Four hours later, and I’m nearly ready. I’m just putting the finishing touches on my look—some subtle makeup, nothing too gaudy or over-the-top. Just enough to accentuate my best features wherever possible. I add a nude lipstick, a light line of kohl around my eyes, a dusting of bronze shimmer over my eyelids, and mascara that makes my lash length double. The girl in the mirror still looks like me, just a wider-eyed, perfectly blushing me. Not a me that will turn beet red like I normally do at the slightest hint of embarrassment.

Which is good, because Darius is going to be at this event too. And there’s not a single doubt in my mind that he’ll do whatever it takes to make me blush. Or drive me wild. Or sneak me off to a private corner to kiss me until I can hardly breathe. Or steal me into a bathroom stall again and fuck me so hard I can barely walk…

I swallow hard, my eyes going wider than usual in the bathroom mirror.

I haven’t even slept yet, and already my muscles feel sore from our fuck in the field showers this morning. My pussy aches every time I take a step, although it’s in a pleasurable way. A way that reminds me how recently I’ve used it for the purpose it was built for. How hard I let Darius fuck me, how I let him take complete control, making me come when he wanted me to, making me cry out his name when he came in me…

Fuck. It’s like I just surrendered everything to him at once, even my own sanity. And worst of all, I don’t regret it. It turns me on to think about it. How in control he was. How submissive I became.

I never knew I liked that in the bedroom. Or, well, shower room, I guess. But it leads me to thinking about how I’d like it in the bedroom too. All I’d need to do is knock on the partition door that separates Darius’s room and mine, and he’d draw me into his room. He’d bend me over his desk and fuck me. Or toss me across his bed easily, the same way he picked me up in that bathroom stall like I was weightless.

I start to think about all the ways he could dominate me, and I start to grow wet again.

Stop it, Holly. I clench my thighs together, praying the paper-thin underwear that I chose to wear with this gown, specifically so that panty creases wouldn’t show through the fabric, holds up under the sudden and unexpected onslaught of lust I’ve been feeling all weekend.

I step back and eye myself in the mirror one last time. The gown I’ve chosen for the ball is a simple yet elegant one. It clings to my chest, flows loosely down my waist and hips, and trails all the way to the floor in the back. In the front it’s cut a little shorter, enough to show my heels through it. They’re not high, because I’m already fairly tall, and also not coordinated enough to walk very far in super high heels. They are a tasteful nude color though, which offsets the deep navy blue of the gown. There’s a little hint of glitter on the clasp of my heels, just like the hint of sparkles in the overlay of my gown, a top layer of gauzy fabric that leaves little starbursts dotted across its dark under fabric like stars across a night sky. I topped it all off with a slim silver handbag, slung over one shoulder on a strap that’s equally studded with crystal.

None of it’s designer. Not like the gowns some of the vintners here will be wearing; the bigger wineries with more of a following and better brand recognition, whose owners can afford to splurge on a fancy expensive gown or two for events like this. But my secret has always been to go vintage. That way, when people ask you who you’re wearing, instead of admitting you don’t know or saying you just bought a gown that looked nice on a sale rack at Marshall’s, you can at least have a good excuse for not knowing.

It’s vintage is a fancy socialite get out of jail free (or at least cheaper) card.

One last thing before I leave for the ball—I give my parents a call. My father answers on the first ring, as if he’s been sitting by the phone waiting for me to call. He probably has.

“Well?” he asks as soon as the line connects.

I can’t help but laugh. “It’s been going well, Dad.”

“Good. And the ball tonight?”

“I’ve got the dress Mom helped me pick out on already. I was just about to head out the door, actually, but I wanted to call and update you guys before I left.” I turn this way and that in the mirror as I talk, making sure I didn’t miss anything, like a tear in the gown or an out of place tuck.

“Meeting some new people? Making good connections?”

“Definitely. I’m meeting that chef I told you about again tonight, to talk about our plan for impressing Alexander Microff, too.”

“Good, honey. That’s great to hear. I’m glad you’re taking this all so seriously,” Dad says, in a proud tone that nearly snaps my heart in two.

