Page 56 of The Vineyard Crush

“Daddy!” Avery squeals, launching herself from Ethan’s lap. I catch her, my shirt immediately baptized in a cloud of flour.

“Hey there, little ghost,” I chuckle, my heart swelling.

“Ridge!” Emma’s voice, breathless from singing and dancing, sends a shiver down my spine. “You’re home early! We were just… um…”

“Trying to summon Taylor Swift through the ancient art of kitchen destruction?” I arch an eyebrow, but I can’t keep the amusement from my voice.

She blushes, the pink glow visible even through the flour. “We were making pizza. From scratch. Well, attempting to.”

“Daddy, look!” Lily bounds over, proudly displaying a misshapen lump of dough. “I made Cat face!”

I examine her creation. With a generous dose of imagination, it could indeed be a cat—if cat had survived a particularly enthusiastic round of bull-stomping. “It’s perfect, sweetheart.”

“Emma showed us how,” Lily beams. “She knows all sorts of cool things!”

I meet Emma’s eyes over my daughter’s head. In that gaze, I see a universe of possibilities—family dinners that aren’t rushed, weekends filled with laughter instead of chores, a warmth that has nothing to do with the sun.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “She really does.”

“Oh!” Emma suddenly exclaims. “The blondies! I left them in the—” She dashes to the oven, yanking it open. A waft of caramel and chocolate fills the air. “Phew, just in time.”

As she places the tray on the counter, the aroma intensifies—rich, comforting, like a promise made tangible.

“Lily, darlin’, let’s get you cleaned up,” I say, my voice softer than the flour dusting her cheeks. She bounds off, trailing a powdery path. I lift Avery from Ethan’s lap, my youngest now more ghost than girl. “You too, little ranch hand. Wait for me in the bathroom, okay?”

Ethan rises, his usually impassive face bearing the faintest smirk. “I’ll, uh, head out.” His gaze flickers between Emma and me, and in that brief exchange, I see understanding—maybe even approval. As he strides towards his domain, the vineyard, I’m struck by how seamlessly our two worlds have begun to mesh.

With the kids momentarily dispersed, I turn to Emma. The simple act of pulling her closer feels monumental, as if I’m not just bridging physical space, but crossing a threshold I’d long thought impassable. My hand delves into my pocket, fingers closing around a familiar shape.

Out comes an Alpenliebe candy—that distinct gold wrapper glinting in the kitchen’s warm light. Since that day in her office, when she shared these with Lily and Cody, I’ve kept a stash with me. Not for the kids, though. For her.

“Hi, Little Flower,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her flour-dusted lips. The endearment, once a guarded thought, now falls easily, like a ripe peach from its branch. “Had fun in my kitchen?”

A blush blooms across her cheeks, turning the flour into a canvas for her emotions. “I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up.” She tries to move away, but I draw her back, my grip on her waist gentle yet unyielding.

“Emma, let it be.” My tone is soft, the same one I use when Lily’s upset about a spilled glass of milk. “I’ll clean it. You cooked for us—let me return the favor.” I punctuate this with another kiss, tasting flour and something uniquely Emma.

“How about,” I continue, my voice dropping to a register that makes her shiver, “once I bathe Avery, we take a shower together? I’d have fun washing off the flour and chocolate…”

My eyes catch a smudge on her neck—a little dab of chocolate, God knows how it landed there. Without thinking, I lean in and lick it off. The taste is… complex. Sweet from the chocolate, salty from her skin, with an undercurrent that’s purely Emma. It’s a flavor profile more nuanced than any wine, more addictive than any spirit.

Our moans mingle at the contact, a duet that resonates through my chest. It’s a sound that belongs here, in this kitchen that’s seen more laughter in one evening than in the past three years combined.

As I savor her taste, another realization washes over me. For so long, I’ve compartmentalized my life—ranching, parenting, existing—each in its tidy, isolated box. Mixing them felt as taboo as combining feed types. But Emma… she’s like that experimental blend the vineyard’s been working on, the one that breaks all the rules.

She takes components that shouldn’t work—my gruffness with her sunshine, my routine with her spontaneity, my three-kids-and-a-ranch baggage with her fresh-out-of-college dreams—and somehow, against all conventional wisdom, creates something harmonious. Something that, like her blondies rescued from the oven, turns out better than anyone could’ve predicted.

My hands, still exploring her curves, pause at this thought. They’re hands that have mended fences, delivered calves, tucked children into bed. Hands that, for years, have only known how to hold on—to the ranch, to a semblance of family, to a past that slips through my fingers like water. But with Emma, they’re learning a new language. One of discovery, of letting go, of trusting that what comes next might be even better than what was.

I pull back slightly, studying her face. Flour streaks her cheeks like warpaint, chocolate smudges her lips, and her eyes—god, those eyes—shine with a light that makes the kitchen’s fluorescents seem dim. She looks beautifully, perfectly undone. And it hits me:

This is how I want to see her every day. Not pristine or put-together, but messy and real. In my kitchen, on my ranch, in my life. The thought should terrify me—it goes against every cautious instinct I’ve honed. But as Emma arches into me, her body speaking a language my soul inherently understands, I realize something.

Maybe it’s time to stop treating my heart like a drought-resistant crop, engineered to survive on minimal care. Maybe, with Emma, I can try cultivating something more demanding—but infinitely more rewarding. Something that requires tending, nurturing, the kind of devotion I’ve always poured into my land.

Because here, in this flour-dusted haven, with her sighs harmonizing with the hum of the oven, I’m starting to believe that the richest harvests come not from what we carefully control, but from what we daringly let flourish.

And like the finest wine, some relationships aren’t meant to be rushed. They require patience, careful tending, and the courage to wait and see what complexities time will unveil.

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