Graham leaned close to my shoulder. “Does he always do that?”
“Breathe?”
“Make parking beside grapevines feel like a security operation?”
“Yes.”
Nick stepped out first and came around the hood to open my door.
Graham’s eyebrows lifted. Alina’s attention sharpened. Naomi, the traitor, looked delighted.
I stepped down before the moment could collect witnesses.
“Thank you,” I said, because manners had survived worse.
Nick’s hand brushed the air at my back, nowhere near touching. “Stay on the inside of the path.”
“To avoid what?”
“Graham.”
Behind us, Graham said, “I heard that.”
“Then stay where I can see you,” Nick replied.
The woman waiting at the entrance wore a cream colored jumpsuit, tortoiseshell glasses, and the terrifying calm ofsomeone who could identify a wine flaw from across a room. Her name was Marieke Botha, and she managed the estate’s conservation partnerships with the crisp warmth of a person who had learned that wealthy people behaved better when given shade and excellent glassware.
“Welcome to Veld & Vine,” she said. “We’re honored to host Mara Khaya’s guests.”
Cufflink stepped forward. “Your export numbers are impressive for a boutique estate.”
The man was one corkscrew away from asking for a five-year growth forecast.
Marieke smiled. “Thank you. We prefer to think of ourselves as conservation-funded agriculture.”
Naomi leaned toward me. “I already like her.”
We began with the behind-the-scenes tour.
Marieke led us past the terrace and into the working side of the estate, where the polished guest areas gave way to cooler shadows and practical concrete floors. The air changed at once. Outside, the morning had smelled of dust and vine leaves. Inside, the cellar held oak, damp stone, yeast, and the faint tart sweetness of grape skins caught somewhere between fruit and fermentation.
Rows of barrels curved away into dimness, each one marked in white chalk. The temperature dropped enough to raise goose bumps along my forearms.
Nick noticed.
Of course he noticed.
A minute later, his khaki field jacket appeared in his hand, held out without comment as Marieke explained the first row of barrels.
I took it because refusing would have made a scene.
Not because the fabric still held the faint heat and shape of his body.
Alina was staring. I decided the oak barrels were more deserving of my attention.
Marieke stopped beside a row of barrels. “The estate works with varietals suited to heat, dry winds, and poor soil. Stress can produce remarkable concentration if the vine is supported instead of forced.”
Naomi made a soft sound of approval. “That feels like a management philosophy.”