Because I have always taken this seriously. Always, always. Except for this morning. Except for the one day when I really should have been laser-focused on my work and my career. Not on what got me hot and bothered between the legs. “Of course, Dad,” I answer, throat feeling tight.

“I hope Darius Bantham hasn’t been giving you any trouble,” my father adds, and I nearly trip into the sink mirror in surprise.

Luckily, I manage to catch myself in time, and balance properly on these damn heels. “No, no trouble,” I say. Just several incredibly mind blowing orgasms. I clamp my lips together hard, trying to will that part of my brain to shut the fuck up for now.

“Good, I’m glad. If he does try to start anything with you, just remember, Holly, you can call me anytime. Doctor’s orders or no, I’m not about to let anyone intimidate my little girl. If he tries anything with you, I’ll fly right up there and kick him halfway back to his own damn farm.”

I press my lips together to stifle a laugh this time, at the thought of my scrawny father trying to kick Darius Bantham anywhere at all. But it’s the thought that counts. “Thanks, Dad. I appreciate it. But I think I’ll be just fine. You know, Darius doesn’t seem like his parents. He even said he doesn’t want to run his business the way they do.”

On the far end of the phone line, my father snorts in disbelief. “I’ll believe a Bantham can change its spots when I see a leopard do it first,” he says. “Don’t believe anything that boy says, Holly, no matter how nice it sounds to you. All Banthams are the same. And all Banthams are trouble with a capital T.”

“Right. I know. Thanks, Dad.” I grimace at myself in the mirror. Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe Darius is just like his father. Maybe all this seduction has just been a game he’s playing. A way to fuck with my head. Mess me up right before this important social event starts. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say just before we bid our farewells and hang up the phone. And I mean that. I will keep it in mind, everything Darius’s family has done to mine. All the times they’ve driven us crazy.

Just because he fucked me well doesn’t mean Darius is turning over some new leaf or anything. He’s still a Bantham, like Dad said.

My head screwed on correctly once more, I square my shoulders and flash myself a broad, confident grin in the mirror. Then I turn to leave the room. An action that makes my heart start to beat faster and faster, for reasons I don’t care to think about.

Outside, in the hallway, I shut my door noisily, and make a show of glancing around. But the hallway is empty aside from me.

Hating myself for it, yet unable to resist, I tiptoe next door and press my ear to Darius’s door. Silence. And when I squint at the little bar underneath the door, where I’ve already noticed most room lights are visible for a sliver, I see nothing but darkness. I guess Darius left already, headed down to the ball early perhaps. For some reason, that irks me.

Maybe just because I can’t stop thinking about what he said to me earlier, before we parted. See you soon, Holly. He seemed so intent on seeing me again. And so confident that when he did, we were going to fall right into each other’s arms again. As if he wasn’t going to give up until he got the chance to fuck me again. Kiss me again. Be with me again.

Now he didn’t even wait for me to walk down to the ball together?

That’s a good thing, Holly, I remind myself. We wouldn’t have been able to enter that ballroom anywhere near one another anyway. We’d set off way too many rumor mills. Besides, he’s my enemy. I shouldn’t want him to be outside my hotel room door, mooning after me, trying to see me the second he can.

I should be glad he’s not here. Grateful that he’s given up on chasing me and gone off to pursue his own interests instead.

More frustrated with myself than ever, I adjust my evening bag on my shoulder and stride away from the hotel room door, toward the elevators down to the main lobby. I don’t need Darius. I don’t need anyone. Just me, myself and I.

Outside the elevators, there’s an usher to point me toward the main ballroom. I follow his directions, and soon enough join a stream of people trickling toward it. In the distance, I spot the Instagram girl from the wine-crushing event, on the arm of a somehow even more handsome, if a little Ken-doll-esque, guy her own age. They’re both dressed in outfits that look like they cost an arm and a leg. Though I guess if they’re influencers, they might be the ones getting paid to be in those outfits tonight. Who knew?

