Page 23 of The Vines Between Us
A small smile touched his lips. "No. It's not."
The café gradually returned to its normal rhythm as Hugo joined me at the table. Madame Fontaine brought him coffee without being asked.
"They approached Claude twice before he got sick," Hugo said quietly. "First with threats about water rights, then with a lowball offer when our harvest numbers dropped."
"What did he do?"
"Told them to go to hell." A shadow crossed Hugo's face. "Then he got sick, and they circled like vultures. Started buying up adjacent properties, controlling the access roads."
"That's why you've been struggling," I realized. "Not just Claude's nursing care debts."
Hugo nodded, a strand of auburn hair falling across his face. Ifought the urge to reach out and brush it back, the way I once would have without thinking. "They're systematic. First they isolate you, then they squeeze."
I thought of Rousseau's polished threats and manufactured charm, but my mind kept drifting to the warmth of Hugo's presence across the table. "They'll come for both our properties. We're vulnerable separately."
"Yes," Hugo agreed, his warm brown eyes holding mine a moment longer than necessary. "But together..."
Our eyes met across the table, and something electric shifted between us—not just the old intimacy, but something new layered atop the familiar attraction I'd been fighting since I first saw him in the market. A common purpose that somehow felt like an excuse to remain in each other's orbit.
"The Moreau-Tremblay blend," I murmured, remembering the bottle we'd found. My fingers tightened around my glass, needing something to hold onto as memories of shared summers and stolen kisses threatened to overwhelm me.
"Our grandfathers understood something we're just figuring out," Hugo said, his voice dropping lower. The timbre of it sent a familiar shiver down my spine. "Some battles can't be fought alone."
I pushed Rousseau's untouched business card across the table. Hugo picked it up, studied it, then deliberately tore it in half. I watched his graceful hands, remembering how they felt against my skin years ago.
"Partners?" he asked, extending his hand, the word carrying weight beyond business.
I took it without hesitation, unprepared for the jolt of awareness that shot through me at the contact. His palm was warm and calloused from vineyard work, achingly familiar. "Partners," I managed, reluctantly letting go when the touch lingered too long.
For the first time since returning to Saint-Émilion, I felt something like hope—and something like desire. Rousseau and VitaVine might have resources and ruthless tactics on their side, butthey'd miscalculated badly. They thought they were picking off isolated, vulnerable vineyards one by one.
They weren't prepared for us to fight back together. And I wasn't prepared for how much I still wanted Hugo, after all these years.
Chapter Eight
ALEXANDRE
The morning sun had barely crested the eastern hills when Hugo arrived at Domaine Moreau, dressed in worn work clothes and carrying pruning shears. I'd been up since dawn, trying to make sense of Henri's scattered financial records, but welcomed the interruption.
"Ready to get your hands dirty?" Hugo asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
I glanced down at my city clothes—dark jeans and a button-down that had seemed practical in Paris but now felt ridiculous. "I might need to change first."
"Check your old room," Hugo suggested. "Claude mentioned Henri kept some of your old things in there. I bet they still fit, you haven't changed that much since you left."
The room felt smaller than I remembered. Dust motes danced in the shafts of morning light as I pushed open the wardrobe. Inside hung several pairs of work pants and faded shirts—clothes I'd left behind fourteen years ago when I left for university without looking back. I ran my fingers over the fabric, surprised they'd been preserved all thistime.
When I emerged in the old clothes, Hugo's expression softened. "There he is," he said quietly. "The Alexandre I remember."
The clothes felt strange against my skin—too loose in some places, too tight across the shoulders—but as we walked into the vineyard, something inside me began to uncoil.
"We'll start with row assessment," Hugo explained, handing me a notebook. "You record, I'll evaluate. We need to map which sections are salvageable and which need replanting."
The morning passed in quiet efficiency. Hugo moved down the rows with practiced ease, examining vines, testing soil, occasionally kneeling to inspect a root system. I followed, recording his observations, asking questions when I didn't understand. By midday, my city-soft hands were smudged with dirt, my back ached pleasantly, and the notebook contained a detailed map of Domaine Moreau's condition.
"You missed a spot," Hugo said as we stopped for water, pointing to a nearby section of vine I'd overlooked on my map.
I moved closer to see what he meant, our shoulders brushing as we bent over the same plant. His shirt had pulled loose from his jeans, exposing a strip of tanned skin that made my mouth go dry.
