Page 49 of Blurred Lines

We eat in companionable silence for a while, the food easing the tension, at least for the moment. As Emily savors the last morsel of grouper, a wistful look crosses her face.

"You know," she says, her voice soft, "I'm starting to feel ridiculously out of my depth. All this farm business, my dad's cryptic letter … and here you are, creating masterpieces from nothing."

I set down my fork, giving her my full attention. "Emily, everybody starts somewhere. This place"—I gesture around us—"didn't appear overnight. It started as a hole-in-the-wall, me cooking, serving, washing dishes—a one-man show."

A flicker of surprise crosses her face. "Really? You? Mr. Fancy Chef?" she teases.

I grin. "Oh, don't let the polished exterior fool you. There were nights I slept on a lumpy cot in the back, barely scraping together enough for the next shipment of tomatoes. Being mixed-race wasn't exactly an advantage back then either," I admit, the flicker of old hurts still there.

"Things changed because I believed in what I was doing," I continue, a quiet determination in my voice. "Every plate was my heart and soul. People noticed. One good review led to another, investors showed up, and before I knew it …" I wave expansively at the bustling restaurant. "We became this. I opened chains in different cities. The New York one is doing the best, but this remains my favorite. It's home, it always will be."

"You make it sound so simple," she says, softly. Light spills from the window beside us and catches a lock of her hair. It flames like a sunset. My breath hitches. She isn't wearing an ounce of makeup today, save a dab of lip gloss. She has no business looking this stunning.

"It never is," I reply, composing myself. "But anything worth having rarely is." Reaching across the table, I cover her hand with mine.

A hint of a blush warms her cheeks, but she meets my gaze unflinchingly. "So, what do you suggest? How do I fight for something I'm not even sure I want?"

"Start with what you know," I say, squeezing her hand gently. "Your dad's letter is a puzzle, yes. But the vineyard—that's your world. Start there. We'll figure out the rest together."

Questions alight in her eyes, matching the small smile on her lips. "How much longer do you have to work?"

I reply with a low chuckle. "I'm a free man, Em. What do you have in mind?"

She runs her thumb over my knuckles. "I have an idea. Your place, or mine?"

19

EMILY

"Neither," says Caeleb abruptly. "How about we visit the vineyard instead? But before that, how about we go out and about?"

"What do you have in mind?" I ask, momentarily swayed from the plans I had. He smiles and extends a hand. "Let's go."

We set out. I feel like a child getting to see Emberton through the eyes of someone entirely new.

Caeleb's Emberton, with its vibrant street markets, quirky coffee shops, and the gentle hum of the ocean in the distance, feels like stepping into a postcard of the coast. We stroll through busy streets, the warm sun kissing our faces.

"Ever tried paddleboarding?" Caeleb asks, a mischievous glint in his eye. He points at a small rental shop tucked along the beachfront.

"Um, I've conquered runways across the globe, but conquering the waves?" I raise an eyebrow in mock uncertainty. "That's a different arena entirely."

"Pity," he drawls, "I was imagining you gliding across the waves, every bit as graceful as you are on the runway."

I can't help but laugh. "Alright, challenge accepted. Just don't laugh if I end up face-first in the sand."

An hour later, after a few less-than-graceful attempts and a whole lot of laughter, I manage to find my balance. The feeling of gliding across the water, the sun warm on my back, is oddly exhilarating. I look back to see Caeleb effortlessly paddling, a grin splitting his face.

The afternoon fades, painting the sky in a blaze of gold, pink, and fiery orange. We settle on the beach, the sand cool beneath our feet, and simply drink in the fiery spectacle as the sun dips below the horizon.

"I don't remember the last time I just sat and watched a sunset," I murmur, mesmerized.

Caeleb's gaze rests on the fading light. "It's easy to lose sight of the simple things amidst the chaos," he says, his voice low. "New York … sometimes it feels suffocating. Everyone in a frenzy, always competing, chasing an ever-elusive perfect life."

He pauses, then continues, his voice raw, honest. "My ex …" he begins, then trails off, a shadow crossing his face. "She played me like a harp, used my son for her means. We did settle our differences for the sake of my kid, but some wounds never heal."

Once upon a time, I told him I didn't care that he was a single parent.

I still don't, not in the sense of it being a deal-breaker. If anything, he's been wonderful. I have the feeling he's also an amazing dad. But seeing the shadows pool in his eyes as he loses himself to his past makes me wince. He's hurting. "I'm so sorry, Caeleb," I say, my hand finding his, offering silent support.

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