I barely had the door open before he was there, crossing the distance in long strides and gathering me into a hug that was brief but fierce. His arms tightened around me, and I felt a tremor run through him—something that might have been fear finally releasing its grip.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he said against my hair. “Don’t ever disappear like that.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“I know.” He leaned away, his hands still on my shoulders, and I saw something in his face I’d never noticed before. Something raw and unguarded, something that looked almost like grief. His eyes searched mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.
Then his jaw tightened, and whatever I’d glimpsed was gone, shuttered behind the easy smile I’d known since childhood.
Then I felt Kick’s arm snake around my waist.
Bas looked over my shoulder at him, back at me, then he stepped away, putting distance between us that felt deliberate.
“Thank God you’re safe.” Thomas descended the porch steps and embraced me with the gentleness of a father.
“I’m fine. I’m more than fine.” Kick moved to stand beside me. “We have a lot to tell you.”
Thomas led us inside, and we gathered in his study—the same room where he’d offered me a job what felt like a lifetime ago. Bas stood near the window, arms crossed, while Thomas settled into his chair behind the desk.
“I understand Miremont is yours?” he began.
“It is, and we want to restore it. The house, the vineyards, the winery. All of it,” I told him.
“That’s a significant undertaking.”
“We know.” Kick’s hand found mine. “But we’re not planning to abandon Whitmore. We want to stay through this year’s harvest. Help with everything we committed to, the initiatives we’ve been developing. We have a presentation ready whenever you want to see it.”
Thomas was quiet for a moment, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Then he looked at his son.
“What do you think, Sebastian?”
Bas blinked. “What do you mean?”
“No time like the present, I suppose.” Thomas began. “I’m retiring. Stepping back from day-to-day operations. Whitmore is yours now—it has been for a while, really. I’ve just been too stubborn to make it official.”
The silence that followed was heavy with surprise. Bas stared at his father, his composure cracking for the first time since we’d arrived.
“You’re serious.”
“I’m sixty-three years old, and I’m tired.” Thomas smiled. “You’ve been running this place better than I have for years. It’s time I stopped pretending otherwise.”
Bas turned to look at me, then at Kick. The raw expression I’d glimpsed earlier flickered across his face again before he steeled his expression.
“Then, I hope we can work together,” he said. “All of us. Whitmore and Miremont.”
“We’d like that,” I said. And I meant it. Bas had been my friend since childhood, and whatever complicatedfeelings might be lurking beneath the surface, our partnership would work. I didn’t doubt it.
Thomas’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and surprise flickered across his face.
“Everything okay?” Bas asked.
“That was your father,” Thomas said, looking at me. “He’s asked if we might meet and talk through some things.”
Kick’s hand tightened on mine.
“How did you respond?” I asked.
“Baron—your father—and I were friends for thirty years before our falling out. Good friends. I’m not saying I’ve forgiven what he did to you—that’s not mine to forgive. But if he’s genuinely trying to make amends…” He shrugged. “I suppose I’m willing to hear him out.”
