"Sounds nice." She relaxes into the seat, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "I haven't been anywhere but the café and my apartment in… too long."
I take the long way, driving down winding back roads where trees arch overhead and sunlight dapples through the leaves. We talk about nothing important—the weather, the changing leaves, funny café customers. I'm careful not to push, letting her set the pace of conversation.
"This is beautiful," she says as we drive through a particularly scenic stretch. "I forget sometimes how pretty it is out here."
"That's the problem with running a business," I tell her. "You get so caught up in the day-to-day you miss everything around you."
She nods, looking out the window. "Exactly."
When we reach the ranch, I bypass the main house and drive up the dirt road that leads to the ridge. The family property stretches out below us, acres of land, the brewery buildings nestled in the valley, the small lake glittering in the afternoon sun.
I park at the lookout point and go around to open her door. She takes my offered hand, stepping down from the truck. For amoment, she just stands there, taking in the view, her face tilted up to catch the breeze.
"This is…" she breathes, eyes wide. "Wow."
"Pretty good, right?" I smile, watching her instead of the view.
I pull a basket from behind the seat and lead her to a flat rock overlooking the valley. Inside is a simple picnic of sandwiches, fruit, and a bottle of sparkling cider.
"Nothing fancy," I say, spreading a blanket over the rock. "Just thought it might be nice to eat up here."
She drops down next to me, her knee brushing mine. I feel it all the way up my thigh. The air between us tightens. I want to pull her closer, drag her into my lap, but I hold still. Let her come to me. Still, every inch of her in my peripheral vision is a fucking distraction.
"It's perfect."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the sun start its slow descent toward the horizon. Eventually, she turns to me, curiosity in her eyes.
"So, what was it like? Growing up here?"
I laugh, surprised by the question.
"Chaotic. Beautiful. Loud." I gesture toward the sprawling property.
"A lot of damn kids, parents who worked all hours expanding the brewery, grandparents living in the main house, never a quiet moment."
"Sounds overwhelming."
"It was sometimes." I pick up a grape, rolling it between my fingers.
"But there was so much love, you know? Even when we were driving each other crazy, there was never any doubt that we belonged to each other."
She's quiet, and I wonder if I've said too much, made her uncomfortable with my family stories when her own situation is so complicated.
"What about you?" I ask gently. "What was your childhood like?"
She tenses slightly but doesn't shut down. "Quieter than yours, I imagine. Just Rowan and me—and our mom. Dad left when I was four."
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it.
"Don't be." She shrugs, but there's weight in the gesture. "It was fine. Mom did her best."
I sense there's more to the story, but I don't push. Instead, I tell her about the brewery, how my parents started it in our garage, how it grew into what it is today, what it means to carry the Slade name.
"That's a lot of pressure," she observes, picking at a thread on the blanket. "Living up to the family legacy."
"Sometimes," I admit. "Everyone expects me to be as business savvy as Trent or as serious as Tyler. They forget I'm not…"
"Not what?" she asks, shifting slightly closer. Our knees brush, and I feel that simple contact sharp and immediate.
