“Two weeks, then,” I said. “We taste again in two weeks.”
“December twenty-third,” my father calculated. “If it’s ready, we bottle Christmas Eve.”
“That gives us one week to get everything to auction,” Baron added. “New Year’s Eve.”
The math was tight. Terrifyingly tight. But it was possible.
“Two weeks,” Cru agreed. “December twenty-third.”
For the next fourteen days,I existed in a strange suspended state where time moved both agonizingly slowly and impossibly fast.
Snapper and I fell into a routine that should have felt comfortable—sleeping at his place most nights. We’d make love, then he’d pull me against his chest and I’d fall asleep listening to his heartbeat. Every morning, he sneaked out of bed and returned with a cup of coffee for each of us.
But underneath everything ran a current of anxiety I couldn’t shake. I couldn’t plan. Couldn’t think past December twenty-third. Every time someone mentioned Christmas or New Year’s or anything beyond the next few days, my mind went blank.
“What do you want for Christmas?” Snapper asked one morning. We were in his kitchen, and I was stealing bacon from his plate even though I’d insisted I wasn’t hungry.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, or you can’t think about it?”
“Both.” I reached for another piece of bacon, and he caught my wrist and brought the piece to his mouth instead. Then he licked my fingers, first making me giggle, then spreading the heat of desire throughout my body. We ended up leaving the rest of the food on the table, uneaten, and returned to the bedroom, where I forgot about everything except the feel of his mouth on mine and the way his hands moved up my spine.
We checkedthe wine every few days, drawing samples to monitor the integration. Each time, it tasted better. More cohesive. More complete. But would it be ready in time?
“Stop worrying,” Snapper said time and again, catching me staring into my glass like I could divine the future from wine.
“I can’t help it.”
“I know.” He took the glass from my hand and set it aside, then put his arms around me. “But worrying won’t make it integrate faster.”
“As if logic can stop it.”
“Fair point.”
Lucia would come by the winery whenever she saw Snapper’s vehicle parked in front. She never arrived empty-handed, insisting neither her son nor I were eating enough.
“We would love to have you and your family join us for Christmas dinner,” she said on one such day. “It would mean so much to have both families together this year.”
I told her I’d mention it to my parents, but the weight of the unknown pressed down on my chest. So much rode on thewine currently resting in stainless-steel tanks, counting down to either salvation or devastation. Until I knew which it was, I couldn’t think beyond Christmas Eve eve.
Snapper still hadn’t spokento Kick. I noticed it in the way he’d tense whenever his brother’s name came up, the way he’d change the subject or suddenly remember something he needed to do in another room.
“You need to talk to him,” I said one night. We were lying in his bed, and I could feel the tension radiating through his body despite the late hour.
“I’m not ready.”
“When will you be?”
“I don’t know.” He ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up in ways that would have been funny if the conversation wasn’t so serious. “Maybe never.”
His evident pain made my chest ache. These were brothers who’d been best friends, roping partners, who’d spent their entire lives joined at the hip. And now, they couldn’t occupy the same room.
“He betrayed me, Saff. Twice. How do I get past that?”
I didn’t know, so I just held him tighter and hoped it was enough.
December twenty-third arrivedcold and clear. I woke in Snapper’s bed with my stomach in knots, too nervous to eat the breakfast he’d made. We drove to Los Caballeros in silence, his hand gripping mine so tightly my fingers went numb.
