Page 24 of The Vines Between Us
"Here," he said, his hand covering mine as he guided my fingers to feel the difference in the grape clusters. "These aren't developing properly. Feel how they're still hard?"
His touch was professional, instructional, but my body responded as if he'd caressed me deliberately. I jerked my hand back, nearly stumbling.
"Sorry," I mumbled. "Still getting used to... this."
Hugo's eyes met mine, understanding flickering there. "The vines or being close to me?"
The direct question caught me off guard. The old Alexandre would have deflected, made a joke, changed the subject.
"Both," I admitted.
He smiled—not mocking, but gentle. "We can work on both. At whatever pace you need."
The promise in his words made something flutter in my chest. Not just desire, but hope.
"The vineyard is better than I expected," Hugo admitted. "Henri couldn't do the physical work these past few years, but he knew what mattered. The heart of the vineyard—the old Merlot block—is intact."
I took a long drink, watching Hugo over the rim of my bottle. Sweat had darkened his auburn hair at the temples, and a smudge of dirt crossed one cheekbone. The sight of him—so at ease among the vines, so confident in his knowledge—stirred something in me I'd been trying to ignore.
"Let's check the Cabernet Franc next," I suggested, surprising myself with how naturally the words came. "Henri always said it was the backbone of our blend."
Hugo's smile was warm. "You remember more than you think."
We moved to the eastern section of the vineyard where the terrain subtly shifted. Hugo knelt, beckoning me closer, and scooped a handful of soil.
"Feel this," he said, depositing some into my palm. "The soil composition changes completely here. Notice the texture?"
I rubbed the earth between my fingers, feeling the difference. "It's... grittier?"
"Limestone content," Hugo nodded approvingly. "That's why our wines have that distinctive mineral complexity. The roots have to work harder here, struggle more."
He gently pressed his fingers into the earth, creating small indentations. "This drainage pattern took centuries to develop naturally. VitaVine's mechanical harvesting would compact it all, destroy what makes this terroir special."
I watched him work, mesmerized by his certainty, the reverence in his touch. His knowledge flowed as naturally as the contours of the land—every slope, drainage pattern, and microclimate variation mapped in his mind like an intimate geography.
"You speak about the vines like they're family," I observed.
He glanced up, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. "Claude taught me to listen to them. They tell you what they need if you pay attention."
"How do you know so much about VitaVine's methods?" I asked as he rose, brushing soil from his hands.
His expression darkened. "I've been tracking them. Spoke with vintners in the Loire Valley where they've already acquired six properties. They use the same playbook everywhere—mechanical everything, chemical shortcuts, volume over quality." He shook his head in disgust. "The wines lose their soul."
He paused, brow furrowing. "What I can't figure out is the business angle. They pay above market value for properties, then seemingly lose money by sacrificing production quality. It doesn't make sense."
I stood straighter, corporate instincts kicking in. "They're not losing money," I said, the realization crystallizing. "They're optimizing for different metrics—volume, efficiency, brand acquisition. It's asset stripping disguised as agricultural business."
Hugo stared at me, surprise evident in his expression. "You can see patterns like that?"
"It's what I do," I said, then corrected myself. "Did. Corporate strategy analysis."
Something shifted in his gaze—respect, perhaps, or a new understanding. "Then we need to think like they do," he said slowly. "But better."
Our eyes locked, and for a moment, I glimpsed what we might accomplish together—his intimate knowledge of the land, my understanding of corporate tactics. A formidable combination.
The moment stretched between us until the midday sun broke through, harsh and demanding. By noon, it hung directly overhead, baking the exposed vineyard rows. My shirt clung to my back, and the notebook pages had become damp from my sweating hands.
"Let's break for lunch," Hugo called, straightening from a vinehe'd been examining. "I brought sandwiches. There's shade under the old oak."
