Page 40 of The Vineyard Crush

Once more that unbreakable anchor, the keystone of my tortured existence.

Cody, Avery and Lily.

Blinking hard, I shunted aside all forbidden wisps of longing and allowed my paternal focus to crystallize with the clarity of bone-deep instinct. From that singular vantage, Emma’s sensual invitation transformed into something more profound - an oasis for my parched spirit to sup from at long last.

“Give yourself a chance to find happiness, Ridge.” Ethan slapped my shoulders standing up and leaving.

Seventeen

Emma

Ishouldn’t have been surprised, really. The telltale click clack of my mother’s kitten heels always did presage an incoming storm front.

“Emma Harrison!”

The door to my office slammed open with enough force to rattle the frosted glass panes. There stood Mother in all her gloriously prim disapproval, lips pursed into a thin bloodless line as she surveyed the modest workspace.

Her glacial eyes landed squarely on the half-empty bag of Cape Cod potato chips resting near my keyboard. With a disdainful sniff, she crossed the room in a series of measured, condemning strides.

Time seemed to slow to a viscous crawl as her manicured fingertips plucked a crumpled invoice from the organized clutter on my desk. One delicately arched eyebrow inched upward as she scanned the itemized total.

“A hot tub, Emma? Really?”

The words dripped with patrician scorn, each syllable a rapier thrust of censure. I could only gape soundlessly, caught flat-footed in the merciless spotlight of her scrutiny.

Jaw ticking in obvious displeasure, Mother wagged the incriminating document like a teacher chastising an errant pupil. “Did it not occur to you to invest in something more…prudent? A treadmill, perhaps, or a set of free weights?”

If her first verbal slap hadn’t landed hard enough, the follow-up detonated in my gut like a sucker punch, knocking the wind from my lungs with brutal finality.

“You’re gaining weight, dear,” Mother continued in that same ever-patient, faintly mocking tone. “And these constant empty calories certainly won’t help matters in that department.”

My cheeks ignited in a molten blush as humiliation’s cloying tendrils gripped me in their icy vise. Throat constricting painfully, I found myself unable to summon any defense against her scathing chastisement.

Mother’s gaze raked over me in a single sweeping, disdainful assessment. Whatever she saw rekindled the spark of blatant dismay flickering behind her mirrored composure. “You simply must endeavor to take better care of yourself, Emma.”

The crumpled chip bag lay emblazoned in my fuzzy periphery, a gnarled reminder of this latest in a lifetime’s litany of failures to uphold her lofty expectations. My heart began cracking against the accumulated strain, compounding fissures splintering wide until scorching anguish spilled forth in a scalding torrent.

The first hot tear traced its burning trail down my cheek unheeded, rapidly followed by a sodden rush of briny scorn and self-loathing. Ugly, racking sobs convulsed out of me without warning or control as two much pain and inadequacy finally gave way beneath their crushing burdens.

One, two, three shuddering gasps for air rattled out of my heaving chest before Mother straightened, ivory lips parted in the faintest ‘o’ of stunned discomfiture at this most mortifying of displays. Embarrassment swiftly chased the dismay from her porcelain features, displeasure conceding to weary resignation.

“Oh, Emma…” She closed her eyes briefly, collecting herself as decades of pride, breeding, and bone-deep reserve reasserted their implacable hold. “This…isn’t what I intended. Everything I’ve said, every criticism, is only because I worry for you. Because I love you, and want only the very best for my daughter.”

A feather-light caress brushed the febrile curls back from my brow as Mother continued in a softer tone, “You have such boundless potential, such unrestrained brilliance. I would be remiss not to guide you in realizing that to its fullest.”

She blinked, giving herself a tiny shake before forcing a watery facsimile of a smile that somehow cleaved through the fugue enshrouding my heart. Her index finger tapped against my chin, the gentlest admonition.

“This…scene would be unseemly anywhere else. So dry your tears, you shouldn’t be cry and making me feel guilty about caring for your well-being.”

I lower my gaze, unable to meet her eyes. My hands find refuge in my pockets, fidgeting with loose threads as I pivot to leave. “Okay, Mom. I’ll try to do better.”

I exit the office before she can say anything else, before the weight of her expectations can crush me further. The door clicks shut behind me, a soft, final sound that echoes in the hallway.

Minutes later, I’m sprawled on my worn leather couch—a castoff from the BnB’s lounge that Mother had deemed “charmingly rustic” (translation: not fit for paying guests)—I sought solace in the familiar. The cabin’s scents enveloped me: lavender from my homemade sachets, mingled with the vineyard’s ever-present notes of grape and earth.

The leather is cool against my skin, grounding me as I try to shake off the emotional turbulence. I reach for my phone, before grabbing the photo frame from the coffee table and placing it to mark the place in the novel I am reading—dual escapes, one digital, one analogue.

My fingers moved on autopilot, scrolling through Instagram as I attempted to drown out Mother’s lingering words. Reels flashed by—a kaleidoscope of sunlit vines, glistening glasses, and beaming visitors. Our vineyard’s digital face, each frame carefully selected to project an image of pastoral perfection.

---