Chapter 12
Twelve
Elise
Alittle while later, Sebastian’s car glides through narrow streets, French jazz soft on the radio. The city quickly falls away, replaced by open countryside. Bare winter vines stretch in endless, perfect rows across pale, gravelly soil.
“Look,” Sebastian says, gesturing grandly with one hand. “Straight as soldiers. Discipline. Order. This is Bordeaux.”
I lean toward the glass, studying the lines. He’s right. They’re not wild and unruly like the vines back home in Paradise. My vines cling to slopes, bending with the terrain, stubborn against the weather.
Tell Tarryn this, I remind myself. She’ll laugh and say they look like recruits in formation. But she’ll understand.
From the back, Claire murmurs, “It’s beautiful. Like a woven cloth.”
“Yes, ma chère, yes!” Sebastian beams at her through the rearview mirror. “Each row a stitch. A masterpiece.” Then his eyes return to me, his smile sharpening. “But beauty is wasted if there’s no one to enjoy it with. Non?”
I press my lips together, refusing to give him the laugh he wants. “The soil looks different,” I say instead, keeping my tone neutral. “Lighter.”
He leans across the console, as if my observation is intimate. “Ah, you notice. Gravel, limestone, clay. The cabernet thrives, gives power, backbone. The tannins live forever.”
I focus on the scatter of white stones flashing in the sun. Home soil is darker, volcanic-rich, streaked with basalt. That’s why our merlot ripens so lush, why our pinot holds such delicate layers. Another note for Tarryn is the sparkle in the dirt, almost like shards of glass.
Sebastian glances at me again, grin tilting. “Don’t look so serious, Elise. You are here to work, yes, but also to live. You will charm the vines as easily as you charm me.”
Claire laughs softly from the back, and I’m grateful for her presence, proof I’m not imagining the weight in his voice. I force a small smile, nothing more. “I didn’t come here to charm anyone.”
“Ah, but you can’t help it,” he says, clearly amused at my resistance. “It’s natural.”
I stare out the window, ignoring him. Excitement buzzes in my veins anyway. The chance to learn here, in this soil, under this sky, is too big to be diminished by his theatrics.
He points ahead. “Margaux, elegant, refined. And there—Lafite, Latour, St-Julien. You know the names, oui?”
“Of course,” I murmur. Who doesn’t? They’re legends, wines locked in cellars, poured only on anniversaries, whispered about with reverence.
Kingston would scoff at the admiration, I think. But he would want to know what it feels like to stand here, to see them in person.
The road curves, and Chateau comes into view—turrets rising from golden stone, a line of cypress trees guiding the way.
The sunset paints the walls with a glow so rich it looks unreal, like something lifted from a painting.
I draw in a breath. This is it. For the next three months, this is where I’ll live, work, and learn.
Everything here feels older, steadier, as if time itself has been flowing through the soil for centuries.
Sebastian sighs dramatically, slowing the car. “Voilà. Home.”
Not home, I think automatically. Not mine.
We stop in front of a tall, narrow stone building that sits in Chateau’s shadow.
It’s practical, not grand—shutters weathered by rain, bicycles leaning against walls, laundry strung from windows.
I’d imagined a romantic apartment with wrought-iron balconies and a view of the vines.
Instead, this looks…temporary. Like a place you pass through, not settle into. But that’s what I want, isn’t it?
He parks, and we walk in. I’m pulling my luggage behind me.
Claire nudges her bag higher on her hip. “I’m just downstairs, first floor close to the women’s restroom,” she says. “You’ll see. It’s a bit like a college dorm.”
College dorm? My heart sinks as she waves and heads off.
Inside, the stairwell smells of stone dust and lingering wine. My suitcase bumps against each step as I drag it upward, following Sebastian. By the third floor, my arms ache.
On the landing, a cluster of vineyard hands leans against the banister, their voices a jumble of languages—Spanish, German, and Portuguese.
A man with a sun-browned face smokes a cigarette, the sharp scent curling into the stairwell.
A woman holds a baguette under one arm, her boots still caked in vineyard mud.
They look relaxed, like they belong here in a way I don’t.
They pause when I appear, their gazes sweeping over my suitcase and wrinkled travel clothes.
“First day?” a tall man asks, his grin easy, teeth flashing white against his tanned skin.
“Yeah,” I manage, shifting the suitcase higher. “Elise. I’m Canadian. I’ll be here three months. Job exchange.”
“Ah, Jér?me Pelletier went to Canada,” I hear someone say. “He’s not coming back.”
The woman with the baguette smirks. “You won’t be climbing the stairs for long. Not with Sebastian circling.”
