Chapter 4
Gavin
EXCITED ABOUT YEAST
“Hold still, Lily Bear,” I murmur, twisting a section of her hair between my fingers. “You’re not helping.”
“I am helping,” she argues, voice muffled around the spoon she’s using to shovel sugary cereal into her mouth. “I’m sitting still-ish.”
“Still-ish isn’t a thing.”
“It is now,” she says through a mouthful of milk.
I sigh, reaching for the detangling spray. We already battled over her choice of breakfast, and I’m not looking to start round two before seven a.m. “You’re the one who wanted double Dutch braids. The least you can do is stop wiggling.”
Lily grins, milk and cereal crumbs dotting her upper lip. “Sorry, I’ll stop.”
The braid comes together easily; my fingers know what to do by now. Years of practicing on myself, studying online tutorials, and plenty of trial and error have turned me into a reluctant hairstylist.
“Ta-da.” I secure the final section with a pink elastic that doesn’t match her outfit but that she insists on wearing anyway. “Good?”
She hops off the stool and spins toward the mirror hanging on the fridge door, tilting her head as she admires my handiwork. “They’re a little crooked, but that’s okay.”
This kid. She’s honest, I’ll give her that. Sometimes too honest.
“Dad, we’re gonna be late.”
“I’m aware,” I say, glancing at the clock. We have exactly twelve minutes before camp drop-off, and she’s still needs to run upstairs and brush her teeth. “Shoes. Backpack. Water bottle. Go.”
She takes off like a shot, slippers sliding across the hardwood. I start grabbing whatever’s within reach — keys, wallet, phone, coffee—all while trying to ward off the feeling I’m going to forget something because I live in a constant state of fear I’ve forgotten something important.
Lily reappears in record time, mismatched socks tucked into her sneakers. I don’t bother mentioning it. At least she’s dressed and ready. Can’t win them all.
Most days, I’m barely holding it together.
Today is one of those days. I’d like to think I’ve mastered this whole single-parent thing, but really, it’s just a revolving door of one step forward, two steps back.
Every time I think I’ve got a handle on things, something comes along to shatter whatever balance I thought I had, and the cycle starts all over again.
I guarantee that by the time we finally nail this summer camp morning routine, it’ll be the last week—and then it’s back to school, back to chaos, and back to figuring out how to get out of the house in one piece without losing my mind.
We finally make it out the door. I lock up, juggling coffee and car keys. By the time we’re buckled in, I’m already drained and the day’s only just begun.
On the drive to camp, Lily hums along to the radio, legs swinging in the back seat. She doesn’t stop talking—about unicorns, about how she’s going to teach her friend, Sophie a new dance she learned, about how she’s sure today is going to be “the best day ever.”
I smile to myself, wishing I had even an ounce of her energy.
When we pull up to the camp drop-off zone, Lily unbuckles and leans forward, kissing my cheek.
She’s outgrown a lot in her short lifetime, but I’m happy she hasn’t outgrown this yet.
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you more.”
I watch her run off to join the other kids, her braids bouncing down her back. For a second, I just sit there—tired, wired, and already thinking about the day ahead. Between harvest prep, staffing meetings, and the looming task of starting the vacation house hunt, I’m running on fumes.
But seeing her happy makes it all worth it.
I take a long sip of coffee, start the engine, and glance at my phone on the dash.
I’m going to be late for work. I’m always late.
I wouldn’t describe myself as a nerd, but I’m fairly certain I get more excited about yeast than most of the population.
There’s just something about the way it behaves—it’s temperamental, picky, and refuses to do what you want unless the conditions are just right.
Yeast doesn’t lie. It tells you exactly how the fruit’s doing, whether your temperature’s off, whether you’ve pushed too far or not far enough.
It’ll test your patience but the results are always worth the wait.
I jot down the morning’s readings—Brix, pH, temperature—on my clipboard, the numbers already mapping themselves into patterns in my head. There’s a rhythm to it all, a quiet precision I find peaceful. When everything else feels out of control, I come here to get my mind right.
People love to romanticize winemaking, but there’s nothing sexy about a cold, sterile lab. For me, it’s all about the science—the variables, the precision. One degree, one gram, and everything changes.
The air in the lab smells slightly of crushed berries and stainless steel, and the soft hum of the cooling system fills the silence.
I pull on my gloves, grab a pipette, and start checking samples.
The liquid stains my fingertips a faint shade of violet.
I should probably wear thicker gloves, but part of me likes seeing the proof of my work on my skin.
