SAFFRON
Istood on the crush pad at Los Caballeros, watching the last bin of Syrah grapes get hoisted toward the tank. Beside me, Snapper’s hand found mine, and he laced our fingers together like we’d been doing it for years instead of days.
“That’s the last of it,” Cru called from the catwalk above the tanks. “We’re looking at enough fruit for fifteen hundred bottles minimum.”
Fifteen hundred bottles. Fifteen hundred chances to save everything.
Bit appeared at my shoulder, clipboard in hand. “Whole clusters going in now. CO2 injection in five minutes.”
I watched the grapes disappear into the sealed tanks. Six to eight weeks of waiting while the wine did what we couldn’t control.
“Are your parents still in Napa?” Eberly asked.
“Yeah. Felicity’s baby isn’t ready to come out yet, I guess.”
I stood staring at the tanks. Inside them, our future was either being saved or I was about to fail spectacularly in front of both our families and our closest friends. The weight of itpressed down on my shoulders. And my parents had no idea any of this was happening.
“Now, we wait,” Cru said, moving between monitors.
“You’ve done your part.” Daphne removed her work gloves. “Let the wine do its work now.”
Snapper’s arm slid around my waist. “Hear that? Time for us to take a break and let the juice cook.”
I looked up at him. He had grape must on his jaw, and his hair was a mess, and I wanted to kiss him right there in front of everyone. The urge hit so hard I had to look away before I acted on it.
“Come on.” He steered me toward the parking lot. “I need food and a shower.”
Behind us, I heard Bit say something to Eberly that made her laugh. When I glanced back, they were both watching us.
“They know,” I said when we reached his truck.
“Of course they do.” He opened my door. “Bit’s been aware of how I felt about you for years. Pretty sure everyone is by now.”
Heat flooded my cheeks. “That obvious?”
“Yeah.” He kissed me, slow and deep, right where anyone could see us. When he leaned away, his eyes had gone dark. “Dinner tonight?”
“Your place or mine?”
“Yours. I’ll cook.”
I drove home exhausted but too wired to rest. I showered until the water ran cool, washing away three days of harvest work.
My phone buzzed as I was getting dressed.Miss you already.
I smiled despite my exhaustion.You just saw me twenty minutes ago.
Still miss you.
The next twoweeks fell into a rhythm. Snapper and I stayed together most nights—sometimes at my place, sometimes his. We’d collapse into bed exhausted from commercial harvest work and wake up tangled together, neither of us wanting to move.
Small arguments cropped up. He left socks everywhere. I used all the hot water. We’d bicker and make up, and I’d find myself thinking this was what a life together looked like. The mundane mixed with the profound.
“What happens after all the wine is sold?” I asked one night in late October. We were at his place, both too tired to do anything but lie in bed. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my bare shoulder.
“What do you want to happen?”
“I don’t know.” I pressed my face against his chest. “I’m afraid to think that far ahead.”
