The question catches me off guard. Not because it’s invasive, but because no one ever asks me things like that. They ask what I’m doing, who I’m seeing, what my father thinks. They don’t ask what I want when no one is looking.
I hesitate, heat creeping up my neck because saying it out loud is almost indulgent.
“It’s stupid,” I say.
“Try me.”
I glance down at our hands, then back at him. “I always wanted to learn about wine. I don’t mean casually, but properly.” A small breath escapes me.
“That’s cool. I didn’t even know that was a thing. Why don’t you?”
“It just doesn’t really fit. I mean, for one, the sommelier program I really want to do is in California. Sonoma. I like to go online and dream about it, but it’s not realistic.”
“Why not? You should do it.”
I shake my head. “For one, it’s crazy expensive. Not to mention, it’s three months I would have to live on the vineyard. It’s impractical. I know that.”
He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t smile or dismiss it.
“It was just something I thought about,” I add, already retreating. “Not something I’d actually do.”
He nods once, like he’s storing the information, not weighing it. His thumb stills against my hand.
“Thank you for telling me,” he says simply. “I like knowing more about you.”
“We need to get you out of here before someone sees you,” I say, changing the subject. “But not before I give you a proper good morning.”
My hand slides lower, curling around him.
His gaze locks onto mine, intensity snapping into place. “I’m not sneaking around anymore, Coco,” he says. “I’m not hiding like I’ve got something to be ashamed of.”
I still.
“Your father won’t like it,” he continues, his voice firm and deliberate. “I don’t care what he thinks or what he likes. You’re not a kid. You’re a grown woman. If this is what you want, then we do it out in the open. No more hiding.”
My pulse races.
“Ridge, you know how dangerous that could be. My father—” I stop, swallow. “It’s too soon.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not afraid of him. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder, sneaking around like a teenager. This can’t stay hidden forever if we’re really going to do this. You know that.”
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say quietly. “I’ll talk to him when the time is right.”
“The right time doesn’t wait forever.” His voice softensslightly, but the resolve stays. “If you want this, if you want me, then you have to stand up for it.”
The weight of it presses down, smothering the heat that had been building. I still want him. That doesn’t disappear. But something colder slides in beside it.
He’s asking me to choose.
Once I tell my father, there’s no undoing it. No stepping back into the version of my life that existed before Ridge.
It’s him.
Or my father.
Rosie’s Roostsits just off Magazine Street, tucked far enough away that it still feels like ours.
