Page 41 of The Vineyard Crush

Then, a video stopped my thumb’s mechanical journey. A place in Japan, offering… wine baths? The sight of people submerged in deep, burgundy-hued tubs, surrounded by oak and candlelight, tugged at something within me. It was whimsical, unconventional—everything I would love to bring into our vineyard

A laugh, small and fragile, escaped my lips. Without hesitation, I forward the video to my WhatsApp group with Leo and Ethan. Those two will get a kick out of this—

A small, rebellious smile tugs at my lips. I can already picture Ethan’s reaction—his eyes lighting up, fingers flying over his iPad as he drafts proposals to add this to our resort amenities. We’ve been knee-deep in plans to transform the quaint BnB into a luxury resort, complete with cabin upgrades that would make Architectural Digest swoon. Adding “wine therapy” to our wedding destination pitch? It’s so outlandish, it loops back to genius.

The only wild card is Leo. Since he agreed to step in as both CEO and CFO of Aimer les Vins, every conversation has been a deep dive into profit margins and ROI. It’s like he’s possessed by the spirit of a Wall Street tycoon, all talk of “liquidity ratios” and “debt-to-equity.” But beneath the corporate jargon, there’s a method to his madness. After all, this is the man who turned the stock market into his personal ATM, amassing billions over the past eighteen years through tactics that probably deserve their own Harvard Business School case study.

His financial wizardry makes him our biggest investor, with Ethan and me trailing behind. It’s a fact Leo never lets us forget, especially during budget meetings. But his eyes—those calculating green orbs that can intimidate hedge fund managers—always soften when he looks at our vineyard. This isn’t just an investment to him; it’s home.

I roll onto my side, making myself comfortable on the plush leather couch. The cabin’s interior is a blend of rustic charm and modern luxury—a testament to our ongoing renovations. Outside, through floor-to-ceiling windows, rows of grapevines stretch to the horizon, a living, breathing balance sheet in Leo’s world.

My hand reaches for the side table, fingers brushing past my phone to grasp an Alpenliebe candy. As it dissolves on my tongue, a wave of nostalgia washes over me. The sweet, milky flavor transports me back to childhood summers when Uncle Arjun would visit from India, his suitcase always laden with these treasures. Even now, halfway across the world, he keeps my stash replenished—a small act of love spanning continents.

I return to my book, “She Was Made for Me” by Jen Morris. Five minutes pass in this bubble of tranquility. The protagonist is about to confront her love interest when my phone chimes, the sound echoing in the cabin’s open space. I let out a soft groan—partly at the interruption, partly at the exquisite tension in the novel.

Slipping the photo frame back between the pages, I reach for my phone. The screen illuminates, casting a soft glow on my face. It’s a text notification from our group chat.

I blink, momentarily stunned. This isn’t the Leo I expected—all numbers and projections. This is… passionate, almost poetic. My eyes dart across the words “queens” and “rose petals,” and for a fleeting moment, I envision myself submerged in a sea of burgundy wine, crowned with delicate petals with the rugged man next door his soothing voice in my ears as he- A blush creeps up my neck, and I’m grateful for the solitude of my cabin. I shake my head clear of the intoxicating images and try to formulate a response, but Leo isn’t done.

I smile, warmth spreading through my chest like the sun-drenched vines outside my window. Leaning back into the leather embrace of my couch, I let out a long, contented sigh. The Alpenliebe’s sweetness lingers on my tongue, mingling with the taste of possibility—a flavor profile as complex as our finest Cabernet.

My reverie is interrupted by the sharp trill of my phone. The screen lights up with Daisy’s face—a candid shot from our college days, her blonde curls wild from dancing all night. I tap to answer, my smile widening. “Hey Daiz.”

“Hello Emmy. Guess what?” Her voice is a staccato of excitement, words tumbling out in rapid succession. It’s so quintessentially Daisy—direct, effervescent, the human equivalent of our sparkling rosé. It’s why I love her.

“What?” I ask, already bracing for whatever whirlwind she’s about to pull me into.

“Augustino is on the other line. Wait, let me merge the calls,” she says. Augustino—or Auggie, as we call him—is the final note in our trio’s harmony. A freshman when we were sophomores, we met during a college fest and became inseparable.

There’s a click, then a deep, warm voice fills my cabin. “Hey Emmy.”

“Hey Auggie, what’s up?” I put the phone on speaker, freeing my hands to reclaim my novel. His voice, rich as aged port, makes my cabin feel even cozier.

“So, I was calling because I need help from both of you,” he says.

Daisy and I respond in unison: “What do you need?” Her tone is eager, mine curious—a subtle difference that encapsulates our dynamic.

“My Zio is getting married next year, and I need help finding a good venue. Our family villa in Sicily is a no-go with renovations.” There’s a pause, heavy with unspoken weight. “And… everything else going on.”

I bite my lower lip, a habit from my shy, introverted days. People whisper that Auggie’s father is a leader in one of the five families ruling New York’s underworld. But Auggie? He’s the biggest golden retriever I’ve ever met—all warmth and wagging tail. The idea of him in the Mafia is like suggesting our lightest Pinot Grigio could intimidate a bold Syrah.

Yet, in that weighted pause, I hear echoes of a world far removed from my sun-dappled vines. A world where “renovations” might mean something entirely different.

Suddenly, adrenaline rushes through me like the first taste of our Ice Wine—shockingly sweet, bracingly cold. An idea crystallizes, as clear and precise as Leo’s financial projections.

“How about Aimer Les Vins?” My voice is steady, infused with a confidence that surprises even me. “The renovations here should be done in five to six months. I can send you pictures of the existing vineyard and the renovation project. What do you say?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence. In that moment, I see our estate through new eyes: the terraced hillsides that could host a ceremony, the wine cave where vows would echo off ancient stone, the sprawling lawns perfect for a reception under the stars. Not just a venue, but a canvas for new beginnings.

“That sounds amazing,” Auggie says, his tone brightening. Then, a shift: “But if we agree to do the wedding there, I have to talk to you and Leone to discuss some… security and other pressing issues.”

The words land like pressed grapes—heavy, full of hidden complexities. In my mind’s eye, I see Leo in his office, sleeves rolled up, dissecting Auggie’s request with the same intensity he applies to our financial strategies. Security isn’t just about cameras and guards; it’s about reputation, alliances, the delicate dance of power.

“Of course,” I hear myself say. My voice is soft, but there’s a steel underneath—the same resilience that helps our vines survive harsh winters. “We’ll handle everything, Auggie. Your family’s safety, their privacy… it’s as important to us as the quality of our wine.”

Daisy chimes in, her bubbly tone a stark contrast to the gravity of the moment. “Oh my God, Emmy! A Mafia wedding at your vineyard? This is like something out of a movie!”

“Daiz!” I admonish, but there’s no heat in it. Her candor, while sometimes shocking, is as much a part of her charm as her infectious laugh.

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