Page 44 of The Vineyard Crush

Ethan’s laugh ricochets off the oak-paneled walls. “We’re going to fix a fence,” he says, his tone laced with the kind of brotherly mischief that used to precede frogs in my bed or spiders in my grape baskets. “Not paint nails!”

The jab is so unexpected, so delightfully absurd, that it cuts through my Ridge-induced haze. Ethan knows—better than anyone—that asking me to paint nails is like suggesting we pair our reserve Cabernet with gas station hot dogs. My patience for such meticulous tasks evaporated years ago, somewhere between calibrating refractometers for brix measurements and adjusting our vine canopy for optimal sun exposure.

Moreover, he’s well aware that when it comes to fixing things around our estate, I’m not just competent—I’m the vineyard’s own version of a Swiss Army knife. Leaky fermentation tanks, temperamental grape presses, even that ancient tractor Dad refuses to replace? All purr like kittens after I’ve worked my magic. Next to me, Ethan’s mechanical skills are about as refined as our first attempts at making sparkling wine. (We don’t talk about the Great Cellar Foam Incident of 2018.)

So, in response to his quip, I do what any self-respecting little sister would: I flip my hair, making sure the ends brush across his face like errant grape vines. His exaggerated sputtering is music to my ears.

“Thank God,” I retort, my words warmed by the laughter bubbling beneath. “Painting nails with you would be the death of me. I can just see it now—you’d mistake the top coat for base coat, and we’d end up with a manicure disaster rivaling that batch of Merlot we tried to age in whiskey barrels during high school.”

Ethan’s grimace at the memory is priceless. That particular experiment had resulted in a wine that tasted like it couldn’t decide whether to be a robust red or a prated Scotch. We’d jokingly labeled it “Identity Crisis” and hidden the bottles in the deepest, darkest corner of our library cellar at our old home.

“Hey, at least that…creation…didn’t strip the enamel off our wine glasses,” he counters. “Unlike a certain someone’s attempt at DIY barrel cleaning solution.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. We both know that for every failed experiment, we have a dozen successes.

Our sibling dynamic is like our vine training system: a lot of back-and-forth, some tangled moments, but ultimately guiding each other toward growth.

As I move to leave Ethan’s office, my gaze drifts to Ridge. He’s been watching our exchange with an expression I’m still learning to read—like trying to decipher the potential of a young vine by studying its first tiny clusters. There’s amusement there, certainly, crinkling the corners of his eyes. But also something deeper, more contemplative.

* * *

Ridge

My heart is still racing, a stallion breaking free from its corral. The cause? Emma’s smile—a radiant, unguarded thing that appeared when she took the candies from my hand. Our fingers brushed, a whisper of skin on skin, and in that fleeting moment, I swear I felt every callus, every line of her palm. A topographical map of hard work and hidden strength.

Now, I can’t keep my eyes off her. Emma stomps around my backyard, a fucking force of nature wielding a hammer with surprising authority. She’s fixing my fence—a task I’ve postponed for weeks—dressed in a way that makes my mouth go dry. Tight jeans hug every curve, every dip and rise, like they were painted on by an artist obsessed with perfection. Above, an oversized sweater swallows her torso, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that are surprisingly toned. A vintner’s arms, I realize, accustomed to lugging bins of grapes and wrestling with barrel bungs.

Upon arrival, she corralled Ethan and me onto the porch with a mix of stern commands and playful eye rolls. “You two, sit. I’ve got this.” Any time I offer advice—born from years of ranch work—she huffs and rolls her eyes. But it’s not dismissive; it’s… cute. Like a hummingbird trying to boss around a pair of old oaks.

I take a long pull from my wineglass, savoring the complex bouquet. It’s one of Emma’s creations—a Syrah that opens with black pepper and violets, then unfolds into layers of blackberry and smoked meat. Bold, yet nuanced. Much like the winemaker herself.

As I contemplate the wine’s evolution on my palate, Emma hammers a nail into the weathered wood. Suddenly, there’s a resounding ‘thwack’ followed by a soft curse. She’s hit too hard, leaving an angry scratch mark beside the nail.

She turns back to me, her face a canvas of dismay. Those caramel eyes, usually sparkling with wit or warm with empathy, now glisten with unshed tears. Her lower lip juts out in the most endearing pout I’ve ever seen.

“Jesus, this girl,” I mutter under my breath. One moment, she’s all confident swagger and eye rolls, fixing my fence better than half the ranch hands I’ve hired. The next, she’s on the verge of tears over a scratch. It’s like watching a filly—all grace and fire one second, then startled by her own shadow the next.

I rise from my seat, the motion as natural as a tree swaying in the breeze, and walk towards her. My shadow falls over her, not menacingly, but like a sheltering oak. “Looks great,” I say, my voice low and steady.

“Really?” Her question is barely a whisper, fraught with uncertainty. Gone is the woman who confidently swirls wine in her glass, discussing malolactic fermentation like it’s casual dinner talk.

“I scratched the wood.” The admission tumbles out, soft and vulnerable. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine.” I crouch down beside her, my knees popping slightly—a testament to years of hard living. My finger traces another, larger scratch on a nearby plank. “See this one? I made it when I was fixing up a dollhouse for Lily.”

Her eyes follow my hand as it moves across the fence’s weathered surface. “Lily scratched these because the wood was too plain.” A watery laugh escapes her lips, a sound that tugs at something deep in my chest.

“And that,” I continue, gesturing to a cluster of marks that resemble abstract art, “was all Scoby.” Right on cue, my loyal companion’s bark punctuates the air, as if he’s proud of his artistic contributions.

Emma’s laugh grows stronger, the sound as refreshing as spring rain after a long drought.Our eyes meet, and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to just us. Her, with a hammer in hand and wine-dark shadows under her eyes. Me, weathered by years and responsibilities, finding unexpected solace in her presence. Around us, the ranch hums with life—horses nickering, cattle lowing, my children’s laughter drifting from the house.

In this tableau of imperfection—a scratched fence, a watery smile—something shifts. It’s subtle, like the first hint of fermentation in freshly pressed grapes. A promise of depth, of complexity yet to unfold.

I stand, offering my hand to help her up. As she grasps it, her fingers—cool, soft, long, yet undeniably strong—intertwine with mine. For a heartbeat, we’re connected, like two vines that have grown together over seasons, impossible to separate without causing harm.

I pull us to our feet, our bodies momentarily aligned. She’s so close that I can smell the interplay of scents that define her—sun-warmed skin, the earthy tang of soil, and underneath it all, a whisper of her signature Cabernet. A bouquet that speaks of hard work, passion, and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Emma.

“You’re really awesome, you know that?” The words escape before I can rein them in, honest as a child’s laughter.

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