Page 58 of The Vineyard Crush

It’s a scene I never anticipated—helping his children choose paint colors while he prepares to take his youngest for vaccinations. A tableau of domestic tranquility that, weeks ago, would have seemed as foreign to me as cricket is to him. Yet here we are, each stepping out of our comfort zones, discovering new passions, and new connections.

After spending hours selecting paint swatches and fielding calls from New York wine executives we supply, Lily and Cody beg to “grape fight”—a spontaneous bout of squishing and flinging that left even stoic little Avery giggling uncontrollably, last time I babysat her. How can I refuse those expectant smiles, so reminiscent of the first blush on our season’s vines?

We make our way to the storage room, where extra grapes awaiting pressing or bottling await their transformation. The air is thick with the dusky aroma of last harvest’s spoils—a rich, earthy scent that instantly transports me back to those long, purple-stained days under the autumn sun.

“Here?” Cody’s eyes widen as he takes in the stacked crates, each bearing the promise of sweet destruction.

“Unless you’d rather do this in the main tasting room?” I tease, already knowing his answer. At his vigorous head shake, I can’t help but grin. “Then let’s get started.”

Cody and Lily need no further prompting. They dive into the nearest crate, extracting fistfuls of grapes and dropping them into a huge wooden tub with ceremonious plops. I join them, reveling in the cold, slightly wrinkled orbs that spill through my fingers. Once the tub is filled to capacity, we exchange a look—a silent communion of bated breath and barely contained glee.

Then, in unison, we plunge our legs into the deep purple sea.

The first squish is almost obscene in its satisfaction. Taut skins yield beneath our ministrations, unleashing a flood of luscious juices that instantly soaks through denim and stains our exposed skin a vibrant, vinous hue. Lily shrieks in delight, and the floodgates open.

Handfuls of crushed fruit sail through the air as we dissolve into a euphoric frenzy of friendly fire. Laughter mingles with errant splashes, our joyous commotion echoing off the stone walls. I’m transported, my corporate dealings and executive calls banished by the simple pleasure of embracing our bounty in its purest form.

At some point, I find myself flat on my back, drenched from head to toe in our winery’s lifeblood. Cody and Lily hover over me, their faces split by matching grape-stained grins. Without a word, they descend, coating me in a fragrant, fruity deluge that has me squealing and sputtering through helpless peals of mirth.

In that moment, I’m not a businesswoman or a strategist—I’m simply Emma, finding joy in the unbridled chaos of being alive and surrounded by those she loves most.

“Hey guys! Your dad should be here soon.” Ethan’s familiar tone cuts through our revelry, his baritone tinged with the barest hint of amusement. “Come on, let’s get you showered and changed.”

Lily and Cody groan in unison, but the prospect of reuniting with their father holds more appeal than extended grape warfare. With minimal fuss, they peel off, trailing sticky footprints and leaving me supine in the aftermath of our vinous battlefield.

Ethan’s smirk finds me through the haze of lingering grape mist. “And you, little sister…” He points an accusatory finger that still manages to convey fondness. “You clean this up and lock the place when you’re done channelling your inner winemaking spirit animal.”

Twenty Five

Ridge

“Daddy, we played grape fight with Emmy!” Lily’s declaration hits me like a bucket of ice water the moment I step into the reception area. Her grin is wide, her cheeks flushed with the kind of pure, unbridled joy that comes from embracing life’s simplest pleasures.

“You had fun, sweetie?” I ask, already knowing the answer. She nods vigorously, and I can’t help but return her smile.

Avery squirms in my arms, her little hands reaching out for Ethan. With a slight bounce to transfer her over, I pass my youngest to my trusted ranch hand. He takes her easily, her featherlight weight clearly no burden.

Off to the side, Cody is occupied—practicing some intricate movement with a cricket bat that has me both confused and oddly proud. He’s already developing discipline, mirroring the focused intensity I’ve seen in the pros on TV.

But then Lily’s words echo in my mind: “Grape fight with Emmy.” Instantly, my thoughts careen back to that evening weeks ago when Emma first introduced my daughters to the winery’s more… messy delights. I can still recall the vision of her, covered in a light sheen of purpled wine and grape juice, her sundress clinging in all the right places.

The memory sparks something deep within me, spreading warmth from my chest outward until I’m acutely aware of how confining my jeans suddenly feel. I shift, trying to subtly adjust myself, and catch Ethan’s gaze.

He regards me evenly, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “She’s cleaning up in there,” he says, answering the unspoken question. For a moment, I feel like a damn kid again, busted by his older brother for having impure thoughts about a girl.

Then Ethan’s expression softens, subtly conveying an understanding I haven’t allowed myself from anyone in longer than I can remember. “I’ll look after your kids,” he says with a nod.

The words, though simple, unlock something in my chest. It’s trust, I realize—not just in Ethan’s ability to watch over Lily and Cody, but in this broader situation I’ve somehow found myself in. This blending of my world with Emma’s, of responsibilities and affections and everything I once kept meticulously segregated.

With a murmured thanks, I pivot and make my way toward the storage room, each booted step amplifying the strange mixture of eagerness and trepidation building inside me. Because as much as I want to see Emma, to drink in whatever delicious state the grape fight has left her in, part of me still expects… what? A punchline? For reality’s curtain to be pulled back, revealing this whole scenario as some cosmic joke?

Then I open the door, and everything else falls away.

She’s there, my siren of the vines, standing amid the aftermath of her grape-soaked revelry. Emma has shed her jacket, leaving her in just a formfitting tank and…fuck, just her panties. Crimson and indigo splotches mottle her exposed skin like the most delectable of wine stains, turning her into a living canvas of our life’s work.

A growl rumbles up from my depths before I can stop it. “You often walk around half-naked where people can find you, Little Flower?”

Emma gasps at the sound, that full-body reaction that never fails to stoke my ego. But then she pivots, gifting me with that coy smile that’s fast becoming my undoing—a hint of secrets just waiting to be uncovered, of layers yet to be peeled back and savored.

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