Two weeks later, Rhys took her to San Francisco.
The idea had made her bristle at first.
“What, like a school field trip?” she’d said when he’d brought it up, standing in the yard as they watched a forklift maneuver barrels.
“More like…a necessary evil,” he’d said. “Aurora wants to meet in person. Their principals are flying in. They want to look me in the eye while they tell me what they will and won’t agree to.”
“You don’t need me for that,” she’d said.
“I do if we’re going to lock in your role,” he’d said. “They’ll want to see you. Talk to you. Check that you’re not secretly planning to torch the casitas.”
“I am secretly planning that,” she’d said.
“Then come lie with me,” he’d said. “We can practice on the drive.”
She’d shot him a look. He’d raised his hands. “Figure of speech,” he’d said. “Mostly.”
She’d argued. Her mother had overruled her.
“You go,” Rosa had said, hands on hips. “You put on a nice shirt, you walk into their glass castle, and you show them you’re not some cute farm girl they can shove on a brochure. You’re the reason they’re writing this check.”
“I don’t have a ‘nice shirt,’” Nora had protested.
“We’ll find one,” Rosa had said.
So now, here she was, wedged into the passenger seat of Rhys’s SUV at six in the morning, wearing black jeans that actually fit and a dark green blouse Rosa had unearthed from the back of her closet. Her hair was down for once, curls tamed into relative submission with more product than she usually used in a month.
“You clean up well,” Yolanda had said when she’d seen her, whistling. “Don’t let the city boys see you; they’ll think we’ve been hiding you.”
“I’m not going for them,” Nora had said.
“Sure,” Yolanda had said. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Now, as they merged onto 101, early commuter traffic already thick, Nora fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve.
“You keep doing that, you’re going to rip it,” Rhys said, glancing over.
“I’m not used to…this,” she said, gesturing vaguely to her outfit. “I feel like I’m in costume.”
“You look like yourself,” he said. “Just…washed.”
She glared. “I always wash,” she said.
“I meant…” He shook his head. “Nice shirt.”
“Now you’re just patronizing me,” she said.
He smiled. “You’re very sensitive,” he said.
“You’re very observant,” she shot back.
“Occup—” he started, then caught himself. “Habit.”
She snorted. “You’re getting better,” she said.
He chuckled. “So are you,” he said. “I haven’t seen you throw a single hose at anyone in a week.”
“Give me a reason,” she said.
The city rose up slowly, a gray smudge on the horizon that resolved into towers and cranes. The Bay shimmered dull silver under the overcast sky.
“You been to San Francisco much?” he asked as they approached the bridge.
“Field trips,” she said. “Once, when I was twelve, to see Alcatraz. Once in high school for a science museum thing. Couple times for dentist and DMV. Not much.”
“No wild nights in the Mission?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been wild enough at harvest parties,” she said. “I don’t need artisanal cocktails to get myself in trouble.”
He thought of her on the porch with the whisky bottle and said nothing.
They crossed the bridge, towers looming. Traffic thickened. He navigated side streets with the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times.
Downtown was a different planet. Glass and steel and honking horns. People in suits and yoga pants and everything in between, rushing with purpose.
Nora sat a little straighter, staring out the window.
“Feel like I should’ve brought a leash,” she muttered. “So I don’t get lost.”
“It’s just a city,” Rhys said. “It’s not Mordor.”
“If a place ever deserved to be called Mordor, it’s the Financial District,” she said.
He grinned. “You’re not wrong,” he said.
He pulled into a garage under a sleek high-rise. The elevator ride up made her ears pop. When the doors opened on the twenty-third floor, she stepped out onto polished concrete and into a lobby that looked like a magazine spread: floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, a large abstract painting that probably cost more than the pump.
A receptionist with perfect eyeliner looked up and smiled. “Morning, Rhys,” she said. “Conference room B is set up. They’re not here yet.”
“Thanks, Ali,” he said. “This is Nora Figueroa.”
Ali’s smile widened. “The winemaker,” she said. “Nice to meet you. We’ve been hearing about you.”
“Oh, God,” Nora muttered. “All lies.”
