The first real cold front of the season rolled in three days later.
It came in the night, sneaking over the hills on a wind that rattled the windows and sent dry leaves skittering across the porch. The temperature dropped fifteen degrees in as many hours. By dawn, the sky had gone from bleached white to a solid, ominous gray.
Nora stood on the porch, jacket zipped up to her chin, mug cupped in both hands, and sniffed the air.
“You smell that?” she called back into the house.
Rosa poked her head out the door. “Smell what?”
“Rain,” Nora said.
Her mother sniffed too. Smiled. “About time,” she said. “The dust has been insufferable.”
“Rain now is not good,” Nora said. “Not with half the Merlot still hanging.”
Rosa’s smile faded. “Shit,” she said.
“Shit,” Nora agreed.
Behind them, footsteps thudded on the stairs. Rhys emerged, hair sleep-mussed, T-shirt rumpled. He squinted out at the sky.
“Forecast says drizzle this afternoon,” he said. “Maybe heavier tonight. Quarter inch, tops.”
“Forecast also said we were going to have a ‘mild’ summer,” Nora said. “Then the pump almost died and the Sauv Blanc tried to cook on the vines. I don’t trust men in suits who guess about the weather for a living.”
“Fair,” he said. “But we have to use something to guide planning, and AccuWeather is cheaper than hiring a shaman.”
“You probably already have a shaman on retainer for your LPs,” she muttered.
He smirked. “We call them consultants,” he said.
She rolled her eyes and stepped off the porch. Cold bit through her jeans, raising goosebumps on her thighs. The air had that strange, metallic tang that always came before a storm in the valley. Anticipation. Change.
“Frost is our usual problem,” she said as he fell into step beside her. “Rain this close to harvest? That’s just the universe being a dick.”
“What happens if it hits the Merlot?” he asked.
“Depends,” she said. “If it’s light and moves fast, we’re fine. If it lingers, we can get mold. Dilution. Fruit splitting. If it pours and then stays wet, we’re screwed.”
“Language,” he said softly.
“Fuck language,” she said.
He didn’t argue.
They walked up to block nine. The clusters glistened in the weak light, plump and dark. Nora plucked a berry, popped it into her mouth, chewed thoughtfully.
“Close,” she said. “So close.”
“What does your gut say?” he asked.
She looked down the row. At the leaves just starting to blush yellow at the edges. At the birds hopping restlessly on the wires.
“My gut says pick,” she said. “My head says wait.”
“And the weather?” he asked.
She looked at the sky. “Doesn’t care about either of them,” she said.
He was quiet.
“You told me,” he said, “that you wait for the moment when everything in you says, ‘Now.’ Is this it?”
“Not quite,” she said. “But sometimes you don’t get the perfect moment. Sometimes you get…good enough.”
“And if you wait?” he asked.
“We risk losing more than we gain,” she said. “But the gain could be big. Flavor. Tannins. Structure.”
“A few days,” he said. “That’s all we’re talking about. Three. Four.”
“In grape time, that’s a lifetime,” she said.
He studied her face. “What does the deed restriction say again?” he asked. “Exactly.”
She blinked. “You memorized it,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“‘Transfer of title is prohibited between August 1 and the completion of harvest, defined as the bringing in of all fruit borne upon the titled acreage for the season in question,’” he recited. “Or words to that effect.”
She rubbed her thumb along the stem in her hand. “You’re worried I’m going to drag this out,” she said.
“I’m worried,” he said slowly, “that you’re going to rush. And regret it. Because of me.”
She looked up, startled.
“I’m the one with the clock,” he said. “Ticking in my head. In my shareholders’ heads. I’m the one who wants this wrapped for sale by the end of October. You could push the Merlot a week and be fine. Less risk for quality, more for the deed.”
She stared at him. “Are you…telling me to wait?” she asked.
“I’m telling you,” he said carefully, “that my job is to maximize long-term value. For the buyer, the asset, the fund. Sacrificing quality for timeline might look good on my calendar, but it’s bad business in the long run. A vineyard with a reputation for cutting corners in tough years fetches less.”
“Since when do you care about reputation?” she asked, suspicious.
