For three days after the kiss, they pretended it hadn’t happened.
On the surface, at least.
The work gave them cover. There was always something to do: rackings, SO₂ additions, topping barrels, cleaning tanks. Paperwork. Emails from Hong Kong at odd hours. A surprise visit from a local restaurant that wanted a late-season barrel tasting “for menu planning.”
They moved around each other like people in a crowded kitchen—close enough to feel the heat, careful not to touch. Their conversations became overly practical, scrubbed clean of banter.
“Tank seven’s at seventy-four,” he’d say, eyes on the readout.
“Drop it two degrees,” she’d answer, not looking at his mouth.
“Dry goods delivery at ten,” she’d note, scanning the clipboard.
“I’ll be here,” he’d say, keeping his hands firmly in his pockets.
No one else seemed to notice. Or if they did, they chalked it up to harvest exhaustion, end-of-season crankiness, the inevitable friction of bank man and vineyard woman.
Only Yolanda gave Nora a look one morning when she caught her staring—again—at Rhys as he bent to check a pump connection, T-shirt stretching across his shoulders.
“You’re going to burn a hole in him,” Yolanda murmured in Spanish, stacking empty bins.
“I’m checking his technique,” Nora muttered back, trying to sound blasé.
“Uh-huh,” Yolanda said. “Is that what we’re calling it now.”
“Don’t you have hoses to untangle?” Nora snapped, more sharply than she meant.
Yolanda’s expression softened. “You know I’m on your side, mija,” she said. “Whichever side that ends up being.”
“That assumes there’s a side that doesn’t suck,” Nora said.
“There is,” Yolanda said. “It just might not look the way you thought.”
Nora didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice not to crack.
* * *
On the fourth night, the pretense cracked anyway.
It started with a pump.
The old main pump—the one they’d been coaxing through the season with baling wire, prayers, and too-frequent inspections—finally decided it had had enough.
Nora was in the lab, finishing free SO₂ tests, when the noise started. A high, unholy screech that shifted into a grinding rumble.
She froze. Set the pipette down very carefully. Then dropped everything and ran.
By the time she reached the pump shed, Rhys was already there, flashlight beam cutting through the dim. The pump shuddered, metal casing vibrating, a worrying spray of water misting from a seam.
“Shut it down!” she shouted over the racket.
“I’m trying!” he yelled back, lunging for the main switch.
He flipped it. The pump sputtered. Coughed. Kept going.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Override’s stuck.”
Of course it was. The manual shutoff had been sticky for two years. Her father had always said, We’ll fix it after harvest. He’d said that three harvests in a row.
She ducked under a pipe, ignoring the spray, and reached for the valve at the intake line. It was rusted, stiff. Her wet hands slipped.
“Here,” Rhys said, crowding in beside her. His fingers closed over the valve above hers, adding strength.
The combined force did it. With a protesting groan, the valve turned, cutting flow. The pump wheezed, whined, then finally, blessedly, shuddered to a stop.
Silence roared in.
They stood there, both breathing hard, water dripping from their hair and clothes.
“Well,” Rhys said after a beat. “That was…dramatic.”
She laughed, a short, high sound. “You okay?” she asked, scanning him quickly. No cuts. No burns. Just soaked to the skin.
“Fine,” he said. “You?”
She wiped an arm across her face, smearing grease with water. “Mostly pissed,” she said. “We were so close.”
He frowned. “To what?”
“Getting through a whole season without this thing dying,” she said, kicking the pump casing lightly. “It held on longer than I thought it would. Stubborn bastard.”
“Occupational—”
“Don’t,” she said automatically, and they both almost smiled.
He leaned over the pump, assessing. “We’re lucky it waited this long,” he said. “Most of the heavy lifting’s done.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Now it’s just…everything else.”
He looked up. “We’ll get someone out here,” he said. “Crestlake will pay. The rebuild can be in capital expenditures instead of your nightmares.”
“I’m not worried about paying for it,” she said, surprising herself. “For once.”
He blinked. “Progress,” he said.
“I’m worried about…what else decides to die before January,” she said. “Pumps. Heaters. Me.”
“You’re not going to die,” he said. “You’re too stubborn.”
“My heart might explode,” she said. “Lots of Figueroas go out that way.”
