I’ve left before he drives away.

Four

Jean-Michel

I’m buttoningmy shirt as I come out of the bathroom attached to my office, hair damp from the shower, vineyard owner washed away, CEO back in place.

Marie is waiting, her eyes glued to her tablet, cell pressed to her ear.

She jerks her head toward the coat rack in the corner of my office and I take the silent direction, snagging my suit jacket and shrugging it on.

Then I rub the towel through my hair once more, toss it on one of the leather guest chairs, and sink down behind my desk as I listen to Marie finish reading someone the riot act. She’s finagling over a clause in the contract we’re negotiating with a subcontractor who manufactures microchips we need.

“AndI’llremindyou,” she snaps, “that you either work with us or we’ll work with your competitor.” A beat. “And then we’llbecomeyour competitor.”

That’s my girl.

Smothering a grin, I log into my computer. Only when her side of the conversation halts, do I allow my gaze to flick up and gauge her expression.


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