The apartment was quiet when he got back. Too quiet. The kind that echoed.
Jake dropped his keys by the door, slipped out of his jacket, and fell face-first onto the couch with a heavy sigh. The cold had numbed his fingers, but the wine... the wine still lingered on his tongue.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment before finally grabbing his phone.
Ivory. Wine. Akureyri.
He wasn't even sure what he was looking for at first. Curiosity, maybe. Or just something to tether the surreal feeling in his chest since she showed him that alley—like he'd stepped into a dream she forgot to gatekeep.
The first few searches brought up recipes. An old blog post about wine tastings in Northern Iceland.
But then he saw it.
A name he did recognize.
"Skírra" — the label from the café.
He clicked the link.
Skírra is a boutique wine brand known for its rare seasonal blends and handcrafted batches. Distributed only through private partners in Europe and Asia, Skírra has built a quiet empire of exclusivity. A favorite among royals, old money circles, and private collectors, it's often dubbed "liquid gold in a glass."
Jake blinked. Sat up.
His thumb hovered over the screen before scrolling further.
An article. A feature piece in some high-end magazine he'd never read but had definitely posed for once.
There she was.
Ivory.
Hair up in a messy bun, big sunglasses, laughing in the sun beside a vineyard that stretched for miles. Dressed nothing like the girl in the yellow dress with snow boots—but the smile was the same. Effortless. A little chaotic. Unbothered by the world.
"Despite being the heiress to one of Europe's most elusive wine brands, Ivory Kim prefers to keep a low profile. Running operations under a different name, she's been known to deliver bottles herself to small cafés and quietly maintain a modest life in Akureyri, Iceland. 'I don't want people to treat me like I'm made of glass,' she says. 'I just want to make wine, eat good food, and sleep in. Is that too much to ask?'"
Jake let the phone rest on his chest, heart thudding gently.
She wasn't just some sarcastic girl with good taste and reckless winter fashion.
She was her.
The kind of woman the media would've devoured if they knew where to look. The kind of name whispered in velvet rooms behind locked doors. Old money. Real legacy.
He'd been served her wine on silver platters backstage at venues that cost millions to rent. And she had handed him that same wine tonight like it was a bottle of soda. Smirking. Casual. Real.
He should be intimidated.
Hell, maybe he was.
But all he could think about was how she'd laughed when he almost slipped on the cobblestone, how she made fun of his clean boots, how she pointed at a bottle she owned and asked, "You ever try it?" like it didn't matter.
She could've bragged.
She didn't.
She let him forget.
And that... that made him remember her even more.
Jake turned his phone face-down and let his eyes close for a moment.
Yeah. He was in trouble.
Not because of who she was.
But because of how she made him forget who he was too.
***
The cold didn't bother him as much anymore.
Jake tugged his hoodie up as he strolled down the cobbled path toward the same alley Ivory had taken him to. Something about the amber lights and that quiet tucked-away café had stayed with him—soft around the edges, like her laugh echoing off stone.
The barista blinked in recognition as he walked in. "Ah. The silent one."
Jake huffed. "Not that silent."
"Mm," the barista smirked. "You and Ivory looked cozy the other day."
"We had wine." He paused. "Her wine."
That got a curious look. "You didn't know?"
Jake leaned on the counter. "Trying to learn."
The barista—name tag said Aksel—shrugged, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. "She's an odd one. Spends half her days running that vineyard over email and the other half riding around like she's not one of the richest people in Iceland. Took me three months to realize she owns this café too."
Jake blinked. "She—what?"
Aksel handed him a coffee. "Yep. She calls it her 'pocket hangout.' Says she'd rather drink wine here with locals than go to some million-dollar tasting in Paris."
Jake took a long sip, brows furrowed. "Do you know where I can rent a bike? Like, a real one—700cc or up?"
Aksel grinned. "Planning to impress the wine queen?"
Jake deadpanned. "Planning to ride."
—
The mountains were steep, rough, and breathtaking. The landscape stretched in endless gray-blue ridges, sharp against the sky. Iceland did that—made you feel like the world was both too big and too still.
Jake had made it halfway up a scenic ridge, heart at peace and engine roaring—until the tire gave out.
Flat.
"Of course," he muttered, kicking the dirt. His signal bars were laughing at him. Dead quiet.
With no way to call the shop, his phone long gone with its battery, he swung his leg off the bike and started walking the gravel path. Wind picked up. So did the clouds. He zipped up, head low.
The distant rumble of another engine broke the silence.
Jake stepped to the side of the road and raised a hand, squinting as the dark blur approached. Big bike. Fast. Clean turns. Whoever it was knew how to ride.
The bike slowed to a purr and stopped a few feet ahead.
Black helmet. Black leathers. Smaller frame.
A girl?
He sighed inwardly. Great. And here I was hoping for a mechanic.
The helmet lifted just enough to reveal a flash of wild dark hair.
Then laughter.
Loud, amused, unapologetic.
Ivory.
"Well, well, well... Look who's stranded like a lost puppy!"
Jake blinked. "You ride that?"
She swung off the bike with a theatrical bow. "This beast? She's mine. Custom engine. I call her Thora."
"Fitting," he muttered, eyes still wide.
Ivory smirked, walking around him. "What happened? Bike gave up after hearing your soul playlist?"
"It's a flat," he grunted. "No signal. No help."
"Lucky for you, I like being a badass knight in leather armor." She grinned. "You're riding with me."
Jake hesitated, eyeing the single seat. "There's barely room—"
"Scared to touch me, Jake?" she teased, gesturing him to put on his helmet again.
"It's not that," he muttered, slipping it on. "Just... surprised."
As if the universe was done waiting, a few drops of rain splashed on the gravel. Then a few more.
Ivory straddled her bike and jerked her chin toward the back.
"Well, pretty boy? Hop on before I leave you for the mountain trolls."
Jake sighed, defeated and slightly charmed, and climbed on. Her warmth was immediate through the leather. He gripped the back bar, trying to keep distance.
She rolled her eyes and reached behind to grab his hands. "Hold on properly, or you're eating dirt."
He swallowed hard and wrapped his arms around her waist, letting out a breath as the bike roared to life.
—
By the time they pulled into her driveway, Jake was cold, quiet, and very aware of the warmth still lingering in his palms.
He looked up.
The gates had opened to reveal a mansion tucked into the mountain slope. Sleek, stone and glass, with golden light spilling from wide windows.
He blinked. "This is... yours?"
Ivory parked smoothly and tugged her helmet off with a grin. "You thought I lived in a shoebox, huh?"
"I thought you lived over the café."
"Tempting. But I'd miss my heated floors and hundred-year-old wine cellar."
Jake slowly got off, eyes trailing the elegant modern lines and wildflower gardens hugging the sides.
"You gonna stand there gawking, or are you coming in?" she called over her shoulder, already walking to the front door.
Jake didn't answer.
He just followed.
Dripping wet, thoroughly confused, and a little more in love than he should be.