I join the flow of traffic into the ballroom, and gasp a little as we enter, my eyebrows rising. One whole side of the room features floor to ceiling windows, which overlook the hotel garden outside. In the distant field, the grape crushing event from earlier has been cleared away. All we can see now are the night gardens—flowers lining a few walkways around some trimmed shrubs, and all of it lit with fairy lights, positively sparkling in the cool evening air. Some of the ballroom’s windows are actually folding doors, and those are open to allow the night breeze in, which tints the air inside with a hint of the flowers blossoming beyond.

On the far wall of the ballroom, opposite from the gardens, is a banquet table, positively laden with food. But each table has a different setting, a different style of food on it also. I realize these must be the chefs’ tables, set to give us a taster of what every chef who came to display their abilities this weekend is capable of.

It doesn’t take me long to find Tony’s table, but as for Tony himself, I can’t spy the slim man anywhere in the crowd. To distract myself while I wait for him, I select a few of his appetizers to sample. Everything is bite-sized, intended as a sample only. But I find myself wanting more after just a few bites. I groan with pleasure, my eyes fluttering half-shut as the flavors wash over my tongue. The first bite I try is a take on tuna tartare, but with fresh avocado and another fruit I can’t place, mango maybe? The three flavors together are so simple, yet they complement one another perfectly, each making the other stand out more.

“Delicious, aren’t they?” a woman comments, noticing my reaction as she holds up one of the little bites of food herself. She’s holding one I haven’t tried yet, a little cut of filet with an aioli sauce.

I try a bite of that next and groan again in agreement. “Absolutely perfect,” I say. “His flavors are so complementary. Like they were made for each other, except I haven’t tasted much else like them.”

“And imagine, I didn’t even need to pay her to say that,” Tony jokes, suddenly appearing at my elbow with a wink and a cheeky grin.

The lady across from us laughs and pays Tony her compliments. Once she moves along to the next taster table, I spin to face him, grinning myself.

“Glad you aren’t just a pretty face, but also a pretty talented chef, Tony,” I tell him.

He laughs. “I’ll leave the prettiness to you, beauty.” He flashes me a wink. “But I’ll take the compliment. I trained hard to get where I am, and it took a lot of years to perfect my flavor combinations. Then again, as the heiress to a wine company that’s got some elegant and unique flavors of its own, I’m hardly surprised that you noticed.”

Now it’s my turn to blush and demure. “Well, I’m only the heiress, as you mention. Not yet the one in charge of deciding which wines we craft and how.”

“But you were the brains behind your family’s newest line, weren’t you? The Old Vine Zin that you just released last summer for the first time.” I must look confused, because Tony tilts his head to one side and admits, “I saw your article in Wine Weekly, the interview you gave about family companies and transition periods. You said some really smart things that I liked. But I liked your wine even more.”

I blush, glad that I put on a proper base coat of makeup tonight. “That’s great to hear,” I say, and I mean it. It’s the first time anyone has ever told me they read that article. Well, aside from family friends and relatives, but they hardly count. Nobody has ever made the connection about the Old Vine Zin wine, either, or put together the fact that it was me who oversaw its brewing. “Most people just assume that wine was another of my father’s creations,” I admit. “We don’t publicize the fact that it was my idea in the first place.”

The wine has been performing well, but Dad doesn’t exactly bother to correct people most of the time when they tell him how much they like his new idea. He’s absent minded like that at times; he just forgets. Still, it’s nice to be recognized for the work I’ve done.

“Well, you should,” Tony replies. “It would probably reassure any future or current business partners your vineyard has already, to know that the future of the company will be in such capable hands going forward.”

I shrug as though to brush off the compliment, as uncomfortable as ever at receiving them. “As long as people like our wines and keep buying and drinking them, that’s all we care about.”

“You don’t care about getting more personal recognition?” Tony asks, his eyebrows rising.

“Not really,” I admit with a smile. “Being a vintner isn’t like being a chef, I imagine. In the kitchen, everything is on your shoulders. If it’s great, it’s all thanks to you. If it sucks, it’s all your fault too.”

Tony laughs, but nods his head at the same time, agreeing.

