Page 80 of Second Dance
Inside the caves, the temperature dropped at least a dozen degrees and smelled of wet rock and fermenting wine. French oak barrels chalked with dates and hand-scrawled lots lined both sides. In the cool darkness, Alex moved behind me, his chest nearly touching my back, his breath warm against my ear as Leo explained the aging process. I could barely concentrate on the words.
Leo withdrew the long pipette from the barrel’s opening and poured samples into waiting glasses. Alex’s hand found the small of my back as we tasted the young wine—light, almost reverent, but it sent heat racing up my spine.
“Full of promise,” I said, and, when I looked up at Alex, his eyes darkened in a way that told me he wasn’t thinking about wine at all.
By late afternoon, we hugged Marisol and Leo goodbye, promising to come back for harvest, and headed down the driveway, the dog loping beside us until we reached the gate.
Back in the car, I closed my eyes, pleasantly warm and well fed. Alex reached over and laced his fingers through mine, resting our joined hands on my thigh. The weight of his hand, the warmth of it—I felt myself drifting, safe and content.
I didn’t wake until we were climbing Rutherford Hill Road, switchbacks shouldering through olive trees.
“Ah yes, here we are,” Alex said softly, not wanting to startle me.
In a dry-stacked stone wall, the resort’s name, Les Terrasses de Rutherford, in patinated brass, winked in the light as we pulled onto the property. At the porte cochère, as we waited for the valet to take care of our bags, the warm, dry air brought scents of rosemary, warm rock, and citrus from the planters.
“What is this place?” I asked, still sleepy from my nap.
“A resort that came highly recommended by some friends of mine,” Alex said. “I hope it’s as good as everyone says.”
Minutes later, a host led us along a hushed path to a freestanding private maison set on its own terrace above the valley. The nameplate read Maison Étoile. Iron-framed windows faced the endless sweep of vines and low hills, and French doors opened onto a trellised patio with a sculpted outdoor soaking tub and a rain shower aimed audaciously at the view.
Inside felt like what I imagined the south of France would be, with clean lines, warm tones, and space that invited slow, purposeful breaths. A separate living room held a stone fireplace, low sofa, and dining alcove. A built-in bar gleamed beside an espresso machine. The management had left a chilled bottle of champagne in a silver bucket with two flutes and a note in neat script: Bienvenue.
I laughed, delighted. “Alex, this is wonderful.”
“It doesn’t disappoint,” Alex said, grinning. “I’ve not been here before, so it was a bit of a risk.” He nodded toward a small card listing amenities, including in-room breakfast on the terrace and a personal winery tour in the afternoon.
“I’m in heaven,” I said.
I wandered through the maison, acutely aware of him moving behind me. The main bedroom hosted a California king with its own fireplace and sitting area. But there was a second bedroom, also with a king bed.
My pulse quickened. Two bedrooms. Was this his way of being a gentleman, giving me space? Or did he think I wanted distance? The uncertainty made my stomach flutter with something between disappointment and anticipation.
The terrace ran the length of the maison, pale stone underfoot, and a wooden trellis casting stripes of shade that drifted across the floor as the sun slid west. A low apricot wall topped with a slim black railing framed the whole valley—folds of oak and olive, a far blue seam where the vines met the hills. I caught hints of the scents of warm stone, rosemary, and sun-crushed leaves. Every so often a tractor murmured somewhere below, and the vines made that soft, silk-on-silk sound when the breeze moved through.
I stepped out of my sandals, the stone pleasantly warm under my bare feet. Alex came up behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, and handed me a glass of champagne.
“Shall we toast to the beginning of our holiday?” His voice was low, intimate.
I took the champagne from his outstretched hand and turned to face him. “Holiday sounds so fancy and European.” I clinked my glass to his. “Cheers.”
“To our first trip together.” His eyes held mine as we drank, and something in that gaze made my breath catch.
“I could live here,” I said.
“You will be—for two days anyway. If you like it, I’ll bring you back anytime you want.”
“This is all really special,” I said. “Thank you. I can’t remember the last time I took a vacation of any kind.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
I leaned against the railing, taking in the view as the valley changed color by degree, vines deepening from green to pewter as the sun slid west.
“You look good standing there.” His voice had gone rough, and, when I turned, he was watching me with an intensity that stole my breath. He lifted his phone as if to take a photo, but his eyes never left mine—the camera was just an excuse. He was memorizing me, burning this moment into his memory.
“Come in for a moment,” Alex said, setting down his glass and taking my hand. “I have something for you.”
On the bed lay a garment box and a folded card that read: *For our dinner, if you so choose.*
