Page 103 of Bottle Shock
He laughs—a soft, frustrated exhale. “They said we had an hour.”
“And we’ve been here for what?” I say, completely breathless. “Ninety seconds?”
His smile tilts crooked. “We should be polite guests.”
I drag my thumb along his bottom lip. “We’re being polite. We’re just enthusiastically married.”
He huffs a laugh—then kisses me one more time, slower this time,like he’s imprinting it.
When he finally pulls back, he brushes his fingers along my cheek. “Later,” he promises, voice low enough to bloom heat straight down my spine. “I’m not done with you.”
My pulse thunders.
“Later,” I echo, though I’m pretty sure I willnotbe the one waiting patiently.
We stay there for a breath—steadying ourselves, gathering what’s left of our composure—before we straighten our clothes and smooth our hair, trying to look like we haven’t just devoured each other.
Lunch is set on the back patio overlooking the water.
There are sandwiches stacked on a wooden board, a pitcher of iced tea sweating in the warmth, pasta salad in a big ceramic bowl, and a heap of Rainier cherries off to the side.
And best of all—no sign of Andy.
“This looks amazing,” I say, sliding into the chair Gavin pulls out for me. His hand grazes my lower back on the way down.
After we managed to pull ourselves together enough to exist in the same room without tearing each other’s clothes off, Gavin unzipped his duffel bag and pulled out one of those tiny mint-green retro fridges. The kind teen girls keep skincare in.
Except this one was Lily’s.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “She mostly uses it to keep snacks and Capri Suns cold.”
He plugged it in on the dresser.
“For your insulin,” he said. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t the most thoughtful thing anyone has done for me.
I felt my heart beat in my chest—an irregular sort ofrhythm that would usually scare me. But with Gavin there’s never anything to be afraid of.
I didn’t cry.
Instead, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him, hoping he understood what that meant.
And now, sitting here, I’m having a hard time focusing.
“So you two have a daughter?” Carl asks as he serves himself pasta salad.
Of all the things we discussed, clarifying whether Lily was mine never came up. Rather than inflate the lie any further, I stick to the truth. It feels wrong to claim Lily as my own when the reason Gavin wants this house in the first place is so she can feel closer to her real mom.
“She’s my step daughter, but I’ve known her most of her life.”
Maggie smiles. “We have an older daughter—Carl’s from his first marriage—but I’ve always loved her like my own. She lives in New York so we don’t get to see her as often as we’d like.”
She says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, I can tell she means it.
Carl nods, taking a sip of iced tea before leaning back. “Family’s complicated, isn’t it? The way it grows and shifts.”
“What do you two do for work?” Maggie asks, genuine curiosity in her tone.
Gavin answers first. “I’m a winemaker,” he says, offering it the way someone does when they don’t think what they do is remarkable. But it is. He’s just too humble to admit it. “I studied chemistry and enology so I manage the cellar and the blends for my family’s winery back in Red Mountain.”