He straightened, stepping back from the pump. “Come on,” he said. “You’re soaked. You’re going to freeze.”
“It’s just water,” she said. “I’ve been wetter.”
His eyes flicked to her, something like memory flashing between them. The rain. The kiss.
Heat crawled up her neck.
“Shut up,” she muttered.
“I didn’t say anything,” he said.
“You looked,” she said.
His mouth curved. “Can’t help it,” he said. “My eyes are…disobedient.”
“Your whole body is disobedient,” she said before she could stop herself.
They both froze.
He inhaled slowly. “Nora,” he said.
She put a hand up. “Don’t,” she said.
“We need to—”
“I know,” she said. “We need to not. We are not. We won’t.”
He took a step closer anyway. “We already did,” he said softly.
Water dripped from his hair, tracing a line down his neck. His T-shirt clung to his chest. There was a smear of grease on his jaw. He looked like every wrong decision she’d ever wanted to make.
She swallowed. “Once,” she said. “We said once.”
He gave a humorless huff. “We’re terrible at rules,” he said.
“I am excellent at rules,” she said. “Rules are the only reason we haven’t ended up on a true crime podcast with you buried under the Cabernet block.”
He laughed, despite the tension. “You couldn’t dig that hole yourself,” he said. “You’d need at least three of the crew and a backhoe.”
“You think I don’t have access?” she said.
The banter didn’t lessen the charge in the air. If anything, it sharpened it.
“We’re soaked,” he said again. “You should change before you get sick.”
She snorted. “I’ve picked in hail in a tank top,” she said. “Some drizzle from a dying pump isn’t going to take me out.”
“Humor me,” he said. “We’ll call the mechanic in the morning. Right now, you need hot water.”
He meant a shower. Obviously.
Her brain, traitorous, supplied other images.
“You’re obsessively caring when you want something from me,” she said.
He flinched. “That’s not why,” he said.
“Why, then?” she demanded. “Because if I die, your closing gets messy?”
“Because if you get pneumonia, your mother will blame me,” he said. “And I don’t think I can take that.”
She snorted. “She already blames you,” she said.
“Fair,” he admitted. “Let’s not add fuel.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take a shower. You…go back to your…documents.”
“I’m not letting you slip on the stairs in wet boots,” he said. “I’d never hear the end of it.”
“You’re very bossy for someone whose job description is ‘ruin lives, leave,’” she said.
“Occupational—” He caught himself. “Personality hazard.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
They walked back to the house in tense silence, clothes squelching. The night was cold. Their breaths fogged.
Inside, the heat hit like a wall. The kitchen smelled like leftover soup and lemon oil. Rosa looked up from her crossword, eyes going wide.
“¡Dios mio!” she exclaimed. “What happened to you two? You fall in the creek?”
“Pump blew,” Nora said. “We’re fine.”
“You’re dripping on my floor,” Rosa said. “Go! Shower. Both of you. I just cleaned.”
Rhys held up his hands. “Yes, ma’am.”
Nora rolled her eyes. “We’re going,” she said.
Upstairs, at the top of the hall, they hesitated.
“Bathroom’s free,” he said. “You first.”
She snorted. “You need it more,” she said. “You’re the one who smells like despair.”
“That’s my cologne,” he said. “Very niche.”
She shook her head. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll be quick.”
She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. Leaned back against it for a second, eyes closed.
Her body hummed. From adrenaline. From cold. From him.
She turned the water on hot and stripped, her wet clothes slapping the tile. Steam billowed. She stepped under the spray and hissed as warmth needled her skin.
For a few blessed moments, she let herself just be a body. No agreements. No closing dates. No raiders. Just water and heat and the unsteady beat of her heart.
Images crowded in anyway. His mouth on hers. His hands on her face. His body pressed into hers against the pallets.
She braced her hands on the wall and let the water pound the ache in her shoulders. Told herself this was about muscles, not longing.
She did not touch herself.
She refused to let him into that space. Not like that. Not when he’d already colonized so much else.
When she stepped out, the mirror was fogged. She wiped a circle and caught a glimpse of her own face: flushed, eyes too bright, mouth still a little swollen from a kiss three days old.
“Pull it together,” she told her reflection.
