Page 57 of The Vineyard Crush

Twenty Four

Emma

It’s been a couple of weeks since that movie night, and with each passing moment, my footing with Ridge becomes increasingly precarious. At first, I chalked it up to a simple crush—my ADHD brain’s latest fixation, hooked on the dopamine it’s begun to associate with him. I expected this interest to fade within a week, as it always has before.

But this… this is different.

My mind, usually a flurry of scattered thoughts, has become a meticulous curator, collecting and cataloguing every aspect of Ridge. His smile is rarely given but breathtaking when it appears—like the first bloom on a stubborn vine. His eyes, deep wells of emotion that shift from stormy grey to warm amber depending on his mood. His voice, a low, comforting rumble that resonates in my chest long after he’s stopped speaking.

Then there are his interactions with the kids. The way he navigates Cody’s complex game strategies, his brow furrowed in concentration as if he’s plotting cattle rotations. How he belts out Taylor Swift lyrics with Lily, his baritone hilariously off-key but his enthusiasm contagious. Or when he dances with little Avery, his large hands engulfing hers as he twirls her, his movements as gentle as when he’s handling newborn calves.

And the sex… oh God. My body thrums at the mere thought, like a perfectly tuned guitar string. Every touch, every whispered endearment, every moment of connection—it’s as if Ridge has somehow learned to play me, eliciting responses I never knew I was capable of. It’s wine-making in its most intimate form: the careful pressing, the patient fermentation, the moment when all elements align to create something transcendent.

I’m well past the realm of a crush. With each day that passes, with each layer of Ridge that’s revealed to me, I’m falling in love. Not the fleeting infatuation that’s marked my past relationships, but something deeper, richer—like the roots of our oldest vines, reaching down through layers of history, anchoring themselves in bedrock.

We agreed not to tell his kids until we were absolutely sure of our relationship. I am—as sure as I am about the terroir that makes our Cabernet sing. But Ridge? His heart is like those ancient oaks on his ranch—sturdy, vital, yet bearing scars from storms I’ve only begun to understand. Feels like he is holding back somewhere in this thing between us.

Today, the vineyard buzzes with anticipation. Our first wine festival is next weekend, and every room is booked. It’s a milestone that should have my full attention, but my thoughts keep drifting to Ridge, like bees returning to their favorite blossom.

Adding to the day’s complexity, the first snow is expected in two days, and Leo is arriving today. Meanwhile, Lily and Cody are here at the vineyard while Ridge takes Avery for vaccinations.

“Emma!!!” Lily bounds into me, all kinetic energy and delight.

“Hey, little grape,” I say, patting her head. The endearment slips out naturally; she’s as much a part of this place now as any vine.

Cody follows, deep in conversation with Ridge about… cricket? My ears perk up. I remember watching India vs. England with him once, a choice born from my habit of having international sports as background noise while I work. He was captivated, peppering me with questions. But Ridge’s face now is a canvas of bewilderment—like he’s trying to decipher wine notes in a language he doesn’t speak.

“So America’s team is qualified for T20 World Cup for the first time, Dad,” Cody explains, his eyes shining with the fervour of newfound passion. “I wanna be a cricketer when I grow up.”

A smile tugs at my lips. Just weeks ago, he wanted to be a rodeo star. Before that, a video game designer. But Ridge, bless him, takes each dream seriously.

“Well, we’ll look into cricket coaching, Bud,” he says, his tone the same he’d use discussing bull genetics or soil pH.

“I can teach him,” Ethan interjects, and I have to bite back a laugh. My brother, ever the silent observer, choosing this moment to speak up.

Ridge’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “You know how to play cricket?”

Ethan rolls his eyes, a gesture so familiar it makes my heart twinge. “I’m half Indian, bro. It’s like in my blood.”

In the midst of this cross-cultural cricket negotiation, I finally allow myself a moment to truly observe Ridge. It’s like pausing during a vineyard walk to appreciate a particularly magnificent vine—one that consistently produces grapes of exceptional quality, year after year.

His cowboy hat rests atop dark hair, the strands catching the light like well-oiled leather. Another layer, a thick coat, has been added due to the winter’s onset—yet another facet of his adaptability. Dark jeans hug his legs, worn in all the right places, telling a story of hard work and resilience. But it’s his eyes, those perfect green orbs, that truly captivate me.

They’re smirking now, a playful glint that makes my breath catch. It’s the same look he gave me that night on the roof, right before he… God. In this moment, under the vineyard’s diffused light, he’s more alluring than ever. Like a wine that improves with each passing vintage, Ridge seems to get more appealing every day, his character deepening, his appeal intensifying.

“Fine, you can teach him once a week,” Ridge agrees, and both Cody and Ethan perk up like vines after a much-needed rain. The transformation is instant, their excitement as palpable as the joy in our fields during harvest time.

Ridge moves then, shifting to sit on his haunches. He gets to eye level with Cody and Lily, little Avery still nestled in his arms. The motion makes his muscles flex beneath his shirt, the fabric straining against his biceps and shoulders. Suddenly, I’m transported back to intimate moments—those same arms around me, holding me close as he…

My thoughts turn as warm and heady as our Cabernet Franc left to bask in the afternoon sun. I remember how those arms feel encircling me, pulling me closer as he pounds into—shit. My internal temperature spikes, and it has nothing to do with the vineyard’s sun-soaked stones. That train of thought became very inappropriate very fast, like a fermentation that’s suddenly spiked out of control.

I try to redirect my focus as Ridge speaks to his children. “Be nice for Emma, okay?” His voice, low and gentle, is the same one he uses when he’s soothing a spooked horse. The kids nod, exchanging goodbyes that are more excited waves than actual words, their minds already leaping ahead to whatever adventure awaits.

Needing to ground myself, to shift from the heated memories to the cool reality of tasks at hand, I address the children. “So, who wants to help me pick out the color for the new cabin walls?”

“Me!” Their chorus is as harmonious as our workers’ songs during harvest, a joyful unity that makes my heart swell.

As they bounce around me, discussing shades of blue and green with the seriousness of wine critics, I steal another glance at Ridge. He’s watching us, his expression soft, open—like a clear night sky that invites stargazing. In his eyes, I see something that makes my breath catch: a future, as vast and promising as our estate’s untouched acres.

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