A knock sounds, and I glance up to see Ethan striding in. He looks energized. There’s a pep in his step that screams I got laid. That, or he’s discovered a hell of an energy drink. But I’ve yet to find one that puts that kind of sparkle in your eyes—or that stupid grin on your face.
“Morning,” he says, way too chipper for a guy who usually looks like someone shit in his Cheerios.
I eye him warily. “You’re in a suspiciously good mood.”
He smirks. “Maybe I’m just enjoying this nice weather.”
“Uh-huh.” I go back to my clipboard. “You look like a man who’s enjoying something—and it sure as shit isn’t the weather.”
“Grow up,” he mutters, biting his smile as he brushes past me toward the whiteboard. He studies the numbers I wrote down, and his grin fades into a frown. “We need to talk harvest.”
I jot one last note before setting the clipboard aside. “Of course we do. It’s the beginning of August. I know the drill. Not sure if you’re aware, but this isn’t my first rodeo.” I look up at him and give him a wink.
“Fine.” Sighing, he drags a hand down his face. “Could you at least humor me, then?”
“Sure can.” It’s better if I let him work this out verbally, hopefully making him feel a little less anxious.
“The Merlot blocks are showing uneven ripening again,” he continues, all business now. “I think we should move picking up a week, maybe two.”
I lean back against the counter. “Or we wait and let it even out. We’ve had weird swings all summer. No sense panicking yet.”
“Panicking keeps us ahead of problems.”
“Or it creates new ones.”
Ethan crosses his arms. “Can you stop playing devil’s advocate? It’s annoying how calm you are about this when one wrong move can fuck up the whole season.”
“Someone has to be.” I reach for another sample tube. “If we were both wound as tight as you, the grapes would probably sense the tension and refuse to ferment. Plants can sense that kind of thing, you know.”
He gives me a flat look. “You think you’re so funny.”
I shrug, smiling. “Not trying to be.”
He paces once, muttering something about me being complacent, just loud enough for me to hear.
“I heard that.”
“I meant for you to.”
I grin. Ethan likes to poke, but I’m immune to it. “Good. Then hear this too—you overthink everything. The grapes just need time.”
He points at me with the pen he’s stolen from my counter. “One day your laid-back attitude is going to blow up in your face.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But today’s not that day.”
That earns a small, reluctant laugh. He shakes his head. “You drive me fucking nuts.”
“As the oldest it’s my job.”
He ignores me, turning back to the whiteboard. “We’ll run samples again in three days. If the numbers don’t stabilize, I’m moving harvest up whether you agree or not.”
“You’re the boss. It’s your call.” I peel off my gloves. “Just don’t drag me into one of your late-night panic sessions when the readings come back the same.”
Ethan’s jaw ticks. “I don’t panic.”
I raise an eyebrow. He’s the definition of panic. He was born panicked. “You literally texted me at two a.m. last month because the humidity monitor glitched.”
“That was different,” he says quickly, voice tight.
“Sure it was.”
He flips me off over his shoulder, and I can’t help but laugh. We’ve been doing this dance since he took over—him gripping the reins tighter, me pretending not to notice. It works for us. Mostly.
He finally turns back around, checking his watch like he’s got somewhere better to be. “Dad is coming by later to look at the crush pad. You gonna be around?”
“Not this afternoon.” I grab a rag to wipe down the counter. “I’ve got a meeting in town.”
His brows pull together. “Meeting? Is this something I should know about?”
“No, it’s not work-related.” I toss the rag aside and reach for my coffee, which has gone cold. “It’s with Scottie. She’s my realtor now—we’re going to look at what listings are available out by Wallula Lake.”
Ethan blinks. “Scottie? As in Elyse’s best friend, Scottie?”
“Unless there’s another Scottie I don’t know about.”
He frowns, skeptical. “Does she even know what she’s doing? You should go with Beth.”
Beth is Scottie’s mom and has been a realtor for decades. Honestly, she’s who I thought I’d be working with—at least until Elyse dropped the bomb that I’d actually be working with Scottie. I’m not sure why she couldn’t just tell me that from the start. There was no need for the secrecy.
I don’t know Scottie all that well—on purpose, if I’m being honest—but I’ve always had the sense people underestimate her, write her off as vapid or vain because she’s unapologetically herself.
I’m not that kind of man. I prefer to give people the benefit of the doubt, at least until they prove I shouldn’t.
“I’m sure she’s perfectly capable,” I say with a shrug, a touch defensive. “I’d rather work with her than a complete stranger.”