It did not respond.
She dressed fast, in an old T-shirt and soft pants, and opened the door.
He was leaning against the wall opposite, hair damp from where he’d run fingers through it, clean clothes in hand. His eyes dropped, flicked back up.
He didn’t leer. He didn’t smile. He just looked. Like she was a puzzle he hadn’t decided whether to solve.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“Warmer,” she said. “The pump died so we could have a spa day. Very considerate.”
He smirked. “I’ll send it a fruit basket,” he said. “My turn.”
He went in. The door clicked shut.
She stood there a second, listening to the water start. Imagining it. Him.
She fled to her room.
* * *
She told herself she was just going to read.
Five minutes later, she was staring at the same line on the same page, having no idea what it said.
Her brain kept replaying the pump. The almost touch. The actual touch from days before that still seemed to live in her skin.
Her hand reached for her phone. Stopped.
What would she even text him? Hey, how’s your trauma?
There was a soft knock.
She jumped.
“Yeah?” she called, heart already speeding.
The door opened a crack. Rhys leaned against the frame, hair damp now, curling more than usual, T-shirt clinging to his chest.
He looked unfairly good for someone who’d nearly been electrocuted by an ancient pump.
“Can I…” He gestured vaguely inside. “Talk?”
She swallowed. “About what?” she asked, though she knew.
He gave a small, sharp smile. “Not about pumps,” he said.
She hesitated. Then nodded. “Fine,” she said. “Five minutes.”
He stepped in and shut the door gently behind him.
Her room looked suddenly…small. Intimate. Bed unmade. Pile of laundry in the corner. A poster from a band she’d loved at seventeen peeling slightly at one edge.
“You never changed that,” he said, nodding at the poster.
She snorted. “You think I’ve had time for interior design?” she said.
He smiled faintly. “Right,” he said. “You’ve been…busy.”
He stayed by the door, as if he’d invisible-taped himself to the threshold.
“I’m not going to pounce on you,” she said. “You can sit.”
“You might,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re not that irresistible,” she said. “Get over yourself.”
He laughed, tension easing a fraction. Moved to the old desk chair and sat, turning it to face her.
For a moment, they just…looked. The last few weeks compressed between them like another presence.
“About earlier,” he said.
“Which earlier,” she said. “We have a lot of bad decisions to choose from.”
“The pump,” he said. “The…almost. The…this.” He gestured between them.
She crossed her arms. “We already decided,” she said. “We’re not doing this.”
He nodded. “We did,” he said. “And then we…did.”
“Once,” she said. “Under duress.”
His mouth curved. “Is that what we’re calling it?” he asked.
“I was emotionally compromised by machinery,” she said. “It doesn’t count.”
He sobered. “It counts,” he said quietly. “At least to me.”
Her throat tightened. “Why are you here,” she asked. “Really.”
He looked down at his hands. At the faint line of a healed cut on his knuckle.
“Because I can’t…do this halfway,” he said. “The deal. You. Any of it. I thought I could. I told myself I would. Fly in, harvest, clean exits. Instead…” He gestured again, helpless. “Here we are. In your childhood bedroom. Talking about…lines.”
“You crossed them,” she said.
“So did you,” he said.
She hated that he was right. Again.
“What do you want?” she asked. The words came out sharper than she intended. “From me.”
He exhaled. “Everything,” he said. “And nothing.” He grimaced. “That’s not helpful, I know.”
“It’s also honest,” she said.
He met her eyes. “I want you,” he said. “And I want this deal to close clean. And I don’t know how to have both.”
“You can’t,” she said. “You said that yourself.”
“I know,” he said. “Logically. Rationally. Professionally. But my body…” He huffed a laugh. “My body is very bad at reading term sheets.”
Her cheeks heated. “Mine too,” she muttered.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t…fall like this,” he said. “Ever. I compartmentalize. I…observe. I engage and then detach. That’s…how I’m built. How I trained myself.”
“And now?” she asked.
“And now…” He shook his head. “I find myself thinking about…you, when I’m on calls about water rights in Colorado. About your Cab when I’m reading about almond futures. About your mother’s kitchen table when I’m supposed to be planning a closing dinner.”
She swallowed. “That’s…your problem,” she said, but there was no sting in it.
