Page 43 of The Vineyard Crush

As I lead them down the hallway to where my new hot tub awaits—a luxurious addition that epitomizes our resort’s evolution—my mind rebelliously wanders back to Ridge. His presence lingers in my cabin like the last notes of a fine wine on the palate: his earthy, masculine scent clinging to the air, the echo of his deep voice resonating in the corners.

The hot tub room is a tranquil oasis, with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the vineyard in a living tableau. As the children shed their outer layers, giggling with excitement, I adjust the water temperature and activate the jets. Soon, a mountain of iridescent bubbles rises, transforming the tub into a whimsical, effervescent playground.

“Last one in is a rotten grape!” Cody shouts, and they both leap in with squeals of delight, sending water splashing over the sides. Their joy is infectious, pulling a genuine laugh from my lips.

I slip into the water, its warmth enveloping me like a tender embrace. But as I lean back, feeling the jets work their magic on my tense shoulders, it’s not just the heat that’s causing my skin to tingle. The memory of Ridge’s gaze, his flushed face, the way his tongue traced his lower lip—these sensations overlay the present moment, creating a layered experience as complex as our most celebrated Bordeaux blend.

“Emma, look! I’m Santa Claus!” Lily exclaims, having fashioned herself a beard from the bubbles. Her innocent play stands in stark contrast to the decidedly adult thoughts swirling in my mind.

“Very festive,” I laugh, splashing water playfully in her direction. “Maybe we should rename our Cabernet to ‘Santa’s Secret Stash’.”

As the children’s laughter fills the room, harmonizing with the hum of the jets, I find myself in a moment of perfect counterpoint. The day just kept getting better after the shitty afternoon I had.

Eighteen

Emma

I’ve spent another night reading until 4 a.m., a habit as comforting as it is detrimental. Now, as Ethan expounds on some new wine he’s starting to make here—a Tempranillo-Syrah blend, I think, inspired by his recent trip to Rioja—I find myself drifting. His words, usually as engaging as our best vintages, blur into a soothing hum. The leather couch in his office, with its scent of old books and oak barrels, beckons me toward oblivion.

“Want some candy?”

The deep, gravelly voice, as rich and complex as our oldest Port, jolts me from my semi-conscious state. In my startled awakening, my head collides with what feels like a wall—a warm, flannel-covered wall that smells of sawdust and pine. “Oww,” I grumble, as two deep laughs reverberate through me, one from above and one from across the room.

I blink away the vestiges of sleep, my vision slowly focusing on the expanse of plaid mere inches from my face. The pattern is a bold tartan—deep greens interlaced with threads of gold, reminiscent of our vineyard rows at the height of autumn. My gaze travels upward, past the sturdy buttons, until it locks onto a pair of eyes that mirror the flannel’s hues.

Ridge.

His presence in Ethan’s office, in my semi-conscious bubble, feels surreal—like finding a robust Cabernet in a flight of delicate Rieslings. But his words finally penetrate my foggy brain: “Did you say candy?”

“Yes,” he replies, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. Those lines—a topographical map of laughter and squints into the sun—deepen as his lips curl into a smile that’s equal parts tender and teasing. “Want some?”

“Yes, please.” The words tumble out, tinged with the unguarded eagerness of a child. Or perhaps, more fittingly, like a sommelier offered a taste of a legendary vintage.

Ridge extends his hand, palm up, transforming it into a makeshift offering plate. There, nestled in the calloused landscape of his skin—a canvas that tells stories of mended fences and tamed horses—lies a collection of candies. They’re a vibrant assortment, each wrapped in crinkly, jewel-toned foil that catches the office’s soft light.

I reach out, plucking the sweets from his palm. Our fingers brush, and it’s as if I’ve completed an electrical circuit. A current runs through me, starting from that point of contact and racing along my nerves, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. The sensation is startlingly similar to that first, electric sip of our Sparkling Rosé—all tingles and effervescence.

Ridge straightens to his full height, a movement that’s both fluid and imposing. In Ethan’s book-lined office, with its intellectual, almost monastic atmosphere, Ridge’s rugged physicality stands out like a gnarled old vine in a manicured garden. He turns to my brother, and the shift in his attention feels like stepping out of a warm sunbeam.

“You ready to go, Ethan?” His question hangs in the air, casual yet somehow weighted.

“Yeah,” Ethan replies, already shrugging into his field jacket—the one he reserves for hands-on vineyard work.

My drowsiness evaporates, replaced by a spark of curiosity. “Where are you going?”

Ethan’s response is a smirk, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Ridge shakes his head, a gesture that’s part exasperation, part fondness—the look of a man well-acquainted with sibling idiosyncrasies, have to raise Cody and Lily who act exactly like Ethan and I. “He’s helping me fix a fence at the ranch.” Then, his gaze swings back to me, green eyes luminous in the lamplight. “You wanna join, little flower?”

The endearment, delivered in that low, husky timbre, does something to my insides—a feeling akin to the moment a complex red wine opens up, revealing hidden depths and nuances. It’s a warmth that spreads from my core outward, like the legs of a high-alcohol Zinfandel running down the glass.

Join them? The proposition hangs in the air, as tempting as a rare vertical tasting. On one side, there’s the allure of watching Ridge in his element—sleeves rolled up, muscles working beneath that flannel as he mends boundaries, both literal and perhaps metaphorical. On the other, there’s the comfort of this couch, the promise of more sleep.

I glance down at my hand, still clutching the candies Ridge offered. “Let me grab my boots,” I murmur.

I glance down at my hand, still clutching the candies Ridge offered. Each piece is a tiny, sugar-coated promise, whispering of shared secrets and unspoken invitations. My fingers close around them, as if by holding them tighter, I can capture the essence of the man who gave them to me.

“Let me grab my boots,” I murmur, my voice low, almost lost in the room’s wine-soaked acoustics.

---