Page 24 of Worth the Wait
Before I can answer, Frederick appears at the entrance to our alcove, his expression apologetic but urgent.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to let you know—the storm has intensified significantly. The highway patrol is advising against travel on the coastal routes.” He pauses, then adds, “Mr. Andersen asked me to extend his offer of accommodation if needed. He’s quite concerned about the road conditions and wanted to ensure our guests have safe options.”
The mention of Erik’s name cuts through the wine-warmed intimacy like a blade. Of course he’s back. Of course he’sinserting himself into our situation, offering solutions with that easy familiarity that suggests he knows Lianne well enough to anticipate her needs.
“That’s very thoughtful,” Lianne begins, but I cut her off.
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “The storm can’t be that bad. We’ll take our chances.”
Lianne gives me a questioning look, but doesn’t argue. Frederick looks uncertain.
“Sir, I really don’t think that’s wise. This system came in much stronger than predicted, and the roads?—”
“We’ll manage,” I say firmly, already guiding Lianne toward the exit. “Thank you for the exceptional wine tasting.”
As we head toward the cellar exit, Lianne catches my arm.
“Maybe we should consider?—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “We’re not staying here.”
I can see the realization dawning in her eyes—that this isn’t about the storm or safety concerns. This is about Erik, about my inability to stomach the thought of spending the night somewhere he can check on us, offer assistance, remind us both of his comfortable place in Lianne’s professional life.
“Okay,” she says quietly, and I can’t tell if she’s agreeing because she understands my jealousy or because she doesn’t want to stay here either.
“Well,” I say, looking at Lianne, “I guess we’re driving back.”
She nods, though I can see the uncertainty in her eyes. “I guess we are.”
As we gather our notes and head toward the exit, I can hear steady rain pattering against the windows above us, though the wind is picking up. What looked manageable from inside the cellar seems heavier now that we’re preparing to leave.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” Lianne says, checking her phone for weather updates. “Maybe we can beat the worst of it.”
I look at her, still feeling the warmth of her lips, still processing what just happened between us in that candlelit alcove.
“Should be fine once we get on the freeway,” I agree, though I’m more focused on the fact that we’ll have another ninety minutes alone in the car together.
She nods, pulling her jacket on. “Let’s go before it gets worse.”
9
“This is getting ridiculous.”
I stare through the windshield at an endless sea of red brake lights stretching down the 101 freeway. What started as a light drizzle when we left Santa Barbara has turned into a steady downpour, and traffic has slowed to a crawl somewhere between Carpinteria and Ventura.
We’ve been sitting in the same spot for twenty minutes.
“Weather reports are saying multiple accidents,” Cameron says, checking his phone. “Overturned cargo truck across two lanes near Oxnard. They’re recommending people avoid this stretch of highway altogether.”
The rain pounds harder against the windshield, and I can see other drivers making the same calculations we are. Several cars ahead of us have their hazard lights on, and a few brave souls are actually pulling over to the shoulder, giving up on forward progress entirely.
“We could be here for hours,” I observe, trying not to think about what that means for us. Alone in this car, with the memory of our wine cellar kisses still fresh between us, nowhere to go and nothing to distract us from the tension that’s been building all day.
“There’s an exit coming up,” Cameron says, pointing to a sign barely visible through the rain. “Ventura. We could get off, find somewhere to wait it out.”
I consider our options. Sit in traffic for an unknown amount of time, or exit into a small coastal town where our accommodation options will be limited at best. Neither choice feels particularly safe, though for entirely different reasons.
“How long do you think this will last?” I ask.
