Page 42 of The Vineyard Crush

Auggie’s chuckle rumbles through the speaker—deep, reassuring, like the oak barrels in our cellar. “It’s okay, Emmy. But let’s say… a very important family, with very particular needs.”

I nod, though he can’t see me. Outside, the sun is setting behind the hills, painting our vines in shades of gold and burgundy. In this ethereal light, our estate looks almost magical—a place where anything could happen, even a wedding that bridges two very different worlds.

“I’ll talk to Leo,” I say. “We’ve faced every challenge together: market crashes, late frosts, even my mother’s… exacting standards.” A wry smile tugs at my lips. “Whatever your family needs, the three of us will make it happen. That’s a promise, sealed in our best vintage.”

After spending the next fifteen minutes catching up before ending the call, I open my laptop. A quick text to Leo and Ethan about the wedding, then I dive into creating a mood board for the meeting with Auggie’s Zio and his fiancée. Color palettes, floral arrangements, wine pairings—each element carefully chosen to reflect both Italian opulence and our vineyard’s rustic charm.

I’m deep in a Pinterest rabbit hole, debating between blush roses and white peonies, when a knock at my door jolts me back to reality. Dragging my feet across the polished hardwood, I open the door—and am immediately engulfed by two small, enthusiastic bodies.

“Emma!” Lily and Cody chorus, wrapping themselves around my waist with the unrestrained affection only children can offer.

“Hey, guys,” I laugh, the warmth of their embrace melting away any lingering stress. But as I look up, my breath catches in my throat. There, filling my doorway with his imposing presence, is Ridge.

Our eyes lock—deep emerald meeting startled brown—and for a moment, the world tilts on its axis. Unbidden, an image floods my mind: Ridge and me in one of our wine baths, the rich Cabernet lapping at our skin, his hands and lips exploring every inch of me. The fantasy is so vivid, so tactile, that I blink dizzily, struggling to regain focus.

This crush is spiraling out of control. With each encounter, each new facet of his personality revealed—his kindness, his understated sweetness, the fierce care he has for his children—I fall deeper into his web. He’s like one of our most complex wines: intimidating at first sip, but with layers that unfold slowly, seductively.

“Hey, Emma.” His deep voice cuts through my reverie like a perfectly aged Syrah—bold, rich, with an undercurrent of something dark and enticing. I swallow hard, trying to moisten my suddenly dry throat. “Hey, Ridge. Come on in.”

As he passes, his scent envelops me—dark sawdust, earth, and something undefinably masculine. It’s an aroma that speaks of hard work under open skies, of quiet strength. He’s dressed in jeans and a Henley, with a thick flannel shirt thrown over it. The layers are a concession to the dropping temperatures; soon, our vineyard will be blanketed in snow. The thought sends a shiver of anticipation through me, one that has little to do with the cold.

“Do you mind looking after Lily and Cody for a couple hours?” he asks. “I have to go pick up Avery from James’ place, and I don’t want them to get bored on the ride.” Then, leaning in conspiratorially, he adds in a whisper that brushes warm against my ear, “Also, I can’t listen to one more second of why Emma is so nice and fun.”

A giggle escapes my lips, unbidden and girlish. Ridge sucks in a sharp, deep breath, the sound almost pained. When he pulls back, his green eyes are nearly obsidian—dark, intense, like the heart of our most robust Syrah. The sight sends a tremor through me, a physical response as potent as any wine tasting.

“Of course,” I manage. “We can soak in my new hot tub.” The kids erupt with excitement, their energy filling my cabin.

“Can we have bubbles?” Cody asks, bouncing on his toes. “And wine?” Lily adds slyly, her father’s smirk in miniature.

“No wine,” Ridge scolds, shooting me a sidelong glance that’s equal parts amusement and…something else. I roll my eyes, playing along with our unspoken banter.

“How about bubbles and candies?” I offer. Their enthusiastic chorus of agreement is music to my ears.

“Thank you, little flower,” Ridge whispers, the endearment falling from his lips as naturally as if he’s been saying it for years. Then, louder, “Be good, both of you.”

“He means you, Lil,” Cody interjects, and Lily’s nonchalant shrug is so quintessentially her father that my heart swells.

As Ridge turns to leave, his gaze travels over me with the same meticulous attention he’d give a prize stallion or a particularly promising vine. His eyes trace the curve of my neck, the slope of my shoulders, lingering at the dip of my waist before rising to meet mine. In that suspended moment, the air between us feels charged, like the static electricity that precedes a summer storm in the vineyard.

His tongue darts out, moistening his lips, and my stomach tightens in response—a visceral reaction, as immediate and overwhelming as the first sip of our most robust Syrah. His eyes, those deep wells of green that have become my personal Rorschach test, hold mine captive. In their depths, I see flickers of something untamed, something that calls to an equally wild part of me that I’ve kept carefully pruned.

He places his cowboy hat back on his head, the motion deliberate and achingly slow. It’s a gesture I’ve seen a hundred times, yet now it feels like a performance, an intimate ritual I’m privileged to witness. The hat settles, casting a shadow that only accentuates the chiseled planes of his face.

“Don’t let them eat too many candies,” he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my bones. “Or I’ll end up with two kids who won’t sleep and won’t let me sleep.”

The corner of my mouth quirks up in a smirk—not the polite, measured expression I offer at wine tastings, but something sharper, more daring. “We wouldn’t want that,” I murmur, my voice dropping to a register I hardly recognize. “I’d much rather something else entirely keeping you up at night.”

The words hang between us, heavy and ripe as our late-harvest Riesling grapes. For a heartbeat, there’s silence—the kind of weighted pause that precedes a significant vintage reveal. Then, like a slow-moving landslide, a deep flush rises on Ridge’s face. It starts at his collar, climbing steadily upward until even the tips of his ears are stained.

He tips his hat, a futile attempt to hide the blush, but not before I’ve committed every nuance of color to memory. In the soft, forgiving light of my cabin, his embarrassment is as beautiful as our Pinot Noir vines in autumn—all deep reds and burnished golds.

He shakes his head, a gesture of disbelief or perhaps surrender, and walks out. The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow manages to echo through my suddenly too-large, too-quiet space.

I remain rooted to the spot, my heart performing a staccato rhythm against my ribs. Did I really say that? Me, Emma—the shy, introverted girl who used to hide behind my books and phone? The heat that painted Ridge’s cheeks now flames across my own, a delayed response to my own audacity. I blame it on Jen Morris as I am adopting whatever bold personality that she has written for the FMC in She was made for me. Damn you Jen Morris.

“Emma! Can we go in the hot tub now?” Lily’s voice, high and bright, breaks through my daze. I turn to the children, their faces alight with an anticipation so pure, so uncomplicated, that I can’t help but mirror their smiles.

“Alright, you two,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Let’s get this bubble party started.”

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