“Rhys never shuts up about the Merlot,” Ali said. “It’s annoying. We’re all very jealous.”
Nora shot Rhys a look. He shrugged, unrepentant.
“Coffee?” Ali offered. “Tea? Water? We have…everything.”
“Coffee’s great,” Nora said. “Black.”
“Same,” Rhys said.
Ali disappeared, leaving them alone in the glass-walled lobby. Beyond, open-plan desks stretched, half-filled with people hunched over laptops, the low murmur of conversation and keyboard clicks humming.
“So this is where the magic happens,” Nora said. “The room where it happens.”
“Don’t start singing Hamilton,” he said. “Aanya will emerge from the floor and join you.”
“Tempting,” she said.
As if summoned, Aanya appeared from a side hallway, tablet in hand.
“There you are,” she said. “And…there you are.”
She looked Nora up and down, nodded once. “Good,” she said. “You look like you own things.”
“I own…one thing,” Nora said. “For now.”
“And that’s more than most,” Aanya said. “Come on. I’ve got ten minutes to brief you before the Hong Kong circus rolls in.”
She led them through the office, pausing to introduce Nora to a few people—analysts with tired eyes, a compliance officer with a quick handshake, a junior partner who looked unnervingly like a younger Henry Vance.
“How do you not get lost in here?” Nora asked as they turned another corner.
“Landmarks,” Rhys said. “Ali’s desk. The weird plant no one waters. Aanya’s wrath.”
“Effective,” Nora said.
Conference room B was all glass and views. The Bay stretched out in the distance, the bridge a delicate line. On the long table, bottles of water and a small vase of white flowers sat, ridiculously calm.
Aanya handed Nora a printed agenda. “They’ll want to run through high-level deal points,” she said. “Then talk ‘vision.’ That’s your cue. Don’t let them filibuster. They love the sound of their own voices.”
“So do you,” Rhys muttered.
She ignored him. “Don’t apologize for anything,” she told Nora. “Not the years. Not the debt. Not the pump. You walk in there like they’re lucky to have you. Because they are.”
Nora swallowed. “I’m more of a ‘sorry the pump is crying’ person,” she said.
“Not today,” Aanya said. “Today, you’re ‘I turned a disaster into a vintage that’s going to make you money.’”
“Can we put that on my business card?” Nora asked faintly.
“Yes,” Aanya said. “We can.”
There was a knock. Ali stuck her head in. “They’re here,” she said.
Time compressed.
Three people walked in: Kenji, whom she recognized from the Zoom call; a woman in her fifties with short silver hair and a pearl necklace; and a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and a tan that said yacht.
“Nora,” Kenji said warmly, extending a hand. “So good to finally meet you in person.”
She shook it. “Likewise,” she said. His grip was dry, firm. He smelled faintly of cologne and airplane.
“This is Mei Lin,” he said, gesturing to the silver-haired woman. “She’s on our investment committee. And David Chen, our founder.”
David held out his hand. “Ms. Figueroa,” he said. “We’re big fans.”
“You’ve never tasted my wine,” she said before she could stop herself.
He looked surprised, then amused. “We’ve seen the numbers,” he said. “We like what we see.”
“Numbers don’t keep the frost off,” she said. “But I appreciate the…enthusiasm.”
Aanya’s mouth twitched. Rhys shot her a warning look that was half exasperated, half impressed.
They sat. Rhys opened with a concise summary, flipping through a few slides—price, terms, timeline. Aurora’s team nodded, asked questions about tax treatments and escrow mechanics. It was all a foreign language to Nora, but she listened, catching enough to gauge tone.
They liked the numbers. They liked the easement; Mei Lin called it “a strong brand narrative element.” They pushed back slightly on certain indemnities. It was a dance. Rhys and Aanya led well.
Then Kenji glanced at the agenda and said, “Before we get too deep into reps and warranties, perhaps we talk about…vision. For the property. For the partnership.”
He looked at Nora. So did the others.
Her stomach swooped.
Rhys nudged her under the table. Not hard. Just enough to say, Your turn.
She took a breath. Thought of her vines. Of the frost. Of the Merlot. Of her father on the porch.
