“Because small doesn’t mean incapable, Mr. Embers. It means nimble. Focused. Personal.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got fire, I’ll give you that.”
“I’ve got more than fire, sir. I’ve got strategy, creativity—”
The door opened and a white-haired woman in her late sixties breezed in. “Douglas Embers, you better not be intimidating this poor woman.” She extended her hand to me. “I’m Mariela, and shame on my husband. How long have you been on your feet? You should have been allowed to settle into your accommodations and catch your breath before you talk business.”
I opened my mouth to shut that down quickly. I might be pregnant, but I wasn’t fragile. But Mariela had already threaded her arm through mine and was leading me away.
Mariela paused to shake a warning finger at her husband. “Now, you leave the third degree until after supper, do you hear me?”
Douglas looked sheepish and indulgent. “Of course, dear.”
I smiled at that. The real power behind the throne had just revealed herself.
Aris kept pace with us as Mariela led us back outside into the sunshine, around the southern side of the building. She pointed out the original cooperage where they still made their barrels by hand, and the limestone spring house that had kept the family’s provisions cold for over a century. Beyond it sat a well-maintained, white-painted carriage house.
“I hope you’ll find these accommodations satisfactory,” she said. “We refer to it as the honeymoon suite.”
I looked around with pleasure as she walked us through, noting the lacy, fluttering curtains, vintage lighting and furniture, and a bronze claw-footed tub. In the bedroom, draped with thick handmade quilts, was a large four-poster bed.
“We have several other guest cottages,” Mariela declared, “but this is our best. All five of my children were conceived in this cottage.” She giggled like a schoolgirl and then looked from my swollen belly to Aris. “Although it’s clear that you’ve already taken care of that!”
Aris smiled, took Mariela’s hand, and kissed the back of it. “I cannot thank you enough for being such gracious hostess. My wife and I, we will be extremely comfortable here.”
This made the woman simper like a teenager. I swear, that man could charm the scales off a snake.
As soon as Mariela left, I stared at that four-poster bed. I’d known this was coming. Had mentally prepared for it during the flight. But being alone with Aris and the bed made it real.
The last time I’d shared a bed with Aris Christakis, I’d woken up warm and safe and satisfied in ways nobody else could match. Ways I’d convinced myself I didn’t need anymore when I crept out.
“At least it’s large enough for us not to touch,” I said.
Aris moved up behind me, close enough to share his body heat. “If that is what you need to tell yourself, agápi mou.”
I turned to face him, which was a mistake because now we were inches apart and I could see the amusement in his dark eyes.
“We both know you sleep better when I am close, yes,” he continued.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I stepped back, putting distance between us. “I sleep good anywhere.”
“Then the next two nights, they should be easy for you.” He moved past me to unpack his bag, completely unbothered, while I stood there trying to slow my racing heart.
The conversation was still rolling around in my mind hours later as we entered the formal dining room. Antique brass fixtures cast light over the long mahogany table, and the scent of bread filled the air.
I was working overtime to keep my professional face on while also playing the loving new wife. The crazy attraction I felt for Aris made the second part easy, but it also made it hard to keep my head in the game.
Douglas was already seated at the head of the table, Mariela at his right. Maxwell sat beside a woman who had to be his wife. She favored Mariela in coloring and style.
Douglas gestured toward the couple across from Maxwell and his wife. “Deanna, Aristides, I’d like y’all to meet Bronson Wells from EchoHive and his wife, Vienna. Black Ember Distillin’ deserves a firm with the guts to handle a national campaign, but let’s see if any of y’all can prove it.”
My smile froze in place while my mind raced. Maxwell had said “present your ideas.” Not “compete.” Not “pitch against one of the biggest agencies in the country.”
EchoHive handled Super Bowl campaigns. They’d rebranded Buckminster Beer last year—I’d studied that campaign, dissected every element. They had offices in five States and a media buying department bigger than my entire company.
And I was supposed to compete with them?
Aris’s hand tightened on my waist and I realized Bronson had stood, extending his hand. He was in his mid-thirties, and brunette. “Deanna White. I’ve heard good things about your work.” His eyes flicked to my belly, then to Aris.
