Page 18 of Blurred Lines

It takes me an hour to reach Café Delish, Emberton's sweetest little coffee shop. I go home, change into a fresh set of clothes after a quick shower, and this time, I take my car.

I gun the truck down Emberton's postcard-perfect road, the sunset bleeding across the sky like a ripe grape split open. Should be a damn beautiful sight, the kind Silas would've whipped out his camera for. Instead, all I can think about is Emily.

Wheatish skin, silky chocolate hair … focus, Finn, focus. I'm practically salivating over a woman like some lovesick pup, and right after my best friend's funeral. Guilt gnaws at me, mixing with an unfamiliar flutter of excitement.

Café Delish is a cozy haven amidst the quaint town. Warm light spills through its windows, a beacon against the fading dusk. Inside, it's a delightful jumble of worn armchairs, mismatched china, and walls plastered with cheerful artwork.

The air hangs heavy with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and something sweet, like childhood afternoons at Grandma's.

I spot her immediately—a vision against the vibrant backdrop. She's breathtaking in a summery dress, and all I can manage is a lame, "Hey."

She smiles. "Hello. I took the liberty of ordering us pancakes. I had a feeling you'd be hungry."

I slide into the booth opposite her, wondering for a second, if the entire café heard the sound of my stomach rumbling. "How'd you know?"

"You've got that 'just rolled out of a ditch' look about you." Her eyes twinkle, a hint of mischief erasing the earlier tension.

"Charming," I deadpan, but can't help a grin. Caeleb let it slip that she's intimidating, but there's a warmth beneath Emily's polished exterior.

The waitress delivers the pancakes, the scent of maple syrup cutting through the air. "So," I begin, shoveling pancake into my mouth for courage, "I guess we need to talk about the elephant in the room. Or, well, the elephant-sized vineyard …"

She stiffens, her gaze turning glacial. "Look, Finn, I'm not interested in playing this game. Sell the place, for all I care."

I bite back a sigh. "Emily, come on. Those people out there? Their jobs depend on that vineyard."

"And what am I supposed to do? Snap my fingers and make it profitable?" Her voice drips with annoyance.

I get it. Harvey wasn't the best father out there. The whole of Emberton could testify he cultivated more scandal than grapes on his land. Absentee parenting was practically his middle name, making Emily's grievances as justified as a judge's gavel. But we're not just talking about the man himself here; it's the empire he erected that's at stake. I take a sip of coffee before reasoning with her.

"Not single-handedly, no. But you've got a voice. You get people listening. Imagine you expose that corporation exploiting the workers—create some public backlash?"

She eyes me, a calculating glint in her gaze. "You really think a model has that kind of power?"

"It's not about your usual content," I counter, leaning forward. "It's about authenticity. You're passionate, you care—people eat that stuff up."

"They care about sunsets and exotic beaches, Finn," she scoffs. "Not vineyard workers' rights."

"Maybe. But you never know until you try," I say, keeping my voice light, but determination courses through me. "Give it a shot, Emily. Just one shot."

A long pause. She chews a thumbnail, that perfect brow furrowed. Then, with a defiant lift of her chin, she meets my eyes. "Fine," she snaps. "I'll do your damn social justice rant. But when it—inevitably—fails, I'm washing my hands of this mess."

A surge of relief washes over me. "Don't be so cynical," I grin. "We might surprise you."

I can read some things about Emily immediately. I watch her as she finishes the pancakes on her plate, munching thoughtfully on the cloudy mass. She's not worried about creating content surrounding the vineyard. She's worried people won't buy it.

A little vulnerable, even though she tries to come across tougher than nails.

A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. The last rays of the sun invade through the windows by our table and paint her golden. She's beautiful. She's unlike anything I've ever seen.

Emily pushes away her plate. "Listen, Finn," she begins, a note of hesitation in her voice, "I've got a … thing happening in town tonight. A modeling show, fundraiser sort of deal."

I almost choke on my coffee. "Are you inviting me to your show?"

Her lips quirk in a wry smile. "If you'd want to come. Anyway," she continues, "it would be good … publicity-wise … if someone connected to the farm showed up. Might help with this whole worker's rights angle."

"And you generously offer me a front-row seat to the Emily-extravaganza?" I raise an eyebrow.

Emily extravaganza? What the hell is wrong with me? Maximum cringe.

---