Chapter Fourteen
Morning came quietly.
Not with an alarm or a rush of responsibility, but with pale and soft light sliding across the floor and warming the edge of the bed.For a moment, I didn’t know where I was.The ceiling was unfamiliar.The air smelled faintly of earth and something green.Cedar, maybe.Or wine.Or both.
I lay there longer than I meant to, listening to the welcome silence.
No city noise.No sirens.No neighbors slamming the doors.Just birdsong and the low hum of something alive waking up outside.
It wasn’t my life.
Yet, somehow, it seemed the ideal way to wake.
I slipped out of bed quietly, tugging on the sweater I’d folded over the chair the night before.The house felt settled, but not at all silent.Sunlight filtered in through wide windows as I walked toward the kitchen illuminating wood floors and stone counters worn smooth by time and use.Nothing about the space felt staged or precious.It was lived in.Homey.
Something moving outside in the field claimed my attention, and I wandered out the back door.
The vineyard stretched out under a veil of morning mist, the rows of vines standing at attention, perfectly cultivated to ensure the best growth.The air was cool and damp, smelling earthy like soil and leaves and promise.I wrapped my arms around myself and took it in, the quiet pressing gently instead of weighing me down.
That’s when I saw him.
Tristan stood at the edge of one of the rows, sleeves rolled up, boots already dusted with dirt.He was bent slightly, focused on something near the base of a vine, hands moving with practiced ease.The morning sun caught in his hair, turning it a shade warmer than I remembered, and for a moment I stared.
He didn’t look like the man who joked his way through road trips or winked his way out of awkward moments.He looked grounded and perfectly at ease.This place asked something of him and he showed up for it, every day.
I hadn’t realized I was smiling until he straightened and caught me staring.
“Well, well, well,” he called lightly, “if it isn’t the guest who inspects the help.”
I laughed, stepping down onto the first stair.“I was making sure you weren’t slacking.”
“Devastating,” he said, wiping his hands on a cloth tucked into his back pocket.“I try so hard to maintain an air of competence.”
“Doing a terrible job of it.”I pulled my sweater tighter around my chest.“Very unconvincing.”
He grinned and came closer, stopping a respectful distance away and giving me space to decide what came next.I appreciated that more than I could say.
“Coffee’s on,” he said, nudging his nose toward the house.“Help yourself.I’ll be inside in a few minutes.”He turned on his heel and returned to his vines.
I meandered through the door, feeling perfectly at ease, and strolled through the living room.It was lived in with a blanket tossed haphazardly over the edge of the couch and the throw pillows resting as if someone had napped on the couch.Various framed pictures littered the bookshelves but only one stood out.A picture of him in front of the vineyard holding a bottle; perhaps the very first bottle?