“Since always,” he said. “We don’t invest in one-and-done flips, Nora. We build a track record. Buyers talk. Distributors talk. If they say, ‘Oh, that place? The wine’s fine most years but falls apart under pressure,’ that cuts into our IRR.”
“There it is,” she said. “IRR.”
“It’s all the same thing,” he said. “Quality. Reputation. Return. You think I’m this cold calculator who only sees dollars, but if the wine sucks, the numbers suffer, too.”
“So you’re saying…” She chewed her lip. “You’re okay if we hold the Merlot for a few more days. Even with the rain.”
“I’m saying I trust your gut on ripeness more than I trust a weather app,” he said. “You’ve been walking these rows for a decade. If you say we wait, we wait. If you say we pick, we pick.”
That, more than anything else he’d said this week, unnerved her.
“Don’t put this on me,” she said quietly. “If I get it wrong…”
“If you get it wrong, we deal with it,” he said. “Like we dealt with the truck. Like we’ll deal with the pump when it finally gives up. There’s no wrong that ends the world.”
“You say that,” she said. “But from where I’m standing, the world is ending in about two weeks.”
His gaze softened. “Not your world,” he said. “Just this…chapter of it.”
“You don’t get to write my metaphors,” she said.
He smiled faintly. “Old habits,” he said.
She looked back at the grapes. Took a deep breath. Let it out slowly.
“We wait,” she said. The decision settled in her chest like a stone. “Three days. Four at most. If the rain holds off or passes quick, we’ll be fine. If it doesn’t…” She shrugged. “We’ll make the best wine we can with what we’ve got. Like always.”
“Okay,” he said simply.
She blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he said. “You call the pick.”
She shook her head. “You’re either very confident or very stupid,” she said.
“Mutually reinforcing traits,” he said. “In my line of work.”
She snorted. “Stop saying ‘my line of work’ like you’re a hitman,” she said.
He gave her a look. “You’re the one who keeps comparing me to an executioner,” he said.
“Freudian slip,” she said.
“I’m not touching that,” he murmured.
Don’t, she thought.
They walked back down in companionable silence. The air tasted like pennies. Static prickled on her skin.
By noon, the first drops fell. Light, scattered, more suggestion than substance.
“Tease,” Yolanda muttered, looking up. “If you’re going to rain, rain.”
“Shh,” Nora said. “Don’t encourage it.”
The rain toyed with them all afternoon, coming in brief flurries that dampened the dust and then slunk away. The leaves glistened. The fruit stayed mostly dry.
“It’s flirting,” Rhys said at one point, standing next to her at the edge of block eleven.
“Like you,” she shot back. “Annoying.”
He arched a brow. “Flirting is annoying?”
“With you, yes,” she said.
“And with…other people?” he asked.
She looked at him sidelong. “What other people?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Touché,” he said.
By late afternoon, the clouds thickened. The wind picked up. Fat drops began to spatter in earnest, darkening the dirt between the rows.
“Okay,” Nora said. “That’s enough.”
The sky did not oblige.
“Crews in!” she shouted, waving an arm. “We’re done for today. Tanks are full anyway.”
Diego jogged past, hoodie up. “You going to dance in it?” he called over his shoulder.
“Not today,” she yelled back. “I don’t have the laundry capacity.”
Rhys raised an eyebrow. “You dance in the rain?” he asked.
“Once,” she said. “My first harvest. It was…romantic. Until I realized wet clothes chafe.”
He made a face. “Noted,” he said.
She glanced up at the slate sky. “If this lets up by midnight, we’re fine,” she said. “If it keeps up…”
“Mold?” he guessed.
“Mold,” she confirmed. “If the clusters stay wet, spores party.”
“How long do they need to dry?” he asked.
“Six hours of sun,” she said. “Minimum.”
He checked his watch, then the sky. “Sunrise at six-thirty,” he said. “If the clouds clear by three…”
“You can’t spreadsheet this part,” she said.
“I can try,” he said.
She shook her head and headed toward the winery. “Come on, Crestlake,” she called. “Time to check tanks and pray.”
“I’m better at one of those than the other,” he said, following.
“Practice,” she said. “Occupational hazard.”
