Page 54 of The Vineyard Crush

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“Tell me again, how did the roof break?” Ethan’s voice floats into the kitchen, a blend of exasperation and barely concealed amusement.

My body temperature spikes, as if I’ve just stepped out of our cool wine cave into August’s unforgiving sun. I’m in the kitchen with Avery and Lily, ostensibly teaching them how to make pancakes, but in reality, I’m using their sweet, flour-dusted presence as a shield. Hiding behind children—a new low, Emma.

“I was sitting there like always, and it just gave away,” Ridge’s deep baritone replies as they both enter. The nonchalance in his tone is as transparent as our Riesling.

He shrugs, then tips his cowboy hat lower, a move that would look casual to anyone else. But not to me. That hat tilt? its to hide the blush that is spreading through him.

Damn, he’s cute. No that’s a wrong word. Because Ridge McCords isn’t just cute—that’s a word for puppies and children’s art projects. No, Ridge is… magnificent. In this mundane kitchen setting, amidst the homely scents of butter and vanilla, he stands out like a glass of our bold Tempranillo at a table set for white wine.

My eyes trace the strong lines of his jaw, the kind that looks like it was carved by the same rugged forces that shaped his ranch’s terrain. His green eyes, usually as calm and deep as the ponds on his property, now hold a storm—a tempest of emotions I’m only beginning to understand. Is it embarrassment from Ethan’s questioning? Residual tension from our rooftop rendezvous? Or something else entirely, something that mirrors the wild fluttering in my own chest?

My gaze drifts lower, over the tight lines of his flannel—a garment that’s less clothing and more a second skin, outlining every ridge and valley of his torso. Beneath it, a gray Henley clings to his frame, its neckline offering a teasing glimpse of tanned skin and dark hair. He’s a study in textures: the ruggedness of flannel, the softness of well-worn cotton, the hint of skin that promises both strength and tenderness.

The ensemble is a concession to the dropping temperatures. Soon, our vineyard will be blanketed in snow, each vine a frozen sculpture. I can’t wait for it to start snowing, to see Ridge in this very outfit, perhaps with the addition of a weathered leather jacket. The image makes my breath catch—he’d look like a romance novel cover, all smoldering looks against a backdrop of crystalline beauty.

As he passes by me to fully enter the kitchen, his scent envelops me like a favored old sweater. It’s a bouquet that’s become as familiar as our estate’s terroir: dark sawdust from his workshop, earthy notes that speak of long days in the field, and underneath, a musky sweetness reminiscent of hay warmed by the afternoon sun. In an instant, I’m transported to our last wine tasting—his large hand cradling the delicate glass, his expression thoughtful as he savoured each sip.

Focus slips away from me like water through cupped hands. All I can register is his proximity, the slight sway of his body that unconsciously mirrors mine, as if we’re two vines growing inexorably toward each other.

“Do you mind looking after Lily and Avery for a couple of hours?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that resonates in my very core. “I have to go pick up Cody from his friend’s place and do some grocery shopping?”

“Of course,”

Twenty Three

Ridge

The dawn that filters through my bedroom window feels different—softer, more luminous. For the first time in years, I’ve slept peacefully, even if only for a couple of hours. It’s as if the weight that’s been pressing on my chest, season after season, has finally been lifted, allowing me to breathe deeply again.

Ethan’s concerned questions about the broken roof barely register. My mind is consumed by one singular thought: Emma. Her delicious body in my arms, her scent—a blend of sunshine and something uniquely hers—still clinging to my skin. In the depths of my mind, where I store every worry and responsibility, her questions are transforming the space. For the first time, someone is interested not just in what I provide—safety, stability—but in me, Ridge.

As I move through the morning’s routine—checking fences, reviewing cattle counts—a realization hits me like the first frost of autumn. It crystallizes why Melissa and I didn’t work, why our marriage, rushed by an unexpected pregnancy, fell apart. In doing what society deemed right, we both lost ourselves. I became a caricature of a provider, all work and worry, while she faded into a role that never quite fit.

But now, watching Emma in my kitchen, the scene before me is one of perfect harmony. Lily bounces around her, chattering endlessly as they make pancakes. My usually reticent daughter has blossomed overnight, like a shy wildflower that finally trusts the sun. Avery, my little taste-tester, beams each time Emma offers her a spoonful of batter, her smile as wide and bright as our big Maine sky.

The tableau they create—Emma’s graceful movements, my girls’ unbridled joy—hits me with the force of an epiphany. This is exactly how it was meant to be. Not the life I dutifully assembled, but one that’s grown organically, each element complementing the others in a way I never thought possible.

I walk out, car keys in hand, my gaze falls on the family pictures in the foyer. The first, taken just after Cody’s birth, shows Melissa and me—young, unprepared, our smiles as forced as an uncomfortable pose. The second, taken a year after she left, is starker. The kids’ postures are rigid, their eyes missing the sparkle that once rivaled our brightest summer days.

Staring at those images, the truth hits me like a sudden hailstorm, threatening to decimate everything I’ve carefully tended. When Melissa left, it broke Lily and Cody in ways I couldn’t mend. Their resilience—a trait I’d always counted on, like the hardiness of our heritage oaks—was shaken. For me, her departure merely added more tasks to an already overflowing list. More acres to manage alone, more fences to mend.

But Emma… In a matter of weeks, she’s seeped into my bloodstream like a potent elixir. A single dose, and I was lost. Now, as I contemplate her eventual departure I’m seized by a fear more potent than any I’ve known. It’s not just the dread of extra work, of longer nights and missed meals. No, this fear runs deeper, as intrinsic to my being as the very land I work.

I’m afraid that when Emma leaves, she won’t just take a part of my routine—she’ll take a piece of my heart. A part so vital that in her absence, I won’t merely be overworked; I’ll be undone. Like an old oak, pruned too severely in its twilight years, I fear I won’t recover. The thought of such heartbreak—not just mine, but my children’s, who’ve already started to weave their hopes around her like new shoots—is enough to make me falter.

The drive to Cody’s friend’s house is a dusty war zone, my head and heart locked in a relentless battle. Each mile marker becomes a silent witness to this internal conflict, as familiar as the fence posts I’ve mended a hundred times over. On one side, the disciplined rancher, wary of change, of anything that might disrupt the careful order I’ve built from the wreckage of my marriage. On the other, a version of myself I barely recognize—a man who woke up this morning with the taste of sunlight and possibility on his lips.

I pull up to the house, a modest bungalow that seems to have sprouted organically from the Maine soil. Before I can shift into park, the front door bursts open. Out comes Cody, all gangly limbs and unbridled joy, his backpack bouncing against his spine as he bounds toward the truck.

He vaults into the passenger seat, his grin as wide and welcoming as our ranch’s open gates. “Hey, Dad!”

My own smile breaks free, more genuine than it’s been in a decade. It feels foreign on my face, like a long-disused muscle being stretched. “Hey, Bud. How was the sleepover?”

And just like that, Cody’s off, words tumbling out faster than our spring creek after a heavy rain. He tells me about the marathon gaming sessions, the pizza they devoured at midnight, and a new video game that has him starry-eyed.

“—and then, in the final level, you have to lasso this huge cyber-bull, Dad! It’s crazy cool. We should totally buy it. Maybe… maybe we could play together sometime?”

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