“Yes, sir.” I smiled sweetly, maybe a little bratty, even though he couldn’t see it. “Go before I break the rule.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, mon amour. I’ll see you at the finish line.”
He squeezed once—firm, anchoring—and then released his hold, footsteps fading rapidly, like he couldn’t wait another moment to marry me.
I stayed pressed against the stone for two beats longer, hands empty, body still buzzing, heart full to the brim. The summer air curled around me like an embrace. I rolled my shoulders, straightening my clothing once more, and reached behind me to adjust the veil. I wasn’t shaking anymore. Everything had clicked into place.
And then I turned and went back down the path I came, toward the bridal nook, in search of Colette, or Ivy, or whoever was waiting to take me to the altar.
To the man I had loved, yearned for, idolized… for the last ten years.
And today, by the grace of fate, divine intervention, and one very ruined lace thong—I would become his wife.
Colette was waiting inside the tasting room, behind the bar, looking every bit the sommelier she was, with a small bottle in hand and a smile that knew too much. Colette wore a flowing cream jumpsuit with golden embroidery at the hem, barefoot like the rest of us, curls pinned into a soft twist at the nape of her neck. An olive branch circlet wrapped around her bicep like something out of an ancient myth.
Ivy and Lucy were leaning on the bar, barefoot and wearing identical champagne dresses. My bouquet sat on the bar between them. I padded toward them with a grin I couldn’t wipe off my face.
Colette held a tiny glass and poured a splash of pale gold wine from a hand-labeled bottle that read:
Première Récolte – Beauchamp Estate Cask x Sterna Grove
2025 Vintage | Muscat Blanc à Petits Grains & Assyrtiko
“First sip,” she murmured, offering it to me. “Brides drink from the new season to remember that beginnings are meant to be tasted.”
I must’ve blinked, because she smirked and added, “It’s a tradition from my home in Alsace. My grandmother believed the best marriages—and the best wines—are built in layers. Bloom slow, start soft, finish with a little heat.” She rolled her lips together, eyes twinkling under the warm interior lights. “Though I’m not sure you and Callum Fraser were slow or soft. And judging by your face right now, more than a little heat.”
My grin just widened, heart and stomach flipping with a kind of happiness I’d never felt before.
She swirled the bottle gently, the light catching the pale gold liquid like sunlight in a glass. “This one’s a blend,” she added, voice lowering with reverence. “Muscat from my mother’s side. Assyrtiko from the vines I rescued here. A marriage of two legacies that were never supposed to mix—until I did. The first cask, from the first harvest, of my first vintage on this land. I bottled it for this season.”
I rested my hand gently over hers on the tasting bar. “Then you should try it with me.”
Colette hesitated, eyes flitting down to our joined hands. “Non, ma chérie. This is your day.”
I nodded once, then pursed my lips in dismay before lifting my glass. Lemon zest, salt, and wildflower honey aromas flooded my senses. I held Ivy’s gaze as I took a sip. The notes hit like sunshine on skin—citrusy and light, soft on the front, bold on the finish. Sweetness first, then a bite of acid that lingered just long enough.
“Mon Dieu,” I breathed. “C’est divin.”
“Merci. Consider me your sommelier for life.” Colette beamed, and this time, the grin softened into something tender. Her eyes glassed over slightly as she hugged the bottle to her chest, like she needed to feel it against her heartbeat. “Truly, I’m honored to receive such praise from a Dubois.”
I squeaked. Full-on, borderline-feral, wedding-day squeaked. “Okay, I’m adding that to the manifest,” I gasped, bouncing on my toes. “Mysommelier for life. Are you kidding me? AndColette Beauchamp, no less!La sorcière du soleil, the goddess of grapes, the priestess of pH balance!”
The possibilities were endless. Vineyard collabs. Private label blends. Post-race vintage drops.Dubois-Beauchampetched into cork. I was about two seconds away from wedding-merchandising our future friendship when I caught the shimmer in her eyes.
The air shifted.
“Aurélie, I never planned to be here,” Colette said suddenly, almost earnestly. “My arrival in Greece was entirely serendipitous and a complete deviation from my plans. But it was what I needed, because this land, these vines… they gave me a new life. And I hope that’s what you take with you today. A newname. A new beginning. A new home with your hot-as-sin soon-to-be husband.”
For some reason, it didn’t feel strange for her to be so vulnerable. I’d known her for years. We’d crossed paths at expos, exchanged wine recommendations in DMs, debated fermentation methods and bottling blends late into the night from different time zones. But I’d never seen her like this. Never imagined her voice would tremble when she looked at me.
I melted. Fully collapsed, arms flopped across the tasting bar in mock-despair. “He really issofucking hot, right?” I sighed dramatically. “Like it’s honestlyunfair. The jawline? The hands? The god-tier emotional growth arc?”
All three of them burst out laughing—Colette tossing her head back, Ivy shaking hers, and Lucy flushing a dark pink.
“His neck alone could convert a woman,” Lucy deadpanned.