“What do you want this place to be?” she asked, instead of launching into a speech.
David blinked. “We…have some thoughts,” he said. “We see it as a flagship. Our foothold in California. A place where our guests can experience…authentic wine country.”
“Authentic,” she repeated. “Like the bathrobe photos.”
Mei Lin smiled slightly. “Those were…conceptual,” she said. “We’d want your input on…tone.”
“Tone matters,” Nora said. “So does…truth.”
She leaned forward.
“You’ve seen our numbers,” she said. “You’ve seen the photos. The drone footage. The ‘story.’ What you haven’t seen is my mother at four a.m. packing tamales for the crew. Or Diego’s kid taking his first steps on the crush pad. Or the way the valley smells when a storm breaks the drought. That’s what you’re buying. Not just vines. Not just a porch. That.”
She surprised herself with the force in her voice. The way the words came without stumbling.
“You want authenticity,” she continued. “But authenticity isn’t a robe on a brochure. It’s decisions. It’s who you hire and who you fire. It’s whether you listen when the woman who’s walked that hill every day for ten years tells you the Cab needs three more days.”
Mei Lin’s eyes sharpened. “And if we disagree?” she asked calmly. “On timing. On…tone. On what constitutes ‘authentic.’”
“Then we talk,” Nora said. “Like partners. Not like boss and mascot.”
Kenji’s mouth curved. “You don’t like that word,” he said.
“I don’t like being turned into a ‘value-add visual’ without being asked,” she said. “I’m not a prop. I’m the person who’s going to make you the wine you put in those glasses on the brochure. If you want me on that porch, you have to let me in the room when you decide what the porch stands for.”
Silence. Heavy. Charged.
Rhys sat very still, watching Aurora’s side. He’d seen deals tilt on less.
David drummed his fingers lightly on the table. “You’re…direct,” he said.
“Occupational hazard,” she said.
He laughed, surprised. “I like that,” he said.
Mei Lin nodded. “We need that,” she said. “Too many yes-men, we get bad projects.”
Kenji looked frankly delighted. “This is exactly what I told them,” he said. “That you wouldn’t just smile and pour.”
“I will smile,” she said. “When there’s something to smile about.”
They chuckled. The tension eased a fraction.
“What do you want?” Mei Lin asked. “From this. From us. Beyond…salary. Title.”
She hadn’t expected them to ask. Not like that.
She considered. “I want my crew to be treated like humans,” she said. “Not seasonal line items. If you can’t keep all of them, I want severance. Letters. Help finding other work. I want my mother to not lie awake worrying about where she’s going to live. I want my father’s ashes under that oak tree to not end up under a spa.”
“And for yourself?” David asked.
She hesitated. Then decided if there was ever a time to be greedy, it was now.
“I want to make the best wine this vineyard can make,” she said. “Without having to choose between buying a new pump and paying the electric bill. I want resources. Equipment that doesn’t cry. People who show up. And…” She swallowed. “I want to be…free. In three years. To stay if it’s good. To go if it’s not. Without…being punished.”
Mei Lin’s gaze softened. “No non-compete,” she said, half to Rhys.
He spread his hands. “We already narrowed it,” he said. “If you want to remove it entirely…”
“We can,” she said. “She’s not opening a competing resort. And if she does, I’d like to see it.”
David laughed. “Done,” he said.
Rhys’s eyebrows flicked up. That had been on his wish list. He hadn’t expected it this easily.
“And you?” Mei Lin asked suddenly, turning to Rhys. “What do you want, Mr. Carrick? Beyond your fee.”
He blinked. “From…this deal?” he asked.
“From this…story,” she said. “You’ve clearly invested more time and…feeling than usual. Why?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Glanced, involuntarily, at Nora.
She watched that. Filed it away.
“I want a win,” he said finally. “For my fund. For my LPs. For…my own ego.” They smiled. “But I also…want to be able to come back in five years, stand on that hill, and not…hate myself.”
It was more honest than he usually was in rooms like this. He saw Aanya’s shoulder twitch like she wanted to kick him under the table and couldn’t decide if it was approval or alarm.