* * *
The rain hammered the roof that night, a steady drumbeat that set Nora’s teeth on edge. The house, old and stubborn, creaked and groaned.
She didn’t bother trying to sleep.
At ten, she paced the hallway, listening to the storm.
At midnight, she went downstairs, made tea she didn’t drink, stared out the back door at the barely visible glint of water in the security lights.
At two, she pulled on her jacket, shoved her feet into boots, and grabbed a flashlight.
She opened the back door quietly. Or tried to. The hinge squealed anyway.
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist,” came a voice from the shadows of the kitchen.
She jumped, flashlight jerking.
“Jesus,” she hissed. “Do you live in my house now?”
Rhys leaned against the counter, arms crossed, barefoot in sweatpants and a T-shirt. His hair was mussed, eyes shadowed.
He looked…tired. Human.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Storm.”
“Noise?” she teased.
“Pressure,” he said. “Feels like a migraine waiting to happen.”
She raised the flashlight, shining it past him through the window. The rain had eased to a steadier patter, less intense but still relentless.
“I’m going to check the Merlot,” she said.
He straightened. “Now?”
“Yes,” she said. “I need to see how bad it is. If there’s pooling. If we lost any fruit.”
“In the dark?” he asked.
“It’s my vineyard,” she said. “I know every step.”
“That doesn’t make it safe,” he said. “The ground will be slick. If you slip and crack your head on a rock, who’s going to tell me when to pick?”
“That’s your concern?” she asked.
“Among others,” he said.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I do this every time it rains.”
“And that makes it statistically more likely that this time you won’t be,” he said. “I’m coming with you.”
She snorted. “In your bare feet?” she asked.
He glanced down. “Five minutes,” he said. “Don’t go without me.”
She opened her mouth to argue. Closed it.
“Fine,” she said. “But if you slow me down, I’m leaving you in a puddle.”
“Romantic,” he said, already heading for the stairs.
Five minutes later, they stepped out into the storm together.
The rain had lightened to a steady drizzle, fine droplets that clung to her eyelashes. The beam of her flashlight cut a sharp cone through the gray. Mud sucked at their boots as they crossed the yard.
The vineyard looked eerie in the half-light, rows of vines like dark ribcages against the sky. The wires hummed softly in the wind.
“This is like a horror movie,” Rhys said under his breath. “All we need is a guy with a chainsaw.”
“We only keep pruning shears on-site,” she said. “You’re safe.”
They reached block nine. The earth had drunk most of the water, but small puddles collected in the low spots between rows. She knelt, plunging her hand into the mud, feeling its texture.
“Still draining,” she said. “Thank God for clay loam.”
He frowned. “Isn’t clay bad?” he asked. “Heavy?”
“Depends,” she said. “Too much and you get waterlogged roots. Just enough and you get good water-holding capacity. In a year like this? Clay is your friend.”
She stood, wiped her hand on her jeans, and directed the flashlight at a cluster. Beads of water clung to the skins like tiny pearls.
“We’ll have to blow them dry if the sun doesn’t come out,” she said. “Or we wait longer. Hope the breeze does the job.”
“How do you blow?” he asked. “Big fans?”
She made a face. “Big fans are for rich people,” she said. “We have one rented blower we use for frost sometimes. It’s like a giant hair dryer. We can’t run it on the whole vineyard.”
“So we pick and choose,” he said. “Highest value blocks?”
She nodded. “Merlot, then Cab,” she said. “Screw the Chardonnay. It only pays half as well.”
He huffed. “You’re as ruthless as I am,” he said.
“In different currencies,” she said.
Thunder rumbled faintly to the east. The storm was moving on, grumbling.
They walked the block slowly, checking for signs of damage. A few split berries here and there. Some leaves torn by wind. Overall, not catastrophic.
“It could have been worse,” she said.
“That’s our motto this year,” he said. “‘It Could Have Been Worse Vineyards.’”
She snorted. “Not sure that’ll look good on a label,” she said.
They stopped at the top of the hill. The valley spread below them, lights of neighboring wineries glowing faintly through the rain. In the distance, a faint orange smear marked a town.
“Pretty,” he said quietly.
