Her breath caught when she recognized Destin’s concerned blue eyes.
“Destin! Oh, my God, you scared me.”
“Nicole! What the...are you all right? That fallen branch didn’t get a piece of you, did it?” His voice sounded melodic over the pounding of the rain, and it took her a second to register that he had asked her a question.
“I—I don’t think so.” She didn’t even know one had fallen near her.
“May I?” Without hesitating, he stepped closer, his head bent toward hers, and ran light fingers from her neck over her shoulder, carefully scanning for nicks and scrapes. She shivered, but it wasn’t from cold.
She watched his every movement, silently noting his perfectly straight nose and full lips. Michelangelo himself could have carved his cheekbones. His gaze stopped at the V of her soaked white shirt. He looked up and quickly stepped back.
“I don’t think you’re injured!” he shouted as the rain increased.
She slumped against the wall and tried to steady her breathing. Her lungs felt heavy with moist air. “What are you doing here? I thought you were heading to France.”
The thunder crack was deafening, and lightning streaked the sky. Destin shook his head. “Not in this weather. I came to make sure the drains were open—if not, the cellar could flood. What are you doing here?”
“I’m meeting Elliot.”
Destin shook his head rapidly. “I spoke to my brother this morning. He was going to call you to cancel.”
Nicole lifted her phone. Sure enough, a voicemail symbol popped up.
“I’ll leave. Just let me catch my breath. My heart is racing. It’s so humid,” she said, pulling at her shirt, wincing when she saw one of her buttons pop off and hit the ground. Quickly she pinched her shirt over her cleavage. When she looked up, Destin’s gaze darted away. He cleared his throat.
“You can’t drive in this, Nicole. You don’t know these roads.”
Just then, a streak of wet fur came bursting into the doorway, and the dog shook water all over them both. Nicole jumped and let a loud shriek. On shaky legs, she stepped away and heard an audible snap. Just as her heel gave way and her body lurched toward the floor, she was suddenly airborne and hoisted into strong arms.
“Whoa,” Destin said, his lips inches from hers. “I got you.”
“Welcome to the wine cellar,” he gritted out, quickly descending the stairs with her cradled in his arms. “Let’s take a look at that ankle.” Destin gently set her down on a bench next to a long sturdy table, slipped off her shoe and bent over her already swollen ankle. Her gaze darted around the disorganized room, then landed on her savior—in a black long-sleeved Henley with the top three buttons undone, a light smattering of dark chest hair peeking out, cargo pants and hard-worn boots. His damp hair curled and spiked around his ears. She itched to smooth it down.
He pushed up his sleeves, and she watched his forearm muscles flex. She wondered if he worked out, then mentally shook her head. Those weren’t gym-honed muscles. He was a vintner. A farmer. Working shirtless in the sun. Doing manly stuff like lifting barrels and digging ditches. At least, he used to.
She got a little overwhelmed at how very male he looked squatting in front of her. Then he touched her, his large hands gentle as he ran his thumb around the swelling, testing and pushing at the tender skin.
Any pain was overshadowed by the rush of heat that suddenly strained between her legs. The unexpected sensations had her lifting her foot away slightly. He raised his head but kept hold and lifted his other palm to her calf for support.
“Does this hurt?” His brows were high with worry.
What could she say? No, but could you please run your hands all over my body?
“No, but—” She hissed. “Oww,” she said when Destin bent her ankle inward. She wiggled her toes, testing that it wasn’t broken. And became more and more embarrassed that he was staring at her foot so intently. Thank God her pedicure was still intact.
“Just a sprain, I think,” he said, lowering her foot to the floor. Carefully, he placed her shoe back on and she winced, but not from pain—the heel of her shoe had completely broken off.
“Uh! My Jimmy Choos,” Nicole whined, then instantly regretted sounding like a Kardashian. But those were expensive. Calm down, she told herself. She could get them fixed on 57th Street. Ira wasn’t just a cobbler; he was a magician. She’d need the broken heel, though.
The wet mongrel that had started this mess chose that moment to walk by, and he was chewing on something small and cone shaped. The scruffy mutt lowered himself onto the concrete floor and chomped down, right into her heel. Nicole’s eyes widened, and she began snapping her fingers.
“No! Drop it! Come here. Come here!”
He lifted and cocked his head, then ignored her and proceeded to tear at the leather.
Still crouched, Destin twisted around. “Looks like Magnus likes Jimmy Choos, too.” He chuckled, and the sensual sound brought Nicole out of her haze. But before she knew what was happening, Destin slipped off her other shoe, tore off the heel with his bare hand and tossed it right between Magnus’s paws.
“Now your shoes will be even heights. We’ll get you another pair,” he said with a smirk as her jaw fell open. Suddenly everything was just too much. She should put this guy in his place. She should put Elliot in his place! She should bill this little visit by the hour. She should—
Destin stood abruptly, his hand on his hips and his pelvis right in her line of sight. She blinked. What was she thinking?
“I don’t have any ice,” he murmured as he looked around the room. “You’ll just have to keep it elevated.” Sliding another bench close to her, he propped up her leg. She focused on keeping her skirt down as it bunched up to midthigh, the rip in the fabric straining wide. “How does that feel?”
“It’s fine. Really...” As in really attractive, maybe even more so in his casual clothes than he’d been in a jacket last night. His face was all angular planes and strong jaw. That perfect brow remained in a frown, unsatisfied. He stepped around her and disappeared through a door she hadn’t noticed.
She took a moment to scan her surroundings. Empty light sockets dominated the walls, but a few strategically placed bulbs illuminated the room with a soft warmth. Stone walls and high ceilings were accented by long archways and dusty cherrywood beams.
The wine cellar was in her files, but there was no mention of it being in working order. She assumed it had been above ground and destroyed. Across the room, white sheets were draped over other furniture. The ghostly round outlines suggested bar tables that probably once sat in a lounge area. Glass display cabinets were empty. Oil lamps sat unused on the shelves, and wires poked from the ceiling, suggesting a chandelier had hung over the table at one time.
Sitting and dining rooms in a wine cellar weren’t uncommon, especially in new wineries. They could have had tastings there, or offered tours and events. The winery in Bordeaux hosted weddings in their cask room.
She leaned against the lip of the dining table and ran a hand over the smooth wood. Could the furnished cellar be a selling point? Maybe, depending on who the client was. It could be a storage room, a novelty playroom of some sort, even a fun office space. She could come up with a ton of ideas.
She made a mental note to ask Destin if he was planning on keeping the furniture.
Scrapes and shuffles behind her echoed from the open doorway to her left. Bracing herself on her arms, she leaned over and peered over the threshold. The large chamber accommodated stacked oak barrels and a wall