“See how it drains? Perfect for stressing the vines. Makes them work harder, concentrate the flavor.”
I knelt beside him, studying the texture. “My grandmother used to say the same thing about—” I stopped myself, throat tightening.
Bas looked at me, his expression softening. “You’re thinking about Miremont, aren’t you?”
I stiffened. “I don’t?—”
“Izzy.” He waited until I met his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know what that place meant to you.”
“Meant. Past tense.” I stood and brushed the dirt from my hands. “It’s gone now.”
He rose beside me but didn’t push. That was Bas—he always seemed to know exactly when to let things go. When to give me space instead of pressing for more.
“You really do know your stuff. Why aren’t you working at one of the Van Orr properties?”
“Just because my father never took me seriously—despite the ridiculously expensive education he paid for—it doesn’t mean I wasn’t paying attention.”
His expression changed. “I’m sorry he never valued you, Izzy. You deserve to be, and I promise you, you will be here.”
“I know I will, Bas, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. But I want it to be because I earned it. Not because you handed it to me.”
“I get it. I swear I do.” He stopped walking and caught my arm. “It isn’t any different for me. My dad didn’t give me my job just because I’m his son. I had to work for it, and I’m glad I did.”
“How do you always know the exact right thing to say to make me feel better?”
I expected him to make a joke, but he didn’t.
“Because I care about you, Izzy. I always have.”
Yes, I should’ve responded, told him I cared about him too, but if I had, it might’ve given him the wrong impression. Instead, I simply thanked him.
After we were donefor the day, I begged off his dinner invitation and made myself scrambled eggs and toast. I took a pass on the wine from the bottle Bas had left on the counter, though. I finished eating, then lit a fire in the stone fireplace and curled up on the sofa.
The quiet pressed against my ears. No staff moving through hallways. No expectations weighing on my shoulders. No father demanding to know what I was doing—or ignoring my existence completely. There was no middle ground with him.
Peace. Space to breathe.
Guilt churned in my stomach anyway. I’d lied to my father, and I’d lied to Kick. Instead of facing whatever consequences were coming, I ran away. I shoved the feeling down. Survival first. Guilt later.
Before dawn the next morning,headlights swept across my window, jolting me from a restless sleep.
I opened the door when I heard footsteps on the porch. “You made me coffee?” I asked Bas when he held out the cup.
“Don’t get used to it.” But his grin said otherwise. “Ready to meet the crew?”
He drove us to the vineyard office, where workers gathered near a truck—eight men and two women, all dressed in layers against the cold. He introduced me to the vineyard manager first, Carlos, a man in his fifties with sun-weathered skin.
“This is Izzy,” Bas said. “She’s our new marketing director, but she wants to learn the operation from the ground up.”
Carlos held out his hand, and we shook. “Welcome. Have you worked in vineyards before?”
“Some,” I responded. “But I have a lot to learn.”
One of the women, Maria, smiled. She looked to be in her forties, with dark hair styled in a braid. “Good. We’ll teach you.”
The crew loaded into trucks, and I climbed in beside Maria. She handed me a pair of pruning shears and thick gloves.
We drove to our first rows and started working. Maria showed me how to identify the canes to keep,which ones to remove, and how to make clean cuts that wouldn’t damage the vine. The work was cold and repetitive. My shoulders burned, my palms ached despite the gloves, and my back screamed from bending over vine after vine.