“Even when it’s trying to drown us,” she said.
He glanced at her. Rain plastered her hair to her forehead. Droplets clung to her eyelashes. Her jacket sagged with water.
“You’re soaked,” he said.
“So are you,” she pointed out.
He looked down at his own jacket. “Fair,” he said.
They stood there, sharing the flashlight’s beam, the rain a soft curtain around them.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said after a while.
“I know,” he said.
“Why did you?” she asked.
“Because you were going,” he said simply. “And…because I wanted to see.”
“See what?” she asked.
“The thing that keeps you up at night,” he said. “The thing you’re willing to walk into a storm for.”
She rolled her eyes. “The grapes,” she said. “Not that deep.”
“Doesn’t matter what it is,” he said. “It’s…how you move toward it.”
She shifted, uncomfortable with the intensity in his gaze.
“You move toward your deals the same way,” she said. “Don’t romanticize me to make yourself feel better.”
He smiled faintly. “Who says I need to feel better?” he asked.
“Everyone,” she said. “Including you.”
He laughed softly. The sound was swallowed by the rain.
They started back down, sliding a little on the slick ground. At one point, Nora’s boot skidded. She pitched forward with a gasp.
A hand shot out. Gripped her elbow. Steadied her.
She found herself chest to chest with him, his arm a solid band under her palm, his breath warm on her wet cheek.
“Careful,” he murmured.
Her heart hammered. She became acutely aware of how close they were. How his T-shirt clung to his chest. The smell of him—soap, rain, a faint undernote of wine and something darker.
“Thanks,” she said, voice coming out hoarse.
His fingers tightened fractionally on her arm, then loosened.
“See?” he said lightly. “You did need me.”
She pulled back. “Don’t let it go to your head,” she said.
“Too late,” he said, smiling.
Back at the house, they paused under the porch roof, water dripping off their jackets.
“Truce?” he asked, holding out a hand.
“Over what?” she asked warily.
“Over the weather,” he said. “We can’t fight it. Let’s save our arguments for things we can control.”
She eyed his hand. The same hand that had just kept her from face-planting in the mud. The same hand that signed foreclosure notices.
Truce. Temporary. Tactical.
“Fine,” she said. She took his hand.
It was warm and rough and strong. The contact sent a jolt through her.
He must have felt it too, because his eyes darkened.
She dropped his hand like it burned. “Don’t get used to it,” she said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.
She turned and opened the door. As she stepped inside, she heard him murmur behind her, so softly she almost missed it:
“That’s the problem.”
* * *
The storm passed by dawn.
By eight a.m., the sky was patchy blue, clouds scudding east. The sun came out with a vengeance, bouncing off the wet leaves in a blinding shimmer. Steam rose from the dirt.
Nora walked the Merlot with a bleary head and a hyper-alert nose. The fruit smelled clean. The breeze was already drying the clusters. The soil, blessedly, was draining as it should.
“We got lucky,” she told Rhys, who trailed half a step behind her.
“Or you made a good call,” he said.
“Don’t give me that much credit,” she said. “The rain could have stalled. We could’ve been under a cold gray lid for three days. Then we’d have rot and mildew and fruit hanging on by a thread.”
“Have you thought about…” He hesitated. “More…insurance? Fans. Drains. Netting. Things that would make years like this less of a gamble.”
She snorted. “Every day,” she said. “Then I open my bank app and remember I live in the real world.”
“What if,” he said slowly, “you didn’t.”
She stopped. Turned. “What?”
“What if you had capital,” he said. “Enough to…fix the driveway. Install more drainage. Upgrade the pump. Get a second press. Maybe a couple of those big fans you salivate over.”
“From where?” she asked. “You?”
“From a buyer,” he said. “From someone who sees what this place could be with investment it never got.”
“You think some rich guy is going to come in here and just…hand over a blank check?” she asked. “Because he likes my terroir?”
“Not a blank check,” he said. “An investment. In you.”
She laughed harshly. “You’re really leaning into the fantasy,” she said. “Did you bring a script for this?”
“I’m serious,” he said. “We’ve been talking to potential buyers.”
Her stomach dropped. “Of course you have,” she said. “You couldn’t wait until the last grape was off the vine.”
