Eleven
Greyson
L ater that afternoon, I lean against the cold granite of my kitchen counter, a half-hearted attempt at making coffee abandoned, the mug I’d set out for Trinity still empty. She’s gone to see her mom in the hospital, she said. It’s well past three, and I know she hasn’t been there yet today. The thought twists in my gut. I should have insisted on feeding her before she left—a decent meal after all our exercise.
I made her promise to come back after visiting hours. Why? I scrub a hand over my face, the prickle of stubble a reminder of this morning’s haste. I had it all planned—get her out of my system with one more go. Damn it, that wasn’t enough . Not even close. There’s something about her that lingers. She’s sharp, independent, and infuriating in all the best ways.
It’s not just her body I crave. It’s the way she makes me feel, unsettled, like I’m playing a game where she knows the rules and I don’t. I’ve never let anyone get under my skin like this, and it both terrifies and thrills me.
My mind wanders to earlier—the way her eyes clouded over with surrender when I took control. As someone who’s built her life on self-reliance, the relief in letting go seemed to wash over her, soften her. I need to see that look again, find that crack in her armor.
I’m not used to this—wanting seconds. And thirds. But I want more from her, more of her. I push away from the counter to pace the length of the room. Rational thoughts try to claw their way in. Once her mom is settled, Trinity will return to Vancouver. But this could be a once-a-year thing, when she comes down to Paradise to visit. Yeah, that could work .
But deep down, I know it’s a lie. Despite my current predicament, I don’t do repeats, annual or otherwise. I tried it once when my previous relationship fell apart a few years back, but it soon lost its luster. I didn’t see the point of living in limbo. Better to keep things uncomplicated.
I can’t spend the rest of the day mooning about. So I shower and dress quickly in a pair of dark jeans and a crisp white shirt. Then I’m out the door with an urgency that’s not entirely born from concern for the winery. Trinity’s image still lingers in the back of my mind persistent and distracting.
The drive up to Paradise Hill Family Estate Winery is short but gives me enough time to shift gears mentally. By the time I park and stride into the cool dimness of the barrel room, business is all that occupies my thoughts. The scent of oak and fermenting grapes is a familiar comfort as I spot Tarryn deep in conversation with Elsie. She seems upset.
“Hey,” I call, my voice echoing among the rows of huge steel vats.
Tarryn turns. “Greyson? What are you doing here?”
“Can’t stay away from the family business too long,” I say with a grin. “What’s going on?”
She exchanges a glance with Elsie, who looks equally troubled. Elsie steps forward, her hands clasped tightly together. “ We’ve got trouble. One of the chardonnay vats has been tampered with. We think it’s sabotage.”
The word hits me like a punch. Paradise Hill Chardonnay is a well-loved label and a major moneymaker for us. A ruined batch could mean thousands of dollars in losses.
“Are you sure?” I ask, my stomach knotting.
Elsie nods. “Absolutely. Everything was on track until two weeks ago. Now the pH balance is all wrong. It’s turning to vinegar.”
I search the room around us. “Is this the only one?”
“Thankfully,” Tarryn replies.
“Damn,” I mutter. I trust Elsie’s expertise implicitly. Only her father, our vintner, knows wine better. If she says something’s off, then it’s off.
“Who could be behind this?”
Tarryn shakes her head. “There have a been a few other minor incidents. Dad and I have been talking about cameras. Maybe he’ll finally agree.”
“Maybe,” I concede. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.” My mind races ahead, plotting, planning. This is more than just a spoiled batch of wine. It’s a threat to our family legacy, and I’ll be damned if I let it slide.
“Let’s gather everyone and figure out our next steps,” I suggest. I need to shake off the restlessness that’s been plaguing me since Trinity left earlier, and throwing myself into the winery’s troubles is just the distraction I need.
For now, at least.
I wrap my arm around Tarryn’s shoulder as her tears threaten to spill. I can feel her trembling. “Hey,” I murmur, holding her close. “This isn’t on you.”
