Page 12 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)

“This is exactly what we need for the cocktail reception.”

I watch Lianne make notes about the Sauvignon Blanc we’ve just tasted, her professional focus impressive despite the fact that we’re two wineries and several wine samples into what’s turning out to be a much longer day than either of us anticipated.

The storm clouds that looked manageable this morning have developed into something more ominous, but neither of us has suggested cutting the day short.

We’re at our second winery, a boutique operation in the hills above Santa Barbara that specializes in small-batch wines with the kind of story Sterling Industries’ guests will appreciate.

Lianne has been taking detailed notes at each location, asking technical questions about production methods and availability, keeping everything strictly professional despite the increasingly relaxed atmosphere that comes with spending hours tasting wine together.

“The minerality works well with the appetizer menu we discussed,” she continues, swirling the pale liquid in her glass with the practiced motion of someone who knows wine. “Light enough not to compete with the food, complex enough to keep people interested.”

I nod, though I’m more interested in watching her work than evaluating the wine’s mineral content.

There’s something mesmerizing about the way Lianne approaches these tastings—methodical but passionate, analytical but intuitive.

She tastes each wine like she’s having a conversation with it, understanding its personality before deciding how it fits into the larger story she’s creating for our event.

“You’re good at this,” I observe as she negotiates delivery details with our host.

“It’s part of the job,” she replies, but I catch the pleased flush that colors her cheeks at the compliment.

“No, it’s more than that. You understand how wine works with food, with atmosphere, with the overall experience. Most event planners just pick whatever’s in their budget range.”

Lianne looks at me with something that might be surprise. “You’ve been to a lot of corporate events, haven’t you?”

“Too many. Most of them are exercises in expensive mediocrity.” I take another sip of the Sauvignon Blanc, appreciating the way it balances bright acidity with subtle complexity. “This is different. You’re creating something that will actually enhance the evening instead of just filling glasses.”

“That’s the goal,” she says quietly, and there’s something in her voice that suggests my recognition of her skill means more than she’s willing to admit.

An hour later, we’re driving through increasingly dramatic countryside toward our final stop.

The storm clouds have darkened to an almost charcoal gray, and I can see flashes of lightning in the distance.

The radio weather reports have gotten more urgent, but we’re too close to finishing our wine selection to turn back now.

“One more stop,” Lianne says, checking her notes. “The Esperanza Resort’s wine cellar. They have an exclusive partnership with a local vintner for their reserve collection.”

The Esperanza Resort. Where we had our awkward venue walkthrough, where Erik made it clear he knew Lianne better than I was comfortable with, where I realized I didn’t like seeing her comfortable with other men.

“Are we meeting with Erik?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“No, he’s at a conference in San Francisco this week. We’ll be working with their sommelier directly.” Lianne glances at me, and I wonder if she can read the relief on my face. “It should be a straightforward tasting. Their reserve wines are supposed to be exceptional.”

The Esperanza’s wine cellar is exactly what I’d expect from a property known to be frequented by billionaires who collect vintage bottles like other people collect art.

Stone walls, temperature-controlled storage, tastefully arranged seating areas that suggest this space is used for intimate tastings rather than just storage.

Frederick de Vries, the resort’s sommelier, greets us with the kind of professional warmth that suggests he’s accustomed to handling high-profile clients. He’s prepared a selection of five wines, each paired with small bites that demonstrate how the flavors work together.

“We’ll start with our signature Chardonnay,” he explains, pouring pale gold liquid into crystal glasses. “This vintage has won several international awards, and it pairs beautifully with oysters or light seafood appetizers.”

The wine is exceptional—complex and elegant with the kind of finish that makes you want to take another sip immediately. But what captures my attention is watching Lianne’s reaction to it. Her eyes close briefly as she tastes, and a small smile plays at the corners of her mouth.

“This is incredible,” she says, making detailed notes. “The balance between oak and fruit is perfect.”

“The vintner uses a very specific aging process,” Frederick explains, launching into technical details that clearly fascinate Lianne.

As the tasting progresses, I find myself paying less attention to the wines and more attention to Lianne.

The way she asks thoughtful questions about production methods.

The way she considers how each wine will work with different courses.

The way her professional expertise shines through every interaction.

But I also notice other things. The way she laughs more easily as the afternoon progresses. The way she meets my eyes when she finds a wine particularly impressive. The way the formal distance we’ve maintained all week has gradually dissolved into something more comfortable, more natural.

“For our final selection,” Frederick says, leading us deeper into the cellar, “I’d like you to try something special.

This Cabernet is from a very limited production—only fifty cases made, and one of Noah Thorne’s personal favorites.

It’s not available for purchase, but the Esperanza occasionally offers it for special events. ”

He leads us to a private tasting alcove, an intimate space carved into the stone foundation with a small table and two chairs positioned close together. The lighting is soft, provided by what appears to be actual candles rather than electric fixtures designed to look rustic.