“Time is money,” he said. “If we line up interest now, we can close faster once the deed restriction lifts. That’s good for us.”
“And devastating for me,” she said.
“Maybe not,” he said. “We’ve had interest from a few different profiles. High-net-worth individuals. A hospitality group. A family office. One in particular…stands out.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” she said.
“You should,” he said. “Because your fate is tangled up in it whether you want it to be or not.”
She crossed her arms. “Fine,” she said. “Tell me about my future overlords.”
He ignored the jab.
“There’s a group out of Hong Kong,” he said. “They own resorts in Bali, Thailand, and one in Hawaii. They’ve been looking for a West Coast property to add to their portfolio. They like…authenticity. History. Stories.”
“You mean they like marketing,” she said.
“They like differentiation,” he said. “A vineyard with a family name, an old farmhouse, a winemaker who actually cares? That’s catnip.”
“I’m not a cat toy,” she said.
“You’re an asset,” he said bluntly. “In the eyes of people like them. You, specifically, are the part that makes this more than just land.”
She hated that this turned her stomach and sent a tiny thrill through her at the same time.
“They’d want to meet you,” he continued. “Walk the vineyard with you. Taste your wines. Hear your…story.”
“My story is ‘girl fought for ten years, lost anyway,’” she said. “Very uplifting.”
“They might see it as ‘woman kept the place alive under impossible circumstances,’” he said. “People like to invest in grit. It makes them feel better about being born rich.”
She snorted. “You’re very cynical for someone pitching hope,” she said.
“I’m pragmatic,” he said. “But I’m not blind to the optics. A vineyard run by a woman of color in a valley full of old white men? That’s a bullet point some family office in Asia would love to put in their annual report.”
“Wow,” she said. “You managed to make me feel like a diversity hire and a damsel in distress in one sentence. Impressive.”
He winced. “That’s not what I—”
“Save it,” she said. “Whatever they want, it doesn’t matter. Once they own it, they’ll do whatever they want. Plant whatever they want. Hire some guy from Napa with a wine science degree and a man bun.”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “If we make it part of the package.”
“What package?” she asked.
“The deal,” he said. “The terms of sale. We can pitch your continued involvement as a…value-add.”
“As what?” she demanded. “Local color?”
“As winemaker,” he said. “As general manager. As…whatever you want to be.”
She stared at him. The words scrambled in her head, then rearranged into something too fragile to touch.
“You’re saying…” She swallowed. “I could…stay?”
“Possibly,” he said. “If they like you. If they see the sense in continuity. If we pitch it right.”
A thousand emotions flashed through her in the space of a heartbeat. Hope, sharp and dangerous. Anger, at herself for wanting this, at him for dangling it. Fear, of more disappointment.
“You’re talking like it’s simple,” she said. “Just…put it in the pitch deck.”
“It’s not simple,” he said. “It’s…delicate. We’d have to frame it properly. You’d need to…perform.”
“Perform,” she echoed. “Like a monkey at a zoo.”
“Like a founder talking to investors,” he said. “Which, in a way, you are.”
She shook her head. “This is insane,” she said.
“Is it?” he asked. “You told me you want this place kept whole. Not carved up. Here’s a chance to influence that. To stay. To have a say. Maybe even to get the resources you’ve always needed.”
“At what cost?” she whispered.
“You working for someone else,” he said. “Which you already do.”
She flinched. “I don’t—”
“You work for the bank,” he said. “For the weather. For your distributors. For every person who’s ever told you how to run your business by tightening or loosening the screws. This would be…another boss. But maybe one you have more leverage with.”
“You make it sound so rational,” she said. “Like it’s just another line item.”
“It would be,” he said. “On their side. On yours…” He hesitated. “On yours, it would be a lifeline. Maybe not the one you wanted. But one you didn’t have before.”
She stared past him at the hills. The vines. The house.
Stay.
The word echoed in her chest, painful.
“What’s the catch?” she asked finally.
He smiled faintly. “You,” he said.
“Me?” she repeated, thrown.
“You’d have to let them see you,” he said. “Not the tired woman who snarls at me at six a.m.—”
“Hey,” she protested.