“At a winery, it’s more of a team effort. Everything we make, it’s thanks to all of us. Me, my parents, our farm hands and employees at every level. It takes a village to make a great glass of wine, that’s what Dad always says.”

Tony smiles. “That’s sweet.”

“It’s true,” I say. “It might mean I get less personal recognition for everything I do, at least in public. But it also means if a batch of wine turns out terrible, or if we don’t sell as much as we’re hoping to, it’s not all my fault, either. We all share the glory and the responsibility at the same time.”

“That’s a great attitude, Holly. And one that makes me even more glad to be working with you on our next endeavor,” he adds with a grin that makes me dart a nervous look around, at anyone who might be close enough to overhear. The last thing I want is for anyone else in this room full of our competition to get wind of how Tony and I plan to impress Alexander Microff, the most sought-after celebrity chef in the country.

But there’s nobody near us anymore, not even the other ladies who were around me sampling canapés. They’ve all drifted off to the far side of the room, where Alexander himself has started to give a speech about the weekend and how glad he is to be here in the same room as some of the best up and coming talent in the food world.

Tony leans in close to me, distracting me from Alexander’s speech. “Now, about tomorrow,” he murmurs. “I had an idea about the appetizer tasting Alexander will be presiding over. A few of my dishes use wine as a base; I figured it would be thematic for the weekend, you know.”

I nod, appreciating his attention to detail. “Makes sense.”

“Why don’t we use some of your wine to flavor it? I’d need a bottle of white and another bottle of red… We can also pair the meat course I’m going to be making for Alexander with a bottle of your most full-bodied, flavorful red, to accentuate the really rich palate. How does that sound?”

“Hmm.” I press my lips together, watching Alexander speak as my mind races through plans. “I like the general idea,” I admit. “But I’d need more details. And to try the food you’ll be cooking for him, to make sure I get the flavor palettes right.” I gesture beside us to the canapé table. “Are you making any of these appetizers again tomorrow, could I try some now?”

Tony scoffs as though affronted, but quickly catches himself and smiles at me. “No, I’ve got a whole new menu planned out for tomorrow. I figured the more chances I get to show off the breadth of my experience in the kitchen, the better.”

I smirk, because I can’t lie, his arrogance does amuse me at times. But, he is a chef. A lot of them are like this. “Fair enough,” I say. “Well, what time do you plan to start cooking tomorrow? Could I swing by the kitchens to help, and pair the wines there?”

“The tasting starts at 5pm,” he says. “But I plan on getting to the kitchens around 11am, just to be sure I have enough time to braise some of the meats I have in mind.”

Wow. Long day. But I’m sure that’s not even close to the longest Tony has worked. A few of my friends run restaurants in our town, and even the little Mom and Pop type restaurants have grueling hours, especially for the kitchen staff. You have to really love what you do in order to be a chef.

Something I can relate to. “Sounds good to me,” I tell him. “I’ll swing by around 11 as you’re getting started and bring a few of my favorite bottles. See what we can come up with working together.”

Tony favors me with a broad smile. “That’s the spirit, beauty.” He nudges me as he says it, and there’s something about his grin that’s turned a little hungry, a little desirous, and makes me realize he might be interested in more than just my wine pairings.

Damn. The last thing I want to do right now is juggle another work-related flirtation, as nice as Tony seems to be. I open my mouth to say something, though what, I still have no idea, when suddenly, Tony glances at something over my shoulder, and straightens, his posture changing all at once. He goes from casual and flirty to all business and closed off.

“I apologize for cutting this short, Ms. Spring, but I need to excuse myself. See you tomorrow?” He offers a hand to shake, but I barely have a chance to grip his fingertips before he yanks his hand from mine again and makes a beeline across the ballroom. Confused, I frown and turn to watch him go, wondering what on earth made him need to rush away so suddenly, without any warning.

But I don’t linger staring after him for long. Because a few moments after Tony vanishes into the crowd, while the ballroom is ringing with laughter over something witty Alexander just said, the double doors at the far end of the room open, and the figure framed in them takes my breath away.