Corner Office Confessions

The pure, gilded light of the rising sun poured in from floor-to-ceiling panes overlooking the stepped rows of meticulously attended vines.

On the other side of the kitchen, Arlie recognized the gleaming expanse of the black-lacquered, chrome-handled La Cornue Château Supreme oven. Half of her wanted to forget the shoot altogether and prostrate herself in front of it.

Samuel arrived a mere five minutes later, looking impossibly handsome and exceedingly irritated.

She wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he was on family turf or that she’d caught him on the fly, but Samuel had forgone his customary coat, wearing instead a crisp, deep blue shirt the color of the summer sky before a storm. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing the sloping lengths of muscle on his forearms. Jeans were too much to hope for, Arlie knew, but the European-cut dark gray slacks he wore revealed the powerful topography of his legs just as well.

The temperature in the room seemed to rise by a few degrees when Samuel’s eyes found hers. It could have been her imagination, or wishful thinking, but she could have sworn his lips softened ever so slightly, the barest crinkle teasing the corners of his eyes.

Then as quickly as they had landed on her, they moved to Martine. Samuel almost looked relieved to have a direction to walk in that didn’t involve Arlie.

“Samuel Kane,” he said, holding out his hand.

Martine shook his hand briefly before dropping it with a sound of disgust.

“I come all the way from Paris on a red-eye flight and nothing is ready. Nothing!”

A hot flush crept into Arlie’s cheeks. Being made to look inept in front of Samuel was right up there with recreational flaying on her list of Fun Things to Do. “I’m not sure I understand,” she said. “The bottles are right there. And the food pairings we discussed—”

“Are useless without the models.”

Arlie blinked, aware that her face must have had an almost comical look of confusion. “Models? There were no models discussed in preproduction.”

Martine motioned to his assistant, who handed over a folded sheaf of papers. “It is right here. I received an email with the details.” He slapped it down on the marble counter.

Arlie reached for it, but Samuel got there first. He unfolded the papers and read, his expression inscrutable. With a grunt of disgust, he balled up the papers in his fist and shot them into the trash. “You’re just going to have to change your plans, Mr. Martine.”

Arlie elbowed Samuel, widening her eyes in an Are you out of your mind? look.

Famously temperamental, Paul Martine had been known to walk off set if the sparkling water on his extensive rider wasn’t the right temperature.

This was her first official project, and she badly needed this win.

“I think what Samuel was trying to say,” Arlie said, reaching for the paper bag containing bread from the local bakery, “is maybe we could just focus on the wine itself? I have some lovely rosemary focaccia here and I could make a charcuterie board. Those are trending on Instagram.”

Martine wasn’t listening to her.

His assistant had leaned in, whispering something in his ear that made his bushy eyebrows rise in surprise. They stepped back, both of them looking at her and Samuel not unlike prize truffles at the Alba World Auction.

“Yes,” Martine said decisively. “Yes, you will do. Powder.” He snapped his fingers and the assistant scurried off.

“I’m sorry,” Arlie said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Martine ducked behind the tripod, swinging the lens in their direction before pressing the shutter release. Glancing down at the preview screen, he nodded brusquely. “Handsome husband, beautiful wife. Yes. Ça marche.”

“Oh,” Arlie said, realization finally crystallizing in her mind. “Oh, no. We’re not—”

“Out of the question,” Samuel echoed, sounding even more alarmed than Arlie. “Absolutely not.”

“Cecile,” Martine called. “We pack the equipment.”

“Wait!” Arlie shot Samuel a pleading look, hoping to telegraph exactly how much this chance meant to her.

Samuel sighed, his broad shoulders sinking with his exhale. “These are only to be used for international advertising campaigns, you understand? Foreign markets only.”

“Of course,” Arlie agreed hastily, exhilaration sparkling through her like champagne bubbles As she launched into action. In fifteen minutes, she’d set the scene. A table on the balcony outside the kitchen. Chardonnay for her, cabernet for him, a dropper full of distilled water helping to banish the inkiness and tease out the deep garnet tones. Between them, a rustic cutting board with architecturally arranged cheeses, a tumble of fat, glistening figs.

Arlie leaned in, adjusting one of the stems with a pair of tweezers.

“Enough,” Martine snapped. “We lose the light.”

Samuel sat with a Kleenex tucked into the collar of his shirt, Cecile patting his forehead with a blotting sponge.

Arlie had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen a man look more miserable.

“Behind the table. Go.” Martine pointed toward the bistro table overlooking the sloping fields of the vineyard.

Cecile liberated the Kleenex and ushered them over, posing them like oversized dolls.

And there they were.

Face to face. Samuel’s arm around Arlie’s waist, his mouth hovering a mere five inches away, sunlight slanting through their glasses, held mid-toast.

Fighting to keep breath in her lungs, Arlie compelled herself to meet his gaze. “I think she missed a spot,” she said, hoping to puncture the tension thickening the air between them.

Samuel didn’t respond, didn’t smile. His breathing quickened, feathering her cheeks.

Dizzied by his nearness, the scent of his skin, Arlie anchored her fingers in the fabric of his shirt.

“Closer,” Martine demanded. “You are in love. You cannot wait to kiss her.”

Samuel dropped his head until she could feel the warmth of his lips mere centimeters away from hers. Her belly felt heavy, her heart pumping blood to the deepest parts of her as a sympathetic ache woke between her thighs.

God, she wanted this man. Wanted to feel his weight on her.

In her.

“Oui, oui, oui!”Martine snapped erratically. “Donne-moi plus!”

Give me more.

Oh, yes, please, God. Give me more. Give me everything.

Give me you.