Midnight Sommelier - Anne Malcom Page 0,28

all, or any kind of upset that they felt.

That look, so similar to the one David wore, almost made me sink to my knees with the pain of it all.

Sure, muscles, chiseled jawlines, and good genes might’ve been attractive, but being a good father was the hottest thing about any man.

No. I shouldn’t be thinking about this. Shouldn’t be thinking about David and looking at Zeke.

“Tell me what happened,” he demanded, voice rough. Violent. It scared me.

“At the party, some guy tried to make her do something she didn’t want to do.”

Zeke’s entire body stiffened, his eyes bulging. Something about him changed. He looked the same, but the air felt different. Thick. Fury blanketed me like dew.

“He didn’t get anywhere,” I said quickly. “Ryder made sure of that. I know that every nerve ending inside of you is firing right now. I know you want to kill someone who even thought to do that to your daughter, and trust me, I’m there too. But my son has bruised knuckles to prove that this asshole got punished.” I thought about Luna’s eyes. “Maybe not everything he deserved. But trust me, he’s done all that can be done. Because his father is a big deal around here. If he goes missing, it’ll be a whole thing.” I waved my hand. “As hard as it is, the best thing is not to go alpha deadly dad. Be there for your daughter.” I paused, thinking of Luna’s suggestion. “Maybe a glass of wine ... and your daughter knows about the significance of Ridge Monte Bello, how?” I asked, swallowing my shame, my sorrow, and worst of all, my need.

Zeke’s eyes stayed at the stairs for a beat more before they focused on me.

His stare hit me physically. Hadn’t I been prepared? Hadn’t I psyched myself up the entire drive here, knowing I’d have to interact with this man?

I thought I had, at least.

But his stare, that energy focused solely on me without his daughter in the room? There was no way I could’ve prepared for that shit.

“I know about wine,” he said as a response. There was still anger in his control, but it was somewhat caged. “I know what good wine is. The history of it. The work that goes into producing a bottle.” He spoke with a roughness to his voice that told me his mind was on Luna, that he was forcing himself to stay calm.

He moved toward the kitchen, and what a kitchen it was. Ours was a beauty, to be sure. Everything a mommy blog and Instagram influencer could want. A large island in the middle. Two glass green light fixtures hanging over top of it. A long, upholstered bench serving as a bar stool.

Zeke reached to the side of the island to open the built-in wine cabinet, temperature controlled and full of bottles.

“Wine is one of the most civilized things in the world and one of the most natural things of the world that has been brought to the greatest perfection, and it offers a greater range for enjoyment and appreciation than, possibly, any other purely sensory thing.”

I blinked at him, at the way the words filtered through the air. Poetry from the mouth of a tattooed, menacing biker.

“Ernest Hemingway,” he continued, opening the bottle with reverence. With care.

Yes, this man, this midnight biker was quoting Ernest Hemingway to me while gently opening a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine with the respect it deserved. This was less than a minute after his body had shimmered with murder.

You could’ve knocked me over with the proverbial feather.

“Want to get the glasses?” he said, nodding behind me.

I turned to the cabinet full of glasses. Flutes. Coupes. White wine glasses, rosé glasses, and four different kinds of red wine.

Yeah, full of surprises.

I grabbed two glasses, hoping they were right since it was obviously very clear Zeke was serious about wine.

He didn’t say anything or toss me out of his home, so I figured I did okay.

“This needs to breathe,” he said, nodding down to the wine. “It’s a nice night. We’ll take it out to the patio and you can tell me what the fuck happened to my daughter and who I have to kill.”

He took the wine and walked toward his French doors.

He didn’t sound like he was joking about murdering someone, not one bit. But I followed him anyway.

The patio was as nice as the rest of the house

Wicker furniture.

More throws.

A fire pit.

Candles burning on the coffee table between us. The