“—but the one who walked me through the Merlot block and talked about bottling a year,” he said. “You’d have to tell them why this place matters, and do it in a way that makes them want to write a very large check.”
“You mean sell my soul,” she said.
“Rent it,” he said. “On favorable terms.”
She huffed out a breath. “Your metaphors are getting worse,” she said.
“Stress,” he said.
Silence stretched between them, charged.
“Think about it,” he said. “I’m setting up a call with them for end of next week. A video tour. I can do it without you. Or…”
“Or I can play tour guide for the people who’re going to own my father’s dream,” she said.
“And maybe salvage some of it,” he said. “For yourself.”
She looked at him. At the conviction in his eyes. At the way his jaw tightened like he was bracing for a hit.
“You really think they’d go for it,” she said quietly. “Keeping me.”
“I do,” he said. “You’re an asset.”
She winced.
“Sorry,” he said. “Habit. You’re…irreplaceable. At least for the next few years.”
“You sure you’re not the one trying to buy forgiveness?” she asked.
He held her gaze. “I know I can’t,” he said. “But I can try to…steer this toward a version where you don’t lose everything.”
She exhaled shakily.
“I’ll…think about it,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “Because whether you participate or not, this train is moving. Better to be on it than under it.”
“That’s a terrible metaphor,” she said.
“Occupational hazard,” he said.
She almost smiled. Almost.
As they walked back toward the crush pad, the sun broke fully through the clouds, warming the back of her neck. The grapes glowed.
Stay.
The word beat in her chest, in time with her footsteps.
It was a dangerous word.
But then, so was fall.
* * *
Two nights later, around ten, Rhys stood alone in the barrel room, glass in hand, staring at numbers on his phone and thinking about the taste of her Merlot on his tongue.
He’d been on calls all afternoon. First with Aanya, then with the potential buyer’s representative in Hong Kong. The man—Kenji something, with a British accent and an expensive watch Rhys recognized from a Basel launch—had been enthusiastic.
“We love the story,” Kenji had said. “Authentic family vineyard. Strong female leadership. Generational roots. Very…on brand.”
“It’s more than a story,” Rhys had said. “The site’s solid. Good exposure. Established rootstock. Upside with investment.”
“The numbers look good,” Kenji had said. “But the narrative…that’s what sells it to our principals. They want to stand on a hill and say, ‘This is ours now.’ They want to feel like they’re rescuing something.”
Rhys had bitten back a dozen responses. Settled on, “We can facilitate that.”
“Do you think the current owner would…participate?” Kenji had asked. “Maybe stay on. Help with the transition. Be part of the…package.”
“Yes,” Rhys had said, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. “I do.”
Now, in the cool dim of the cellar, he wondered if he’d just lied. Not about her willingness—she hadn’t agreed, not yet—but about his confidence that this was the right thing.
“I’m supposed to be good at this,” he told the barrels. “At seeing around corners.”
The barrels did not respond. They never did.
He swirled the wine in his glass. It caught the low light, garnet edges glowing. He took a sip.
It was the 2019 Cab. Young. Tannic. Rough around the edges. But the bones were good.
Like her.
He sighed and set the glass down.
Footsteps sounded on the concrete. He didn’t turn.
“You’re going to wear a path in the floor if you keep pacing,” Nora said.
He smiled despite himself. “You move very quietly for someone wearing boots,” he said.
“I learned from my mother,” she said. “She’s like a cat when she wants to be.”
“She scared the shit out of me the first night,” he admitted. “Just…appeared in the doorway with a towel like some domestic ninja.”
Nora laughed, the sound bouncing off the barrels.
He turned. She stood in the wide aisle, leaning against a stack, arms crossed. She’d changed out of her work clothes into a worn sweatshirt and leggings. Her hair was in a loose braid over one shoulder. She looked…comfortable. At home.
He felt a strange tug in his chest.
“You storm-watching again?” she asked.
“Number-watching,” he said, holding up his phone. “Almost as dramatic.”
“That’s a lie,” she said. “Nothing about numbers is dramatic.”
“Says the woman whose entire life is at the mercy of a weather forecast and a Brix reading,” he said.
