“Breakfast,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Stay in bed. I’ll bring it to you.”
He slid out from under me, and I immediately missed his warmth.
When Basfirst showed me the cottage, it felt too big for me alone. Now that Kick was here, it seemed tiny.
It meant I could hear him everywhere. Making coffee in the kitchen while I lay in bed, listening to the clink of mugs and the gurgle of the pot. Showering in the bathroom while I tried not to picture the water streaming down his back, his chest, and lower. Working at the dining table while I sat on the sofa, close enough that his scent drifted in my direction every time he shifted.
It meant his things were everywhere too. His toothbrush with mine in the holder—blue beside my purple, bristles almost touching. His jacket on the hook by the door. His boots by the entrance, huge next to my flats. His laptop on the table, his papers spread across the surface, and his coffee mug leaving rings on the wood.
It meant learning his sounds, his rhythms. The way he hummed when he was thinking—always off-key, always the same nameless tune. The way he cracked his knuckles when he’d been typing for too long. The way he said my name, soft and warm, like it meant something in his mouth.
By Wednesday, I knew his morning routine by heart. Up before me. Shower. Coffee. Breakfast. Check his phone for messages from his family. Start working on the distribution analysis Thomas had sent over.
By Wednesday, I also knew I was in trouble.
“I’ve been lookingat their club membership numbers,” I said that afternoon, desperate for something to focus on besides the way his forearms looked when he rolled up his sleeves. “They’re hemorrhaging subscribers.”
“How bad?”
“Fifteen-percent drop in the last two years, with nowhere near enough new sign-ups to keep pace.”
He set his pen down, crossed to the sofa, and sat down too close, yet not close enough. His thigh pressed against mine through the fabric of my leggings.
“Show me,” he said.
I turned the laptop so he could see, hyperaware of his proximity. The warmth of his body. The way he leaned in to look at the screen, his shoulder brushing mine.
“Lack of engagement,” I said. “They send a quarterly shipment and a generic newsletter. No events, no exclusive access, no reason to feel special. Compare that to what boutique wineries are doing—virtual tastings with the winemaker, first access to limited releases, members-only dinners.”
“So they’re competing on price alone.”
“Which they can’t win. Not against the big producers.”
He nodded slowly and studied the screen. “That ties into what I was thinking about the reserve program. They’re underselling their best bottles. The 2019 Estate Pinot is better than half the stuff coming out of Burgundy, and they’re pricing it thirty percent below comparable wines.”
“Scarcity and story,” I said. “Limit production, create a wait list, make people feel like they’re part of something exclusive.”
“Exactly.” He turned to look at me, and suddenly, his face was very close. “If you’re building emotional investment through content, the wait list becomes aspirational. People aren’t just buying wine—they’re buying membership.”
“And if you combine that with the right distribution partners?—”
“You create buzz from multiple directions.” His eyes were bright now, animated. “Influencers find you on social media. Sommeliers discover you through distribution. They start talking to each other, and suddenly, Whitmore isn’t a legacy winery trying to stayrelevant?—”
“It’s the place everyone wants to be a member of,” I finished.
“A rediscovery narrative.”
We stared at each other. The air felt charged. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then traveled back up.
“We should write this up,” Kick said. “Then present it to Thomas together.”
“Together?”
“You have the marketing vision. I have the distribution connections.” He paused. “If you want to. I don’t want to step on?—”
“No. Yes. We should.” I was aware I was rambling, aware I was still looking at his mouth. “This makes sense.”
He smiled, slow and warm. “We make a good team, Van Orr.”
