Page 109 of Bitter Rival

He asks if there are any questions and after answering a few, he points out the toilets and the refreshment area, and we get to work.

Beckett is right by my side as we work our way up the rows, clipping the grapes from the vines and tossing them into buckets at our feet.

Once my eyes adjust to the light, it doesn’t take long to find my rhythm.

It’s hard to believe that a little over two months ago, I had no idea how to do any of this and now it almost feels like second nature.

As soon as I fill my bucket, I empty it into a larger crate on the trailer behind the tractor and get back to work filling it again. Even though the adrenaline is running high, being out here, surrounded by nature, breathing in the fresh, clean night air brings me peace.

Until I look over at Beckett.

“This isn’t a competition,” I say, noting the way he’s picked up the pace, clipping grape clusters and dropping them into the bucket so fast his hands are a blur.

“Nobody said it was.” But I can tell by his smug smile that this is a competition, and he’s already declared himself the winner.

Not to be outdone, I start clipping and tossing as fast as I can.

“Watch what you’re doing, princess,” he says gruffly. “Stop looking over at me. You’ll lose a finger that way.”

“I can’t help myself. That headlamp is just so sexy.” It’s really not. Neither is the reflective vest that, according to Beckett, is mandatory for health and safety reasons. “It’s making me feel all kinds of ways.” I fan myself. “Whoa. Is it me or is it getting hot out here?”

“I bought extra batteries. We can see how it works under the covers.”

I laugh. But now I’m picturing Beckett showing up naked with a headlamp and I can’t stop laughing. “I’ll even draw you a treasure map.”

He snorts. “I don’t need a map. I had no trouble finding your G-spot.”

Yeah, he really didn’t. Before him, it was uncharted territory. “No need to gloat. It’s not like you summited Everest,” I scoff.

“Might as well have. I took you to new heights.”

Working the harvest, or the crush season, is everything Callie promised it would be.

Every day feels like a mini celebration. Like a dream I don’t want to wake up from.

After the grapes are transported to the winemaking facility, I sometimes join the team and help with punch downs or sorting through the grapes on the conveyor belt.

At the end of each day, when I drag my weary body back to the house, I feel happy and hopeful, like we’ve accomplished something truly incredible.

And every afternoon, Beckett and I take a siesta, languishing in bed with our limbs entwined and the shutters closed to ward off the afternoon sun.

Life is good. So good that I sometimes forget I’ll be leaving soon and that this isn’t my real life but just a pit stop along the way.

“These grapes won’t be ready to harvest for at least a few more weeks,” Beckett says, squeezing the juice of a cabernet sauvignon grape into the refractometer then holding it up to the light to check the sugar content.

“Probably not until mid-October,” he says, pocketing the handheld tool as we walk down the row with the afternoon sun beating down on us.

So far, September has been warm and dry, and still feels like summer.

Belatedly, Beckett’s words register, and I deflate. “But we won’t be here in October.”

I’ll be in Madrid and Barcelona and Paris. He’ll be back in San Francisco. And this vineyard will be under new ownership.

“Chin up, princess,” he says. “You’ll be on to better things. No more working through the night. No more dirt under your nails and scratches on your arms. No more living in a house without air conditioning.”

He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm as we walk through the open French doors and leave our work boots by the door.

I don’t mind the heat as much as Beckett does. With all the fans he bought, and the shutters closed, the house stays cool enough for me.

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