“I’ll give you some privacy to evaluate this properly,” Frederick says, pouring deep-red wine into our glasses. “Take your time. This wine deserves careful consideration.”

He disappears back into the main cellar, leaving us alone in what feels like a cave designed for romance rather than wine evaluation.

“This is beautiful,” Lianne says, looking around the alcove. “I had no idea this space existed.”

“Private tastings for special clients, probably,” I reply, though I’m more interested in the way the candlelight catches the highlights in her dark hair.

She takes a sip of the Cabernet and her expression changes, becoming almost reverent.

“Cameron, you have to try this. It’s extraordinary.”

I taste the wine and have to agree—it’s exceptional, with layers of flavor that seem to reveal themselves gradually. But watching Lianne’s face as she savors it is more intoxicating than any wine I’ve ever had.

“We have to include this in the selection,” she says, making notes with obvious excitement. “I know it’s exclusive, but for Sterling Industries’ 50th anniversary...”

“Whatever you think is best,” I agree, though I’m not really thinking about the anniversary gala anymore.

The storm outside has intensified, and we can hear rain beginning to hit the windows above us. Thunder rolls in the distance, but it feels far away from our candlelit alcove.

“Listen to that storm,” Lianne says, glancing upward. “We might be here longer than planned.”

“Would that be so terrible?” I ask, the question coming out before I can think better of it.

She looks at me, wine glass still in her hand, and something shifts in the atmosphere between us, the professional distance we’ve maintained all day replaced by awareness that’s been building since this morning’s car ride.

“Cameron…”

“I know,” I say quietly. “This is supposed to be business.”

“It is business.” But her voice lacks conviction, and she doesn’t move away when I set down my wine glass and turn to face her fully.

“Is it? Because sitting here with you, watching you work, listening to you laugh—it doesn’t feel like business anymore.”

Outside, the storm continues to build, but inside our private alcove, everything feels suspended, waiting.

“We agreed to keep things professional,” Lianne says.

“We did, and I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried...” I reach out to touch her hand where it rests on the small table. “I can’t pretend I don’t feel this. Whatever this is between us.”

She doesn’t pull her hand away. Instead, she looks down at where our fingers have intertwined, her breath catching slightly.

“This is complicated,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“We have history. Bad history.”

“We do. But we also have this.” I gesture between us, encompassing the wine-warmed intimacy of the moment, the way we’ve spent the day rediscovering each other. “And I don’t want to pretend it doesn’t exist anymore.”

Lianne lifts her gaze to meet mine. “Cameron...”

“Just this once,” I say softly, moving closer. “Let me show you who I am now. Not who I was four years ago, but who I’ve become.”

For a moment, I think she’s going to pull away, going to retreat behind the professional boundaries we’ve both been hiding behind.

“This is a mistake,” she whispers, but she doesn’t move away.

“Probably,” I agree, then cup her face in my hand, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. “But I’m tired of making the safe choice.”

The kiss starts soft, tentative, a question more than a statement. But when she responds, when her lips part under mine and she makes a small sound of surrender, everything else falls away.

I kiss her like I’m memorizing the moment, like I’m trying to communicate everything I’ve learned about love and regret and second chances since the day I let her go.

She kisses me back with the same urgency, her hands tangling in my hair as her tongue meets mine, and I forget that we’re sitting in a wine cellar or that our entire history is built on the pain of our past. All I can think about is this moment, the way her body fits against mine like it was meant to be there, the way her breathing quickens as I deepen the kiss, the way she shivers when I touch her.

Time seems to stand still, the storm outside forgotten as we explore each other, rediscovering old scars and new desires in the flickering candlelight.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, the storm outside has intensified. Rain pounds against the windows above us, and thunder crashes closer than before.

“That was…” She trails off, like she’s not sure how to finish that sentence.

“A mistake?” I suggest, though it comes out half-joking. Because God only knows it is a mistake. But it also feels like the most natural thing in the world, like four years of regret and longing have led us here, to this moment.

“Not a mistake,” she says, shaking her head. “Just… complicated.”

I can’t argue with that. I know there’s still so much we haven’t talked about, so many questions left unanswered. But right now, all I want to do is kiss her again.

So I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. But she doesn’t. She leans in, too, and when our lips meet this time, there’s no hesitation. It’s as if we both know what we want, and we’re both ready to take it.

The second kiss is even better than the first, and when I slide my hand into her hair, Lianne sighs against my mouth, a sound that makes my heart skip a beat.

When thunder rumbles overhead, she pulls away. “The storm…” she whispers as she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Getting worse,” I agree, though I’m not really focused on the weather.

She looks up at me, her lips still wine-dark and kiss-swollen, her eyes wide with something that looks like wonder mixed with fear.

“What happens now?” she asks quietly.

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’s inserting 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.”