HER TASTE

The first thing she noticed was the heat.

Not the sun outside, but the thick, still kind that lived inside stone walls. It pressed against her skin like it wanted something.

Isadora wiped sweat from her collarbone and pushed open the front door. The villa smelled exactly how she remembered-dust, rosemary, and something deeper she couldn't name.

The place hadn't changed in years. Her aunt's wine estate still sat high above the Amalfi coast, surrounded by vines that curled like lazy fingers toward the sun. It looked beautiful from far away.

Up close, it felt like a cage.

She dropped her keys on the entry table and kicked off her sandals. Her dress clung to her back. There was no breeze, no sound, just the faint buzzing of cicadas through the shuttered windows.

She hadn't planned to stay long. Just a week. Maybe two.

Long enough to meet with the broker. Sign papers. Sell the estate.

She didn't need to see the vines. Or the tasting room. Or the garden that used to bloom with wild fennel in spring.

What she needed was a drink.

She padded into the kitchen. Empty. No food, no wine on the counter. Not even a corkscrew. But she knew where the real stash was kept.

The cellar.

She opened the door to the stairs and paused. It was darker than she remembered, cooler, too. A breath of air rose from below, carrying the scent of oak, stone, and something slightly sweet - maybe an open bottle left uncorked.

She made her way down slowly, her fingers trailing the rough wall. Her skin tightened with every step. The light was dim, the silence heavier than upstairs.

Halfway down, she stopped.

There was someone down there.

She could hear it now - a low, clean sound: the pop of a cork being pulled free. Not rushed. Not surprised.

She reached the bottom step and turned the corner.

A man stood at the far end of the cellar, one hand on a wine bottle, the other holding a glass. He was tall, lean, with his sleeves rolled to the elbow and dark hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck. His shirt was undone at the top, exposing a line of skin. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he didn't mind being caught.

He looked up at her without flinching.

"I thought you'd come down," he said.

His voice was low. Smooth. Like something poured slow and hot.

She blinked. "Who the hell are you?"

The corners of his mouth lifted. "Lucien. I'm here about the vineyard."

"I wasn't told anyone was coming."

"You were. You just didn't read the note."

He poured himself a glass, the red liquid catching the soft yellow light. He didn't offer one to her. Not yet.

Isadora crossed her arms. "You broke into the cellar."

"The door was open. And I don't break into things. I study them. I wait."

He looked at her then, really looked. Her bare feet, her flushed skin, the way her dress stuck to the inside of her thighs.

His gaze moved up slowly, without apology.

She felt it like a touch.

"You're sweating," he said.

"I'm hot."

"That's not the same thing."

He raised the glass to his lips and drank.

She swallowed, throat dry. She should've told him to leave. To get the hell out and call first next time.

But she didn't.

Instead, she stepped closer.

He watched her without blinking. His body stayed still, but his eyes moved, taking in her hips, her wrists, her mouth.

"I want that bottle," she said.

Lucien held her gaze for a long beat. Then he poured a second glass and handed it to her.

Their fingers brushed.

It was a light touch. A nothing moment.

But her stomach flipped anyway.

She took a sip. It was deep and dark, with a slightly bitter taste, like cherries soaked in smoke.

Her aunt's private vintage.

She lowered the glass. "You opened this without asking."

"I don't ask for what I know I'll be invited to enjoy."

She stared at him. "That's a habit of yours? Taking things that don't belong to you?"

His smile didn't fade. "Only when they're neglected."

Her spine straightened. "This estate isn't neglected."

He stepped closer - slowly, like a cat who knows the mouse won't run.

"No?" he asked. "Because it tastes like it is."

He was close enough now that she could smell him - not cologne, but wine, and salt, and skin warmed by summer heat. Her pulse jumped.

"You think you know this place from one bottle?" she asked, lifting her chin.

"I think I know what it wants." His voice dropped an inch. "What it could be. What you're afraid to make it."

She should have been offended. She wasn't.

She was...curious.

"You've been here what-an hour? And already you've figured me out?"

"No. Not yet." His gaze dropped to her mouth. "But I'm going to."

She knew that line should have made her roll her eyes.

It didn't.

She took another sip instead. The wine was too warm, but she didn't care.

Lucien leaned past her, placing the open bottle on the table beside them. His arm brushed hers. He didn't apologize.

"Let me show you something," he said.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't trust men who wait in cellars."

He smiled again. This time, slower. "Good. I'd be worried if you did."

And then he stepped back, giving her space, letting the heat of his body fade just enough to feel its absence.

He didn't touch her.

He didn't have to.