“Thank you for tonight,” she said.
“We start harvest tomorrow. Zinfandel.”
“What time?” she asked, her gaze not meeting mine.
“Dawn. I’ll text you.”
“Snapper?”
“Yeah?”
She rose up on her toes and kissed me. Brief, soft, over before I could really register it. “Thank you,” she said again. “For all of it.”
I stood on her porch after she disappeared inside, willing my pulse to slow and my body to accept that we weren’t getting what we wanted tonight. After several seconds, I got in my truck and drove home.
My house feltempty and too quiet when I walked in. I stripped off my shirt, poured myself a glass of water I didn’t drink, and stared at my phone, willing it to ring. Instead, it vibrated with a text.
Tonight was...
The dots appeared and disappeared three times beforethank youappeared.It was wonderful. Like a dream.
I’ll make all your dreams come true, if you’ll let me.
Her response came faster this time—Maybe I will.
I set the phone down and dropped onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. My body still hummed with want, every nerve ending alive with the memory of her pressed against me. But underneath the frustration was something else. Hope.
She’d opened up tonight. Told me things she’d never said before. Admitted she’d made herself small, that she’d stopped dreaming, that she’d never even left the States.
Those weren’t the words of someone who didn’t trust me. They were the words of someone learning how.
Tomorrow, we’d start the harvest. Tomorrow, we’d begin the real work of making this wine. Tomorrow, we’d take the formula we’d found and turn it into something that might just give her the freedom to do what she wanted rather than what everyone else needed.
12
SAFFRON
I’d been in the vineyard since four in the morning, walking the rows with my flashlight and refractometer even though I’d checked the Brix levels yesterday. And the day before. The numbers hadn’t changed. Twenty-four point two. Perfect for harvest.
I just needed to see them one more time.
Headlights cut across the vineyard as the sky started to lighten. Snapper’s truck.
He climbed out, carrying two travel mugs, and crossed to where I stood among the vines.
“You’re early,” I said.
“So are you.” He held out one of the mugs.
I took it and sipped.
“The crew will be here in twenty minutes.” I turned back to the vines, studying the clusters I’d already examined a dozen times. “I want to start in the north section. The fruit there gets the most sun exposure, so it should be?—”
“Saff.”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