“Greyson, Dad’s going to freak out when I tell him,” she whispers.
“Maybe not,” I counter. “What if we pivot? Could we make this a…unique batch of chardonnay vinegar instead?” My chemistry knowledge might be rusty, but desperation breeds cr eativity.
Elsie, who has been quietly analyzing charts and data, looks up. “We discussed it,” she says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “We’d have to outsource the bottling since our lines are not configured to take anything other than our wine bottles. It could work, but I need to confirm what was added to the vat before we commit to anything.”
“Get it to the lab, then. The sooner, the better.”
“Can you grab your father and meet us at Dad’s office, Elsie? We need to strategize our next steps,” Tarryn says.
She’s recovering from the disappointment. That’s good.
“Of course,” Elsie agrees. She walks out with the walkie-talkie on her hip as she calls for her father.
With Elsie dispatched, I turn back to my sister, catching the fresh sheen of tears in her eyes. “Talk to me. How’s everything else going?”
She lets out a shaky breath. “I’m fighting battles on too many fronts. Vendors are challenging me, pushing for Dad because they don’t like my answers. Sometimes…” She swallows hard. “Sometimes I wish he’d just tell them they have to deal with me, not run to him.”
“Would it help if I had a word with Dad? A subtle nudge to show more public support?” I offer.
Her eyes find mine. “Maybe? I don’t know.”
“You’re doing great. Dad knows it, too. He just needs to show it.” I squeeze her hand.
“I’m okay if you can’t talk to him,” she says, but I hear the unspoken plea. She needs this win.
“Let’s worry about that later,” I say, giving her another hug. “Right now, we’ve got vinegar to make—or at least to consider.”
“Thanks for being the awesome big brother you are,” she murmurs, and I feel a swell of protectiveness.
“Always.” I straighten my shoulders. Tarryn doesn’t need to carry this alone. My brothers and I may not be working in the day-to-day of the vineyard, but it’s ours too.
We converge in Dad’s office, Mitch and Elsie in tow. The door swings open to reveal Dad behind his desk, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. “Why the party?” he asks.
“Someone’s sabotaged vat three—a chardonnay,” Tarryn reports, her voice steady.
Dad’s eyes narrow, a silent request for more information. “Are you sure?” His question is directed at Tarryn, but it’s Elsie who steps forward.
“Positive. The pH has dropped from three-point-four to two-point-seven since last week.”
“Damn Dempseys,” Dad mutters, shooting a glance at Mitch. “They just bought that plot in Appleton for their own chardonnay vines. Can’t be a coincidence.”
I feel a flicker of anger at the thought of sabotage, and my fists clench. Then the strategizing begins, a torrent of ideas on salvaging what can be saved from the vat, if anything at all.
As they delve into discussions, I scan the room. Determination lights up Tarryn’s eyes now, replacing the earlier uncertainty. With Elsie’s support and Dad’s seasoned input, they’ve got this handled. It’s clear my presence isn’t necessary.
“All right, I’ll leave you to it,” I say, offering a reassuring nod to Tarryn before slipping out the door. There’s an unspoken promise in our exchange. I’ll handle Dad later and give Tarryn the backup she deserves.
The late-afternoon sun kisses my skin as I step outside. I love spring when our days begin to get longer and the air is filled with the sweet floral fragrance of grape flowers in bloom, my favorite scent in the entire world. Though Trinity is quickly becoming my second. As I leave the winery, my thoughts drift back to her. The day’s chaos—the sabotage, the tension in Tarryn’s voice—now feels lighter as I anticipate seeing Trinity again.
By the time I reach the butcher shop, my focus has shifted entirely. Tonight isn’t going to be about the vineyard or the Dempsey family. It’s about Trinity and cooking her a dinner she won’t forget.
The bell over the door jingles as I enter. “Hey, Greyson! How are things going?” Jim, the butcher, asks immediately.
I offer him a wave. “Not bad. I can’t complain.”
“What are you in the mood for?” He steps behind the cooler full of various fresh meats.
