“What about me?”
“Why did you leave Johnny Mikos?” His name sounds out of place here. In my little fantasy, after the kiss we just shared. I swallow down the bile rising in my throat and concentrate on slicing up the carrots as steadily as possible. “You don’t have to answer that,” he says quietly, off of my silence.
“No, it’s fine.” I wipe my hands on my apron and turn to face him. “He wasn’t always an asshole, you know. I wouldn’t have fallen in love with…” I trail off with a cough, refusing to allow him to consume me tonight. “I wouldn’t have married him if he was a gambling, drug-addicted alcoholic when we met.”
I turn away from Donnacha. The sympathy on his handsome face is overwhelming. Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t need it. But after having a front-row seat to his own domestic shit show, I feel like I owe it to him to be open. “Don’t get me wrong, I knew he was doing dodgy dealings when I met him. But I never thought it was anything serious. Selling a little bit of weed here and there, at most.” Talking to the tiles in the kitchen makes it easy to let loose. “It was easy to ignore, you know? Then he started going out all night. Then sometimes two. And when he did come home…”
That’s enough. I don’t want to talk about him anymore. I’m sick of my entire life revolving around him, even though he’s no longer in it.
Suddenly, I feel warm, strong hands snaking around my waist, turning me 180-degrees. And then he’s there, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath. Smell the aftershave on his neck. “Violet,” he murmurs. I swear he’s pulling me closer. Or am I just gravitating to him? “Did he hurt you?”
I dare to look up and find his ocean-blue eyes boring into me with an intensity I almost can’t stomach. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore, Donnacha,” I manage.
As quick as he was touching me he retreats again, leaving me feeling cold, naked. “I’ll kill him,” he says with certainty, bringing his wine to his lips once more. I take a swig of my own, hoping to drown the butterflies in my stomach. Or at least get them so drunk that they pass out and shut up for the evening. “Because I will find him.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t. He watches me as I cook, stirring the pots, chopping up the rest of the vegetables. “Hey, I want to show you something,” he eventually says. His hand slips into mine and he pulls me away from the stove. “Follow me.”
He leads me through the house, through corridors I didn’t know existed, through staircases I’ve never set foot on, until we get to a room in the basement.
“Uh,” I say, eyeing the heavy oak door with a hint of suspicion. “Is this a war bunker?”
“No,” he laughs, pulling the bolt across with a strong arm. “But it wouldn’t be a bad place to get holed up in. Go ahead.” He takes a step back and nods towards the room.
I’m hesitant, but I gingerly push open the door.
Cold air hits me first. Then the dim yellow lighting bouncing off the curved ceilings. It feels like I’ve stepped back in time, the stone walls and the mahogany shelves a stark contrast to the all-white-everything vibe going on just upstairs.
“You… have a wine cellar?” I gasp, my astonishment splashed across my face.
“I love wine. Well,” he adds, “clearly not enough to know what wine goes with what food though.”
I smile at the reference to our date — if I’m brave enough to call it that. “You never fail to surprise me,” I find myself saying, before bracing for an awkward silence.
But it doesn’t come. “Is that a good thing?” He responds.
“Of course.”
A few moments pass by as I run my fingers over barrels and brush the dust off of labels. Looking at some of these dates, names and countries, I can’t even begin to imagine how much money is in here.
“There’s something in particular I want to show you,” he says, taking me by the hand once more. I could get used to all of this hand-holding.
We go deeper into the caves, leaving the light behind us. “Watch your step, Vi,” he says, his hand curling around mine to support me. “Wait here,” he whispers.
In the darkness I can hear him moving around, bottles clinking and dragging across the silky mahogany shelves. And then suddenly he’s back, pushing something cold and hard into my hands.
The shock snatches my breath away. I know the feeling instantly; I don’t need sight to tell me what it is. The curve of the neck, the deep punt at the base. The matte label so soft under my fingertips.
“Why?” I choke. “Why do you have this?”
I have nothing left from my father’s vineyard, and very little left of him himself. The few bottles I managed to swipe before the new owners took over have all disappeared over the years, all at the hands of Johnny. Some because of his drinking problem, others the victim of his anger issues. When the last bottle of Cabernet Savignon whizzed past my head and smashed into a thousand pieces against the wall of our townhouse, I burst into tears.
Which is exactly what I feel like doing now.
Donnacha’s gruff voice cuts through the darkness. “When you told me the name of your father’s vineyard, I was sure it rang a bell. And when I checked the cellar, I found it.” My hands clasp tightly around the body of the bottle, cradling it like a newborn baby. “It’s yours,” he finishes.
“Thank you.” My voice breaks under the weight of my emotions. “You’ll never know how much this means to me.”
“Let me store it somewhere safe for you,” he says, lifting it gently from my hands. “I’ll have our housekeeper find a suitable presentation box for safekeeping.”
“Thank you.”
In the darkness, tension rises once more. Only this time, it’s sexual.
Am I imagining this feeling between us?
It’s almost too overwhelming, suffocating, rising upwards like heat from a furnace. My lips part to find the words to break the spell, but nothing comes.
I don’t realize he’s close to me until I can feel his warm breath tickling my forehead.
I’m not imagining it. I can’t be.
Darkness is like liquor. It gives you the courage to say things you wouldn’t.
Do things you shouldn’t.
My fingertips brush against his rock-hard body, tracing the lines of his abs through his sweater. He doesn’t stop me. He still doesn’t stop me when my hand lowers past his navel until it meets the waistband of his boxers, peeking subtly over the top of his jeans.
Do I dare?
I don’t find the answer to my question before I feel strong lips against mine, strong hands around my waist. My body melts under his touch, my muscles giving into him. I’m all yours, Donnacha.
For tonight, at least.
I kiss him back with the same intensity, driven by the pent-up lust that has been brewing within me ever since I laid eyes on him. My fingers trace his thick beard and the sharp jawline underneath it, and when his lips move down to my neck, my fingers move with him, running though his tousled hair and settling on the nape of his neck.
His fingers work quicker than mine, unbuttoning my blouse with the stealth of an assassin. His fingers are replaced by his lips, then his lips are replaced by his tongue, greedily dipping into my bra to run itself over my rock hard nipples.