She shrugged. “Different drama,” she said. “Mine has better lighting.”
He smiled. Then sobered.
“I talked to the Hong Kong group,” he said.
Her shoulders tensed. “And?” she asked.
“They’re interested,” he said. “Very interested.”
“Of course they are,” she said flatly.
“They want to schedule a virtual visit next week,” he said. “Live video. Drone footage. Meet the…protagonists.”
She made a face. “Protagonists,” she repeated. “Of my own story.”
“I told them you’d consider it,” he said.
Her eyes flashed. “You did what?”
“I hedged,” he said. “I said you were open to discussing involvement in a potential sale. Which is true. You said you’d think about it.”
“Thinking about it is not the same as agreeing to be paraded in front of billionaire tourists like a prize goat,” she said.
“Kenji—my contact—he’s not a tourist,” Rhys said. “He’s—”
“—the bagman for the rich people,” she said. “I know the type.”
“He’s a deal guy,” Rhys said. “Like me. He likes this kind of project. He’d be on your side.”
“Everyone keeps telling me who’s on my side,” she snapped. “The bank. The lawyer. You. Funny how I always end up on the losing end anyway.”
He exhaled slowly. “Do you want to stay?” he asked, cutting through the noise.
She froze.
He stepped closer. “Don’t give me the noble speech,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ll go quietly because that’s what’s fair. Just…answer the question. Do you want to stay on this land, with these vines, in some capacity, after the sale?”
Her throat worked. “Yes,” she whispered. “Of course I do.”
He nodded, once. “Then this is the shot,” he said. “Not a guarantee. Not even a great shot. But a shot.”
“At what price?” she asked.
“They’d want performance,” he said. “Reports. Targets. You’d have to answer to people half a world away who’ve never set foot in this valley.”
“Same as now,” she said bitterly.
“Not necessarily,” he said. “They might be more hands-off. Or…worse. We don’t know. But we do know that if you’re not at the table when they make the plan, you’ll be the one on the menu.”
She huffed. “You spend a lot of time on LinkedIn, don’t you,” she said. “That’s such a douchey business bro quote.”
He smiled. “Maybe,” he said. “Doesn’t make it less true.”
She pushed off the barrel and began pacing, hands shoved into her sweatshirt pocket.
“I hate this,” she muttered.
“I know,” he said.
“I hate that the only way I get to have any say in what happens to my home is by…selling myself as part of the package,” she said.
“You’re not—”
“I am,” she said. “Let’s not sugarcoat it. I’m the distressed asset you’re repackaging with a bow. ‘Comes with emotional attachment and a built-in narrative.’”
“That’s one way to look at it,” he said. “Another is: you’re negotiating from a place of leverage for the first time in your life.”
She stopped. “Leverage,” she repeated. “Explain.”
“They want you,” he said. “Not just the land. Not just the house. You. That means you have something they can’t buy from a store. Something they can’t 3D-print or hire a consulting firm to replicate. That gives you power.”
She snorted. “Tell that to my checking account,” she said.
“I’m serious,” he said. “If they want you, you can set terms. Salary. Title. Autonomy. Hell, you can bake things into the land use agreements. Conservation easements. Limits on development. You can, within reason, shape what this place becomes after you.”
“After me?” she cut in. “You make it sound like I’m dying.”
“In a way, you are,” he said gently. “The version of you who owns this place free and clear is…not making it out. But there’s another version. The one who can walk these rows under someone else’s name and still know where every gopher hole is.”
She closed her eyes. His words landed like blows and like balm, both.
“You really think they’ll listen to me,” she said.
“If you make them believe you’re the key to making this place profitable,” he said. “Yes.”
“Profit,” she said. “Always comes back to that.”
“We’re not charities,” he said. “But profit and preservation don’t have to be enemies.”
She opened her eyes. Met his.
“What do you get out of this,” she asked. “Besides your fee.”
“A cleaner exit,” he said. “A better story. A satisfied buyer. But also…” He hesitated. “I get to know I didn’t just roll in, strip this place for parts, and leave you on the curb. I get to know I…left something standing.”
She searched his face. Looking for the angle. The spin. The lie.