“I’ll take your best lamb chops and whatever side dishes you’ve got prepared,” I respond, and a smile tugs at my lips.
“Got a special night planned?” Jim teases.
“Something like that,” I reply, keeping the details to myself.
Jim wraps my order, and his chuckle follows me as I exit. Jim went to school with my older brother, and the butcher shop is a hub of gossip, so I’m not about to tip my secrets to him. Plus, this is only going to last a few weeks at most. Trinity doesn’t even live here.
But none of that matters now. Tonight I’m ready to craft a meal worthy of the woman who’s managed to captivate me, twice.
An hour later, back at my place, “Greyson’s Grille” is in full swing. The kitchen is my domain, where every spice and utensil knows its place. The hockey game plays low on TSN, background noise to my culinary performance. I glance at the screen just as my phone buzzes on the marble countertop.
Trinity: I’m just stopping at my mom’s place to clean up a bit. I can’t wait to taste what you’re cooking.
She punctuated with a winking emoji .
Trinity: What can I bring? Wine? Dessert?
I find myself grinning like an idiot. It’s unlike me, but then again, so is wanting someone more than once. With Trinity, it seems, the rules are different. My thumbs dance across the screen.
Me: Nothing you need to bring but yourself…and leave the panties at home.
A bold move, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Trinity, she doesn’t shy away from boldness.
Her reply comes quickly, charged with that same electric playfulness that drew me to her back at MedTalks.
Trinity: Might need to use my silver bullet to take the edge off.
I shake my head, amazed. She says exactly the right thing.
Me: Bring the silver bullet with you.
I add a devilish smirk emoji.
It’s a suggestive dance we’re in, two steps forward, no steps back. There’s a part of me that wonders what happens when we reach the edge? The push and pull between control and surrender, the way she looked up at me, eyes dark with trust and something wild. It was raw, intimate, and it’s left a craving in me that goes beyond physical. It’s a challenge, a connection. I want to unravel the enigma that is Trinity, layer by layer. Am I ready for that? The thought lingers as I shift my attention to the lamb chops sizzling in the pan.
Whatever the evening holds, first I’ll feed her, show her a side of Greyson Paradise that isn’t just about dominance and desire. Tonight, I’ll offer nourishment for the body, and perhaps, if she’s willing, for the soul too.
The rich aroma of a well-aged cabernet wafts up from the decanter. I’ve chosen one of our best bottles, one that promises layers of flavor to complement the meal I’ve prepared. I adjust the table setting one last time, ensuring everything is in its perfect place.
My phone buzzes, her text lighting up the screen.
Trinity: At the elevator now.
The anticipation zings through me, and I pocket my phone as I head to the elevator doors, making the short journey to greet her.
The elevator dings its arrival, and the doors slide open. There she stands, radiance personified, her sundress hugging her waist, the full skirt swaying gently, teasing me with its every movement. Her eyes meet mine, sparkling with mischief, and then drift downward, prompting a flush of heat to course through me. “Down boy,” she teases, her laughter like music to my ears.
“Hard not to stand at attention when you look like that,” I reply as I gesture for her to step out of the elevator.
Trinity enters, clutching a bag against her side. Curiosity piqued, I nod toward it. “That your infamous silver bullet?”
“Among other things,” she grins, revealing the can of whipped cream and caramel sauce nestled beside it. “Thought we could indulge in some creativity.”
“Maybe dinner should wait,” I suggest. The idea of exploring every inch of her with those sweet and sticky additions stirs something primal within me.
She shakes her head, firm yet still flirtatious. “That’s dessert, Greyson. Patience.”
“Fine by me,” I concede, unable to mask the eagerness in my tone. “But I also have something I want to talk to you about a little later, an idea that’s been brewing since you left this morning.”
Her curious gaze locks with mine, and I recognize the spark of intrigue. It’s an opening, a chance to delve deeper than before, beyond the rawness of our physical connection. And I’m intent on seizing it.