Mei Lin studied him. “You have…lines,” she said.
“Sometimes,” he said. “I move them. But they exist.”
“Good,” she said. “Too many of your peers don’t.”
The rest of the meeting moved in fits and starts. Numbers, then philosophy. Clause language, then stories. Nora told them about the smoke year. About the frost. About the Merlot press. She made them laugh. She made Mei Lin’s eyes shine once, when she talked about bottling grief.
They made some concessions. Dropped the non-compete. Agreed to a formal policy on crew severance that went beyond state minimums. Tightened language on her decision rights.
They did not, however, agree to remove the bathrobes from the deck.
“We’ll…reconsider aesthetic,” Kenji said diplomatically. “But guests like…aspiration.”
Nora let it go. For now.
After three hours, they broke. Kenji and David headed to another meeting. Mei Lin lingered.
“You remind me of my aunt,” she said to Nora as they stood by the conference room windows. “She farmed tea in Yunnan. Yelled at the rain.”
Nora smiled. “Did the rain listen?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” Mei Lin said. “Sometimes not. She yelled anyway.”
“Occupational hazard,” Nora said.
Mei Lin chuckled. “Take care of yourself,” she said. “Don’t let them turn you into a…mug.”
“A mug?” Nora asked.
“You know,” Mei Lin said, miming holding one. “Printed with your face. Sold in the gift shop.”
Nora laughed. “If they try, I’ll send you one,” she said.
“Good,” Mei Lin said. “I’ll smash it.”
When Aurora’s team had gone, the conference room felt oddly empty. The view outside was the same. The air inside was different.
“You were…incredible,” Aanya said, breaking the silence. “I wanted to stand up and clap like a proud aunt.”
Nora rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed. “I didn’t puke,” she said. “That’s my metric.”
“You punched up,” Aanya said. “Hard. And they didn’t flinch. That’s…rare.”
Rhys watched Nora with something like awe. He’d seen her command a crush pad, a vineyard, a crew. Seeing her command a boardroom was…a new kind of high.
“You did good,” he said softly when Aanya had gone to debrief with legal.
“Don’t patronize me,” she said, but there was no heat in it.
“I’m not,” he said. “I’ve seen seasoned CEOs crumble under less. You held your ground. You made them pivot. That’s…”
“Occupational hazard?” she suggested.
He smiled. “Starting to be,” he said.
They left the office an hour later, after more coffee and a quick run-through of next steps with Aanya. The sky had darkened. Rain misted the sidewalks.
“Hungry?” he asked as they stepped onto the street.
“Starving,” she said. “I think I burned four thousand calories being ‘on.’”
“There’s a place around the corner,” he said. “Dumplings. Good. Cheap. Loud enough that we don’t have to talk about term sheets.”
“Sold,” she said.
They walked in relative silence, the city buzzing around them. The restaurant was a small, steamy spot wedged between a dry cleaner and a tech startup. They squeezed into a table near the window.
Nora’s shoulders dropped as soon as she sat. “I feel like someone took my skin off,” she said. “In there.”
He knew what she meant. “You showed them a lot,” he said. “That’s…vulnerable.”
“Gross,” she said.
“Necessary,” he countered.
Steam billowed as a server dropped off bamboo baskets. The first bite of soup dumpling burned her tongue and made her groan.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Why did you keep this from me?”
“I didn’t want to ruin you for empanadas,” he said.
“Impossible,” she said. “I have room in my heart for both.”
He watched her eat, the way she closed her eyes for a second with pleasure. It did something to him he did not want to name.
“Thank you,” she said halfway through, chopsticks hovering. “For…bringing me. For…backing me up.”
He shrugged. “Self-interest,” he said automatically. “You make the deal more valuable.”
She made a face. “Try again,” she said.
He sighed. “And…because you deserved to be in that room,” he said. “Because it’s your life they’re buying. Not just our note.”
She nodded once. “Better,” she said.
He considered her, then asked, “Did you…like it? Any of it?”
“Being in a glass box with people who own islands?” she asked. “No.”
He smiled faintly. “I meant…being heard,” he said.
