“In my bag in my room. She encouraged me to see everything I could while I had the chance. When she died, it was one of the specific provisions in her will.”
“Is it worth a great deal of money?”
“No, it’s purely sentimental. It was something my grandfather bought for her, so she didn’t want to part with it, but it was what gave me my love of photography.” Tears prick my eyes as I share that. I know Bryce never asked thesequestions, and he was at my grandmother’s funeral—mainly posing for photos. “She wanted to ensure it went to someone who would appreciate it.”
Something shifts in Troy’s expression — softer, more thoughtful. “Sounds like it’s a genuine treasure.”
“It is. It’s like she knew who I was destined to become long before I did.” I weigh my next words. “My grandmother used to tell my parents I wasn’t supposed to stay in our small town. I think they thought she was prophesying about my relationship with Bryce, not my career choice.”
He brushes his lips across mine. “And now? What’s on Maya Cox’s horizon?”
I roll him over and stare down into his face and give him the truth. “I don’t know.”
“Still planning on traveling the world?” He gives me a small, crooked smile, which sends my heart racing.
“Maybe. Maybe I’d like to have someone by my side when I do,” I duck my head as the admission falls from my lips.
He tugs at the back of my hair. Our eyes collide. “Count me in.”
Thinking back, his words don’t scare me the way I think they should. They settle next to my heart somewhere between the laughter and quiet foundation we’ve been building. They give me a pathway toward something steadier.
Him.
And maybe, just maybe, if I’m brave enough, us.
32
STRIP SACK: DEFENDER SACKS THE QB AND FORCES A FUMBLE.
Prior to my trip toTenuta delle Ombre, I’d never have associated the sweet smell of grapes with Troy. Now, I’ll never be able to do anything but think of him no matter where I am in the world.
That’s both a blessing and a curse.
Still, I shelve those thoughts as we step inside the production room where the grapes the harvesters so carefully snipped fromthe acres of vines are being made into the brilliant wine I’ve been consuming since I arrived.
The air is cool, dense. There’s a different hum that fills the space—that of machinery instead of the airiness of nature. Rows of stainless-steel tanks gleam under overhead lights, each one reflecting a distorted image of our silhouettes as we pass by.
If wine is the heart of the vineyard, I’m flabbergasted to be standing inside its brain.
Troy stops and asks me, “What do you think?”
“This isn’t at all what I imagined,” I admit.
He grins at me, the corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement. “Let me guess. You were expecting barefoot locals with purple-stained feet smashing grapes in baskets?”
“That ‘I Love Lucy’rerun is a late night favorite for a reason,” I tease him.
“From a tourist perspective. Then people get up in arms with pesky things like health codes.” His voice is wry.
I laugh, knowing how true his words are. Lifting my camera, I snap a picture of the juxtaposition between a massive silver tank with a glass panel where deep ruby liquid churns and the man who is introducing me to this whole new side of winemaking. “So what’s happening here?”
Troy gestures to the tank. “This is the fermentation stage where the yeast eats up the sugars, which in turn converts them to alcohol.” Almost reverently, he adds, “If you listen closely, you can hear the breath of each pass.”
“Breath?”
He blushes. “It’s actually the bubbles from the yeast. The bubbles show the change.”
“Now I have to hear it.” Handing him my camera, I step closer and lean in. My lips part in shock when I hear tiny pops and whispers beneath the hum. “You’re right. It’s alive.”
