“I need access to the cellar now.” I’d recognize Lucinda’s sharp tone anywhere.
“The keys were here earlier,” another voice says.
“There’s supposed to be a wine selection pulled for dinner!”
Franki’s eyes widen.
“It’s not my fault that woman is incompetent,” I say with exasperation. “The wine is already in the kitchen.”
Someone rattles the handle.
Franki presses her face into my shoulder. I rub slow circles into her back, soothing and regretful.
“We should’ve known this would happen,” she whispers.
“I’ll plan better next time,” I murmur.
From the shuffle outside, an ominous question filters in. “Do you think someone’s in there?”
“No,” says another voice. “Who would be in there?”
I straighten and retrieve my glasses. Franki fixes my bow tie, her cheeks on fire.
“Here’s what we’ll do.” I grab a large bottle of wine from the rack on the wall and hold it in front of my still-rampant erection. “We’re going to walk out calmly,” I say. “With dignity.”
She looks at me with wide eyes.
“We’re married. To each other. This isn’t a scandal, love,” I say.
“Everyone is going to know we just had sex in a wine cellar,” she hisses.
“We were prevented from having sex. It’s not the same thing at all.”
“Henry!”
If it were just about me, I’d stroll out and tell them what I do with my own wife behind a locked door is none of their damned business.
But it’s not about me. “I’ll block their line of sight. You won’t have to interact with anyone,” I promise. “Stay directly behind me.”
She nods, and I unlock the door.
It swings open to reveal—people. A lot of them—all crammed into the corridor as if musing over a locked door is a spectator sport.
Caterers. Waitstaff. A sommelier clutching a clipboard. Lucinda vibrating with contained fury. At least one person stands, open-mouthed, clutching a breadbasket to her chest. My father leans against the far-left wall.
The corridor goes silent.
Franki lets out a tiny squeak and steps closer to me, pressing against my back.
“Hello,” I say pleasantly. “There appears to be a bottleneck.”
The planner stares at me. Then at the wine cellar behind us. Then at me again. Her mouth opens. Closes. “You.”
I smile innocently. Franki buries her face between my shoulder blades.
“The wine,” the planner finally manages. “We needed the wine.”
“I can see how that would be concerning, but the wine for dinner has already been moved to the kitchen. My wife and I needed to find our own bottle for a special toast.”
