Page 77 of The Vines Between Us
"We did it," he said quietly.
"We're doing it," I corrected, unable to stop myself from reaching for his hand, public setting be damned.
Later that evening, after the last guests had departed and we'd cleaned up the tasting area, Alexandre and I sat on the terrace of Domaine Moreau, watching the sunset paint the vineyards in gold and amber. A bottle of our experimental blend—half Moreau, half Tremblay—sat between us, nearly empty.
"The EU heritage committee arrives tomorrow," Alexandre mused, swirling the last of his wine. "And the agricultural grant specialists the day after. We should prepare a formal presentation about the vines."
"Already working on it," I replied. "Professor Renaud is helping with the technical aspects."
Alexandre nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Jean-Marc mentioned that three more vineyards want to join the Alliance now. We'll need to revise the bylaws to accommodate growth."
"And establish clear criteria for membership," I added. "Quality standards, sustainability commitments."
We continued like this, trading ideas and plans, finishing each other's thoughts with an ease that still amazed me. Working alongside Alexandre these past weeks had revealed a synchronicity between us that went beyond our personal connection. We complemented each other perfectly—his strategic vision balancing my practical focus, my patience tempering his intensity.
"We should get some rest," Alexandre said eventually, as the last light faded from the sky. "Tomorrow will be another long day."
But neither of us moved. The night was too perfect, the moment too precious to end.
"Do you ever think about what would have happened if you hadn't come back?" I asked suddenly.
Alexandre was quiet for a long moment. "I try not to," he admitted finally. "The thought of never finding what was waiting here—the secret room, the wines, the vines." He reached across the table and took my hand. "You."
"Claude used to say that some vines need to be stressed to produce their best fruit," I said. "That too much comfort makes for mediocre wine."
Alexandre laughed softly. "Are you saying our fourteen years apart were just the right amount of stress?"
"I'm saying that maybe we needed that time to become who we are now. To be ready for this." I gestured broadly, encompassing not just the vineyards spread before us, but everything we'd built and discovered together.
"Well, I've had enough stress to last a lifetime," Alexandre declared. "I'm ready for a different kind of challenge now."
"Such as?"
He smiled, his face softened by the gathering darkness. "Learning how to be happy. Learning how to stay."
The simple declaration moved me more than any grand romantic gesture could have. From Alexandre, who had spent his life running from vulnerability, these words represented a profound transformation.
"I think you're getting the hang of it already," I said, my voice a little unsteady.
We sat in companionable silence as stars appeared overhead, each lost in our own thoughts yet perfectly attuned to each other's presence. Tomorrow would bring more activity, more decisions, more steps toward securing the future of our vineyards and our community. But tonight, in this peaceful moment between what had been and what would be, there was only gratitude.
For Henri and Claude, who had loved each other enough toplan decades ahead. For the twist of fate that had brought Alexandre back to Saint-Émilion. For second chances, and third ones. For the knowledge that some things, once properly rooted, can withstand any storm.
And for the certainty that whatever challenges awaited us, we would face them as they had—together, drawing strength from each other, creating something that would outlast us both.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ALEXANDRE
Iglanced outside, the gentle breeze carrying in September air with a crisp promise of autumn through the open window. Two weeks before the harvest festival, and my body had already adjusted to vineyard rhythms—early to bed, early to rise, meals dictated by sunlight rather than calendar appointments.
Beside me, Hugo slept deeply, one arm flung above his head, auburn hair spread across the pillow. In sleep, his face retained that quality I'd first fallen for as a teenager—a gentle openness that made my chest ache with tenderness. I brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, careful not to wake him.
The floor was cool beneath my feet as I slipped from bed and padded to the window. From Henri's—my—bedroom, I could see both properties stretching out in the half-light. The vines stood in perfect rows, heavy with fruit approaching ripeness. The sight no longer filled me with anxiety but with a profound sense of rightness.
This was home. Not just a temporary stop, not a obligation to fulfill, but home in the deepest sense of the word.
I dressed quietly and headed downstairs, startingcoffee before stepping outside. The morning air carried the earthy scent of vines and soil, dew-dampened grass and distant wood smoke. Walking the edge of the vineyard had become my morning ritual, a time to plan the day ahead while connecting with the land.