“I know,” he said. “I’m not…asking you to fix it.”
“Good,” she said. “Because I can’t even fix my pump.”
He smiled. Then sobered. “I just…needed you to know,” he said. “That you’re not…a side effect. Or a…byproduct. You’re not just…collateral damage I got feelings for.”
“Wow,” she said. “Romantic and eloquent.”
He winced. “I’m not good at this,” he said.
“You keep saying that,” she said. “But you’re doing it anyway.”
He looked at her. “You make it harder not to,” he said.
Her chest hurt.
“And you,” he added. “What do you want? From me.”
She wanted to lie. To say, Nothing. To say, A clean exit. To say, For you to leave so I can get on with building my life in whatever rubble is left.
Instead, she found herself saying, very quietly, “I don’t know.”
His throat worked. “That’s…honest,” he said.
“I want…” She stared at her hands. “I want you to finish this deal without screwing my family. I want you to go back to your city and your dumplings and your…weird gym. I want to not feel sick when I think about you in ten years.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Those are…goals.”
“And I want…” She forced herself to look up. “I want this to have been…something. Not just…hormones. Not just…trauma bond. Not just…proximity.”
He smiled sadly. “It was…something,” he said. “Is.”
“I don’t know if that makes it better or worse,” she admitted.
“Me neither,” he said.
They sat in silence for a bit. The house creaked. A car passed on the road outside, headlights briefly painting the ceiling.
“We could…” he started, then trailed off.
“Could what,” she asked warily.
“Make a…truce,” he said. “Not just about dates and easements. About…this.”
“I thought we had one,” she said. “No sex. No promises. No…dramatic declarations. Just…professional-ish proximity.”
He huffed a laugh. “We also said ‘no kissing,’ technically,” he said.
“Semantics,” she said.
“What if we…” He searched for words. “Agree that for the next…however many weeks until closing, we let this…be. We don’t feed it. We don’t starve it. We…acknowledge it. We…care. And then…we let it go.”
“Like a fermentation,” she said before she could stop herself.
He smiled. “Exactly,” he said. “We guide it. Keep it from overheating. Then…press. Rack. Move on.”
“You’re very annoying when you use my metaphors,” she said.
“You started it,” he said.
She considered. “You really think,” she said slowly, “that we can…control this. Like tank temps.”
“No,” he admitted. “But I think not pretending helps. Naming it. Saying, ‘Yes, this is real, and yes, it has an expiration date, and yes, we’re going to choose not to blow up our lives over it.’”
“Choose,” she repeated. “You have a lot of faith in our ability to choose.”
“I have faith in yours,” he said.
She snorted. “You shouldn’t,” she said. “I kissed you against a pallet like a horny teenager.”
“It was mutual,” he said. “For the record.”
They both almost smiled.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Okay. We…acknowledge. We…try not to…add to it.”
“And we don’t…cross certain lines,” he said.
“Like your room,” she said.
“Or yours,” he said.
“Or barrel rooms after midnight,” she added.
He coughed. “Right,” he said.
“And if we…slip,” she said. “Kiss. Or…whatever. We…don’t…pretend it didn’t happen. But we also don’t…use it as an excuse to torch everything.”
“Agreed,” he said.
“This is a terrible plan,” she said.
“Absolutely,” he said.
They looked at each other. Something like grim amusement passed between them.
“We’re fucked,” she said.
“Metaphorically,” he said.
“For now,” she said.
He laughed, helpless. “Occupational hazard,” he murmured.
She threw a pillow at him.
He ducked. It hit the door.
“Get out,” she said, but her voice was softer than it should’ve been.
He stood. Hesitated. “Nora,” he said.
“Yeah?” she asked.
He looked at her for a long, searching moment. Like he was memorizing her again.
“Goodnight,” he said.
“Goodnight,” she said.
When the door closed behind him, she lay back on her bed and stared at the ceiling.
The ghost of his mouth lingered on her lips. The taste of bad decisions and something dangerously close to love.
She pressed her fingers there. Closed her eyes.
Outside, in the dark, a barn owl cried once, low and haunting.
Down in the cellar, the wines kept changing, whether they wanted to or not.
So did she.
So did he.
And the calendar did not care.
* * *