“What kind of trouble?” I ask because apparently my self-preservation instinct has taken the night off.
Gabe and Adrian exchange a glance—some silent communication I can’t interpret. “The usual kind,” Gabe says lightly. “Breaking windows. Stealing bikes. Testing boundaries.”
But there’s something underneath that answer, something unspoken that makes the air feel thicker.
I sip my wine and watch Gabe’s hands as he gestures,talking about the wine’s terroir and vintage characteristics. My eyes keep getting distracted—long fingers, callused at the tips from piano keys, the way he holds the glass suggests he likes being in control.
“The ‘82 pairs perfectly with dark chocolate,” Adrian is saying. “The tannins complement the bitter notes without overwhelming them.”
“True, but I’d argue the ‘86 is better with your truffles,” Gabe counters, reaching for another bottle. His forearms flex as he works the cork, and I find myself watching the movement with far more interest than is appropriate.
Get it together, Stone. You’re a professional artist having a wine tasting, not a teenager.
“The ‘86 is too fruit-forward for my chocolates,” Adrian argues. “It fights the subtle flavors instead of enhancing them.”
Gabe leans back in his chair. “You’re being a snob. The ‘86 has complexity you’re dismissing.”
I hide my smile behind my wine glass as they debate, but I’m hyperaware of how close Gabe is sitting. Close enough that I can smell him—that woody scent with undertones of smoke and something else. Whiskey maybe. Or cedar.
“Here, I’ll prove my point.” Gabe stands and moves to another section of the cellar, and I can’t help but admire the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders.
Stop staring. Oh god, Maya noticed you staring. Focus on the wine. The wine is a safe thing to focus on.
Except now Adrian is explaining something about wine regions to Maya in a low voice, angling his body to give us privacy, and Gabe shifts his chair even closer when he returns.
“Your brushwork in that centerpiece was stunning,” hesays quietly, just for me. “The way you captured movement in what should be a static image. I kept seeing it differently depending on where I stood.”
“You noticed that?” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear—anervous habit, stop fidgeting—but I can’t help leaning toward him. “Most people just see the overall composition. They miss the individual strokes.”
“Hard not to notice. The technique is...” His fingers brush against mine as he reaches for his glass, and a zap shoots up my arm. “Captivating.”
My brain short-circuits. “I could show you my studio sometime,” I hear myself say. “If you’re interested. In the technique. And the... process.”
Smooth, Amelia. Very smooth. Why don’t you just write ‘I LIKE YOU’ on your forehead?
“Very interested.” Gabe’s voice turns rougher, and he leans in closer. “Though I suspect your talents extend beyond just painting.”
My breath catches. “The studio has excellent lighting,” I manage, my fingers now somehow tangled with his, and I can feel my pulse hammering where his thumb brushes my wrist. “Perfect for studying... details.”
“I’ve always appreciated,” Gabe pauses, his free hand moving to brush my shoulder, trailing down my arm in a way that makes me shiver, “fine details.”
The moment stretches, charged and intimate, and I’m about to say something probably ill-advised when footsteps thunder down the stairs.
A waiter—young, clearly stressed—appears in the cellar entrance. “Mr. Dawson, there’s a health inspector upstairs. Says he needs to do an immediate inspection.”
I feel Gabe’s fingers tighten slightly on minebefore he releases my hand smoothly, his expression shifting to professional concern. “At this hour? That’s unusual.”
“He’s quite insistent, sir. Says there was a complaint about... smell.”
Something flickers across Gabe’s face—too fast for me to read—before his easy smile returns. “Well, we can’t keep a city official waiting. Adrian, would you mind entertaining the ladies while I handle this bureaucratic nonsense?”
“Of course.” Adrian’s voice is perfectly steady, but I catch him exchanging another weighted glance with Gabe.
“Don’t be too long,” I call after Gabe, emboldened by wine and attraction. “You promised to tell me more about the acoustics down here.”
He flashes me a smile that makes my stomach flip. “I won’t keep you waiting, beautiful.”
After he leaves, I try to focus on Adrian’s explanation of the ‘86 vintage, but my brain won’t cooperate. It’s spinning—the waiter looked genuinely worried, not just annoyed, and there was something about the way he said smell complaint that seemed specific, and why would someone complain about smell at a jazz club, and Gabe’s expression changed for just a second before he controlled it, and?—
