Page 75 of The Vineyard Crush

Muffling a shuddery sniffle against his shirt, I leaned into the solid comfort of his touch, letting the truth of his words sink in beneath the scalding topsoil of my ire. No matter how deeply that failure to be loved unconditionally had cut…my mother was still my mother. An elemental bond that neither time nor distance could fully sever.

After several steadying cycles of his hands mapping the tense contours of my back, Ridge drew away just far enough to dip his head and capture my watery stare.

“You remember what you told Lily about how folks show their love?”

Sniffling harder, I offered the barest of nods—the reminder of my own advice to her little girl wisdom enough to quiet the worst of my hitching breaths. Of course I remembered.

Everyone expresses their feelings in different ways, Lilypad. It doesn’t always make sense, but that doesn’t make it any less real or meaningful.

A tender half-smile curved one corner of Ridge’s sensuous mouth as he cupped my nape, those summer-green eyes holding me captive with their vortex of naked adoration.

“Your mama loves you in her own way, messed up as it may be sometimes, baby girl. You’ve just gotta see that for what it is.”

As the jagged edges of my anguish softened ever so slightly, he reached into the depths of his coat pocket once more with his free hand. With a sad sort of smile, he extracted the battered red Alpenliebe.

A watery chuckle bubbled up unbidden, only to dissolve into renewed tears of mingled joy and desolation. With deft familiarity, Ridge plucked out a single wrapped disk and lifted it to my lips, silently inviting me to open.

I obeyed without hesitation, sucking the confection into my mouth and letting the rich, decadent creaminess of chocolate coat my tongue in blessed simplicity. His thumb brushed my cheek in a soothing caress as my lashes fluttered closed, allowing me to sink into the momentary respite he offered.

Ridge’s fingertips traced molten paths along the fragile column of my throat as his voice dropped to that intimate, sandpaper timbre that never failed to ignite sparks beneath my skin. “As for the rest…”

His touch angled my jaw with exquisite care until my gaze locked onto the magnetic pull of those summer-green depths—a gravitational force from which no escape was possible, nor desired. My breath stalled in my lungs as he closed the scant distance between us, cocooning me in the potent amalgam of campfire smoke, worn leather, and the sheer, elemental musk that was utterly, uniquely him.

“You just keep being you, Emma.” The words rasped over my parted lips, raising delicious prickles across every inch of my sensitized flesh. “The rest’ll be just fine.”

Unable to resist the relentless undertow of that beloved rumble, I swayed helplessly into his solid frame, nodding against the steadfast wall of his chest. The hand not cradling my nape stroked languorously up and down my arched spine in slow, soothing sweeps. So achingly reminiscent of every time he had gathered me into his sheltering embrace and shielded me from the world’s harsh realities.

“And anytime you feel like crying…” A wry, self-deprecating chuckle thrummed through his ribs against my cheek. “Hell, I’ll always be here to hold you while you do.”

With a wounded noise of pure gratitude and love, I tightened my hold—clutching him with every ounce of fortitude as if he were the only fixed point in a turbulent, ever-shifting universe. He understood. He had always, always understood in that bone-deep way that transcended mere affection or desire.

Ridge was my harbor, my tether to sanity and wholeness. No matter how the winds raged around us, he would forever be the one safe haven where I could drop anchor and find peace.

A nasal chortle sliced through the tender moment, shattering the intimacy with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer through plate glass. “Well, well…what do we have here?”

I jolted in Ridge’s arms at the sardonic drawl, but his grip only tightened—an immovable bastion shielding me from the fresh onslaught of chaos. Casting a baleful glare over one corded shoulder, he growled, “Go away, Ethan.”

“Emma and Ridge, sittin’ in a tree…” As expected, the familiar, off-key sing-song cadence drifted closer. Around the corner swaggered the rangy silhouette of my brother, mischief already dancing in those roguish hazel eyes. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

“What’re you, ten-fucking-years-old, jackass?”

Batting aside Ridge’s answering scowl with a careless flap of his hand, Ethan quirked one brow rakishly and jabbed a thumb behind him. “Don’t gimme that grumpy old man routine-”

The teasing bravado slipped from Ethan’s features like a discarded mask as he drew nearer, allowing his customary roguish air to bleed away and reveal the steadfast core of protectiveness beneath.

“Hey now…” His rangy frame folded in on itself as he crouched before us, hazel eyes raking over my wan complexion and Ridge’s openly concerned mien. “Were you crying again, sis?”

I managed a watery attempt at a smile, even as fresh moisture pricked my lashes anew. Leave it to my infuriatingly perceptive brother-in-law to cut straight through the bluster to what truly mattered.

With a tiny, resigned nod, I loosened my white-knuckled grip on Ridge’s shirt, allowing the other man entrance into our sheltered refuge.

And just like that, the dam cracked once more.

The entire sordid tale came spilling forth in a torrential outpouring—the confrontations with Jayesh and my mother, the dredged-up insecurities and self-doubts, the bone-deep weariness of eternally being perceived as insufficient. I held nothing back, laying myself bare in a way reserved only for these select few who had proven themselves family through deeds rather than mere bloodlines.

Throughout the halting recitation, Ethan remained a silent bastion of patient attentiveness, his face an inscrutable mask of stoicism. Only his eyes—those uncannily perceptive, laughing hazel eyes—betrayed the cyclone of emotions churning behind the casual façade.

When my voice finally trailed off in abject exhaustion, he exhaled a low, rueful sound. Reaching out with one calloused palm, he cupped the crown of my head, thumb grazing my temple in a grounding caress.

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