“Koreans prefer sesame oil.” Bea grinned. “But I’m sure it’s not too different.”
They laughed. The kind that she hadn’t known she could share with a woman who had a factor of ten on her net worth, in a room designed to inspect value.
Then she saw him. Rafael had entered the room, drink in hand. He hadn’t approached, but he was watching. He met her eyes for just a second too long to be casual, then looked away. A shiver skipped up her spine, so quick and traitorous she could almost ignore it.
“Well,” Selene said, unaware of the way her son had just reminded Beaexactlywhose mother she was, and patted Bea’s hand. “I’ll let you do what you’re here for. If you ever need a sympathetic ear, or someone to judge loudly with you, do come find me.”
“Thanks. That might be the best offer I get tonight.”
And she meant it. She’d braced for a test, but that had felt more like a welcome.
Chapter Seventeen
Morning arrived languidly on the Aurelle estate.
Breakfast had been served in the formal dining room from six thirty sharp and ceased, just as precisely, at half past nine. Porcelain clinked. Linen whispered.
Guests wandered in without announcement, choosing a seat anywhere along the thirty-six-seater marble table. A member of staff would appear with a quiet, “What may I bring you?” Ten minutes later, the order arrived: piping hot, flawlessly plated.
Each guest lingered for exactly long enough to seem relaxed. They stood, left, and the staff swept in—clearing, resetting, realigning the cutlery until the table looked untouched.
Bea had never seen anything so choreographed.
Gage had come to her room to pick her up. Nate West, who had driven up that morning instead of yesterday, gave her a once-over as he sliced into his bacon.
“You look like you’re surviving.”
Bea lifted her coffee cup. “I’m acclimating.”
“Stay hydrated,” Nate advised. “Headaches will make you too honest.”
She pressed her lips together, failing to hide her smile. “Can’t have that.”
He glanced at Gage. “She’s learning.”
Learning fast. And praying no one asked her which fork was for melon.
They ate in something that resembled comfort. It no longer felt surreal to sit between Gage King and Nate West, just unlikely. Like waking up between a diadem and its bodyguard. Casual.
“There’s a vineyard tour and wine tasting. You up for it?” Gage asked.
She nodded. “Sounds fun.”
It looked like almost all the guests had decided to join the tour, well over a hundred of them, each dressed like they had brought a personal stylist. Bea knew that every single one was being housed onsite, which meant the estate was enormous, the kind of sprawling that could only exist when money had been old for a very long time. A small number of security personnel moved with the group, mostly unnoticeable.
Neat paths crisscrossed the hills, sun catching on leaves and gravel, thick and flaxen as poured honey. The grapes were ripe, dark with sugar and ready to be cut, clusters heavy, their skins dusted with bloom. Every step released the scent of earth and fruit.
Bea walked carefully between the gravel dividers, the hem of her dress skimming her calves, Gage’s hand resting lightly at her spine. Someone was explaining the elevation of the vines and the soil quality.
“You sleep alright?” he asked.
“I did.” She ran her hand lightly along the vines.
“Bed okay?”
“Amazing.”
His mouth curved—if you knew him well enough to notice. “Pity it’s wasted.” He didn’t look at her when he said it. Just keptwalking. She was not going to blush over vineyard innuendo before lunch. She was not.