She didn’t see one.
“You’re not responsible for my happy ending,” she said quietly.
“I know,” he said. “But I’m…in the frame. Whether I like it or not. Whether you like it or not. That means I have…some responsibility. Even if it’s just to not fuck it up worse than it already is.”
She barked out a surprised laugh. “Colorful,” she said.
“Occupational hazard,” he said.
She stared at the rows of barrels, stacked like a hundred sleeping giants.
“When is the call?” she asked.
“Thursday night,” he said. “Seven here. Morning over there. We’ll do a walk-through. Vineyard. Winery. House, if you’re comfortable.”
“I am not showing them my bedroom,” she said. “Or the pantry. That’s where my mother cries.”
He didn’t flinch at that. “You show them what you want them to see,” he said. “You curate. Like a museum.”
“They’ll see what they want to see,” she said.
“Then tilt it,” he said. “However you can.”
Silence.
“Will you be there?” she asked, hating the vulnerable note in her voice.
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I’ll lead. You chime in when you want. I won’t let them turn it into a…petting zoo.”
“You say that like you can control them,” she said.
“I can influence the frame,” he said. “Which is…something.”
She chewed on that for a long moment.
“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll do it.”
His shoulders dropped fractionally. “Good,” he said.
“But,” she added, holding up a finger. “Ground rules.”
He braced. “Hit me.”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not there,” she said. “Don’t say ‘our operator’ or ‘the current owner’ like I’m a piece of equipment. I have a name. Use it.”
“Done,” he said.
“Don’t promise them more than I can deliver,” she said. “If they want a full-service resort with a spa and a Michelin-starred restaurant, tell them to go buy Solstice Ridge.”
“You know about Solstice,” he said.
“I know everything that happens in a ten-mile radius,” she said. “I hear things.”
“Noted,” he said.
“And if they start talking about tearing out blocks for tennis courts,” she said, voice going hard, “you push back. You tell them it’ll tank their reputation with the valley. That it’s…bad optics.”
“It is,” he said. “From a brand perspective.”
“I don’t care what perspective you use,” she said. “Just…fight. A little. For me. For this.”
He met her gaze. “I will,” he said.
She believed him. She wasn’t sure whether that was rational or just…desperate.
“Okay,” she said again, mostly to herself. “Okay.”
He stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough.
“You won’t be alone,” he said. “On the call. Or…after.”
The after hung between them, thick and undefined.
She swallowed. “We’re not talking about that yet,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “But it’s out there. Like harvest. Like rain. You can’t outrun it forever.”
“I’m good at outrunning things,” she said.
“I’ve noticed,” he said.
He was looking at her mouth again. She could feel it, like a magnetic pull.
She took a step back. “Don’t,” she said softly.
He exhaled. “I’m not.”
“You are,” she said. “You keep…hovering.”
“Hovering,” he repeated.
“Orbiting,” she said. “Whatever. Pick your space metaphor.”
“I’m trying,” he said, voice low, “to respect your…line.”
“You’re standing on it,” she said.
His jaw flexed. “Then tell me where to go,” he said. “Left. Right. Back.”
She stared at him. At the tension in his shoulders. At the want in his eyes that matched her own too closely.
“Nowhere,” she said, hating it. “We stay here. In this…weird little box of yours. Until the last grape is picked.”
“And after?” he asked roughly.
She thought of the call. Of the offer. Of the possibility of staying. Of the possibility of leaving.
“I don’t know,” she said. “One catastrophe at a time.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Fair,” he said.
They stood there in the cool half-dark, the sound of fermentations a low murmur around them.
“You’re making a mistake,” a voice in her head whispered. “You’re pushing away the one person who’s actually trying to help.”
Another voice, just as insistent: “You’re standing too close to the man holding the knife.”
“Nora,” he said quietly.
“Yeah?” she asked.
“If we weren’t…” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the barrels, the vineyard, the foreclosure, everything. “This.”
She knew what he was asking before he finished.
“If we weren’t this,” he said, “would you…?”
She cut him off. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t make me answer that.”
He swallowed. “Okay,” he said.
But in the silence that followed, they both knew the answer.
Yes.
* * *