She took a sip of tea, thinking. “Yeah,” she said finally. “That part. Felt…good. Scary. Like… standing on the crush pad with a hose and realizing you’re the one in charge.”
“You are,” he said. “In there. Out there. More than you think.”
“You keep saying that,” she said. “Like if you repeat it enough, it’ll be true.”
“It already is,” he said. “You just…haven’t caught up to it yet.”
She snorted. “You’re very flattering for a man who once called me an asset,” she said.
“I’ve…upgraded your category,” he said.
“To what?” she asked, amused despite herself.
“Variable,” he said. “Uncontrollable. High-impact.”
“That sounds…dangerous,” she said.
“It is,” he said quietly.
Their eyes met. Held.
The restaurant’s din faded. The world narrowed to the two of them at a small, sticky table.
She was the first to look away, tearing off a piece of scallion pancake with fingers that trembled just a little.
“We should get back,” she said. “Mom will think you kidnapped me.”
“She’d come for me with a pruning shear,” he said.
“She’d win,” Nora said.
He didn’t doubt it.
They walked back to the car under a shared umbrella, shoulders brushing. She could smell his cologne, faint under the city rain and residual cellar funk.
At a crosswalk, they had to stop, a crush of people surging around them. Someone bumped Nora from behind. She stumbled. His hand shot out, steadying her at the small of her back.
Heat shot up her spine. She felt every finger.
“Careful,” he murmured in her ear, breath warm.
Her body swayed toward him, just slightly. Just enough for her to feel the solid line of his side against hers. The umbrella bobbed, water dripping onto their shoes.
She swallowed. “You and gravity,” she said, grasping for lightness. “Conspiring.”
“Always,” he said. He didn’t move his hand.
The walk signal flashed. The crowd surged forward. They crossed with it, his palm a steady brand at her back until they reached the curb.
He let go. The absence burned.
They drove home mostly in silence, the radio low. Late commuters’ headlights streaked past.
Halfway back, on a dark stretch of 101, she said, without looking at him, “If this works. If we close. You’ll go back to…this. Offices. Dumplings. Boardrooms.”
“Yes,” he said.
“And I’ll be…there,” she said. “With casitas. And bathrobes. And my name on a bottle with someone else’s logo.”
“Yes,” he said again.
“And we’ll see each other…” She groped. “Once a quarter? Board visits? Site checks?”
“Maybe less,” he said. “Aanya will push for more. I’ll pretend to be too busy and then come anyway.”
She huffed. “You say that like you…want to,” she said.
He gripped the wheel a little tighter. “I do,” he said.
Silence stretched.
“We can’t…” she started.
“I know,” he said. “We’ve been over this.”
“We have,” she said. “And yet…”
“And yet,” he echoed.
She stared out at the dark road. At the faint reflection of her own face in the window. At his in the glass, superimposed.
“I hate that you brought me here,” she said quietly. “To your world. To that room. To…dumplings.”
“I know,” he said.
“And I love that you did,” she added, even softer.
He swallowed. “I know that too,” he said.
The rest of the drive passed in a fragile truce.
When they pulled into the gravel at the vineyard, the stars were out, sharp and cold. The house glowed warm.
As they got out, she hesitated.
“Rhys,” she said.
He turned, keys in hand.
“Thank you,” she said again. “For today. For…all of it. Even the bathrobes.”
He smiled crookedly. “You’re welcome,” he said.
She stepped toward him. Not quite close enough to touch.
“If things were…different,” she said. “If you were just some guy who walked into my tasting room one day…”
He cut her off gently. “They’re not,” he said. “We’re not.”
“I know,” she said. “I just…needed to say it. Out loud. Once.”
He nodded. “Me too,” he said.
They stood there a beat, suspended between what was and what might have been.
Then she stepped back. “Goodnight, Rhys,” she said.
“Goodnight, Nora,” he said.
She went inside. He watched the door close behind her. Felt something in his chest pull, stretch, not quite snap.
He looked up at the stars.
“Occupational hazard,” he muttered to the dark, and went to his room to dream of vines and glass towers and a woman in a green blouse standing in both.
* * *