Page 51 of The Vineyard Crush

Watching her mouth form the gentle objection was like a physical punch to the solar plexus. I cut her off sharply, barely smothering a savage curse at my own stupidity. How could this woman, this beautiful creature who embodied every shade of warmth and kindness, be trying to absolve me of something so vile?

In two long strides, I closed the distance between us, bending until we were eye to eye, sharing the same charged air. “I did, I made a mistake. I’m sorry, little flower.”

The endearment slipped out without thought, a forbidden indulgence I instantly regretted. Because how dare I tread near that blooming sweetness, let alone risk bruising it? I was a relic of rust and ruin, a hollowed-out husk to be avoided like plague-cursed ground. I wasn’t enough then, and I know I can’t be enough now.

Still, the compulsion to absorb some fleeting instant of her light overpowered reason. Reaching up, I brushed the pad of my thumb over the flush staining those delicate cheekbones. Then carefully, reverently, I tucked an errant lock of hair behind the silk-curved shell of her ear.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.” The words drag out, low and graveled, scraping past the knot of self-hatred lodged in my throat. It’s like trying to speak through a mouthful of bitter wine lees. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

I burn to apologize a thousand times over until she understands. Until that luminous radiance—her essence, as pure and captivating as our first-press Chardonnay—is banked and shielded from the contamination of my poisoned shadows. From the beast barely restrained behind the bars of my own ribs, an ancient, feral thing born from loss and disillusionment. All it would take is one faltering step, and everything would wither in the swath of destruction I drag with me everywhere, like phylloxera through a vineyard.

Beneath the pads of my fingertips, her delicate skin prickles with a slight tremor. For one crystalline second, her lush lips part, eyes flaring wide—an invitation as vibrant and devastating as our rarest Ice Wine, that once-in-a-decade nectar born from frost’s cruel kiss.

Then Emma clamps her mouth shut and gives a curt nod, chin dipping as wispy hair falls forward to shield whatever emotion had blossomed. She swallows and sighs, the sound like wind through our oldest vines—tired, maybe a little sad.

“I think I should get going,” she mumbles, and my fingers flex involuntarily. It’s the same motion I use when testing grape skins for optimal ripeness, but now it feels like I’m on the verge of crushing something infinitely more precious.

“No.” The word escapes before my brain can prune it back. She pauses, and the air between us becomes charged, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm that will either devastate our crop or bless it with vital rain.

“Stay, take the room,” I continue, my voice husky. “It’s quite a walk, it’s late, and Ethan is already asleep on the couch. No point in waking him.” I wipe my suddenly sweaty palms on my pants—a rancher’s nervous tell, as revealing as a wine’s legs on glass.

She looks at me, those caramel eyes searchingly intense, as if trying to read the terroir of my soul. Then she nods. “Okay.”

I show her to my room, the one she slept in last time. Even though the house is big—a remnant of more bountiful harvests—it only has four bedrooms. Lily’s, a pastel wonderland; Avery’s, adorned with fairy lights; Cody’s, a mini rodeo arena; and mine, which has the biggest bed. Not that it matters much. I usually fall asleep in Lily’s room after a nightmare jolts her awake, or in Avery’s after she wakes up for some unknowable toddler reason.

After ensuring Emma’s comfort, I follow my nightly ritual: climbing to the roof for some fresh air and much-needed distance. Up here, under the vast sky, problems seem smaller—whether it’s a fungal threat to our vines or… whatever this is with Emma.

I look up at the stars, those eternal sentinels that have witnessed every vintage, every harvest, every heartbreak. Why did I stop kissing her? After so many years of emotional dormancy, I finally felt alive—like a decades-old vine thought barren, suddenly bursting with fruit. With Emma, I feel like I could be anything she wants: strong yet tender, rooted yet reaching for the sky. For the first time since Mellissa left, I feel like I might just be… enough.

My contemplation is cut short by a grunt—a sound as out of place up here as a wine stain on a white tablecloth. My eyes snap to the roof’s edge, and there’s Emma, pulling herself up with surprising grace. She’s here again, in this space where I come to be alone. Yet, somehow, her intrusion doesn’t feel like one. Instead, a part of me yearns for her to be closer, like vines that grow toward each other, seeking shared support.

“You’re an idiot, cowboy,” she says, clambering toward me. Her tone is matter-of-fact, like she’s discussing brix levels or pH balance.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” I ask, my lips quirking despite myself.

“Because you didn’t kiss me. I kissed you.” She delivers this bombshell with the same certainty she’d use to declare a wine’s vintage.

“Emma,” I warn, my voice taking on the tone I use with my kids—a mix of affection and boundary-setting.

“You apologized for kissing me, but you didn’t kiss me,” she continues, undeterred. She’s like our most stubborn Mourvedre vines, the ones that cling to life through the harshest droughts.

“Emma…”

“I kissed you, and I like you, Ridge.” Her words hit me like the first sip of our High-Altitude Syrah—bold, unapologetic, with an edge that demands attention. “And if you don’t like me, I get it. But don’t push me away because of some moral complex you have.”

I look at her, really look at her. In the starlight, she’s ethereal—a blend of strength and delicacy, like the iron-rich soil that nurtures our most robust grapes. “I can’t be what you need,” I say, each word a struggle. “I can’t give you anything. My time is spread thin with the three kids and the ranch, and I come with a lot of baggage.”

Even as I speak, my resolve trembles like vines in a spring breeze. With every step she takes toward me, another reason why making her mine would be wrong withers on the vine.

“I know,” she says softly. “Everyone comes with their own baggage, Ridge.” Then, a smile that outshines the stars: “And I happen to like all three of your baggage very much.”

“Emma, it’s not…”

“I won’t ask for your time. I’ll give you mine.” She’s too close now, her proximity as intoxicating as the bouquet of a perfectly aged Bordeaux. My senses are overwhelmed—the warmth of her skin, the scent of grapes and sunshine, the depth in her eyes that rivals our oldest wine caves.

“Emma,” I rasp, my voice as rough as the texture of my worn-out jeans, “if you come any closer, I will lose all sense of propriety. I’ll drive you crazy until you’re begging me to let you come, right here on my roof.”

It’s a bold declaration, but I was losing focus on why this was such a bad idea and focusing on how goddamn good her lips felt on mine. In the nanosecond, after the words leave my lips, I brace myself—have I misread her, like misinterpreting a wine’s evolution?

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