He grins like a cat that’s caught a canary.
Ugh. I need to make my intentions clear. I smile, keeping my voice calm. “Well, he can circle all he wants. I’m here to learn, not to be chased.”
Laughter breaks out, a knowing chorus. Heat crawls up my neck, and my stomach twists.
The smoker flicks ash into a tin and shrugs. “I said three months too. Been five years.”
More laughter. A younger guy with freckles raises his bottle of beer in mock salute. “Bienvenue à Bordeaux, Canada.”
I smile weakly, dragging my bag past them, their voices echoing after me.
“We go up,” Sebastian says. He starts up the stairs again, leaving me to wrestle my bag.
Maybe telling everyone there was no chance for anything between us was not my best move. I draw in a steadying breath, nod, and push myself up the next flight of stairs, lungs burning, sweat sliding down my face.
On the next floor, Sebastian opens a door with a flourish, grinning. “Your home while you are with us. Comfortable, oui? I will return at seven to take you to the welcome dinner.” His grin lingers, as if the words carry more meaning than the invitation alone.
I nod, with a polite smile. “I’ll be ready.”
He closes the door behind him and is gone. The room is small—bare walls, a narrow bed, a desk with a lamp. Stark. Clean. And no bathroom, though I’m sure it’s down the hall.
I let the suitcase fall with a thud and sit on the bed. The thin mattress dips beneath me, springs squeaking. This isn’t the fantasy I imagined on the flight over. There’s no charm, no glamour. Just a plain room five flights up and a borrowed life that I worry may not fit me at all.
My eyelids burn. I mean to unpack, to wander the halls, to find the bathroom. But instead, the weight of travel and jetlag pull me under. Shoes still on, jacket still zipped, exhaustion swallows me whole.
I don’t even close the curtains before my eyes are too heavy to open again.
A sharp banging rattles my door, and I jolt awake, disoriented. Where am I? Oh—right. Chateau. I fumble for my phone. Nearly seven twenty. I’m late.
I swing open the door, and Sebastian looks me over. “You’re going in your travel clothes?”
I look down. I’m still in the same rumpled outfit. “No. Sorry. I meant to change, but I sat down and must’ve fallen asleep.” Truth is, I’d rather crawl back into bed than face dinner.
He shakes his head. “You made me climb these stairs again. We need to go.”
“I just need a bathroom, and I’ll change quickly.”
“The bathroom’s on the first floor.”
I blink at him. “The building only has one?”
“No. But the femme toilet is on the first floor.”
Not worth arguing. I grab a sweater dress and boots and hurry downstairs to get ready. I won’t be as fresh as I’d like, but that doesn’t matter. I’m here to learn from Sebastian, and that starts tonight at dinner.
Just a few minutes later, the car slips out of Chateau’s gates and onto a narrow country road, headlights bouncing off stone walls and rows of vines that stretch into the dusk.
The village is like a postcard—shuttered windows, wrought-iron balconies, cobblestones slick in the evening air.
A bistro on the corner glows golden, its terrace crowded with small tables and locals bent over glasses of wine.
Sebastian pulls to a stop and slides out of the car with his usual flourish, opening my door, as if we’re stepping onto a red carpet. “Quaint, non? This is real Bordeaux, not the tourist version.”
Inside, the air is warm with garlic and butter. Wooden beams crisscross the low ceiling, and the tables are pressed together, covered in simple white cloths. He guides me to one near the window, orders without even glancing at the menu, and leans back in his chair, as if he owns the place.
“You will see,” he says, swirling the glass of deep garnet wine the server sets down.
“In a few weeks, this town will be overrun. Tourists everywhere, clumsy and loud. Like they own the vineyards.” He says this like a curse, and I can’t help but think of how many wineries back home survive on visitors like that.
“Isn’t it good for business?” I ask, tearing off a piece of bread.
“Perhaps,” he says with a smile. “But I prefer it like this. Quiet. Intimate.”
The word lingers, and I busy myself with my glass of wine.
It’s smooth, like silk across my tongue.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten properly since the flight.
The warmth of the wine spreads fast, heavy in my limbs.
Close behind it, exhaustion claws at me, and it takes effort to sit up straight.
Sebastian watches me over the rim of his glass. “You should know something about me,” he says. “I was not supposed to be a vintner.”
“Oh?” I tilt my head, stifling a yawn.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, the low light carving sharp lines across his face. “My family has a vineyard in Italy. But I am the youngest of ten children. Ten! There was never going to be a place for me. The land, the cellar, the decisions—they belonged to my older brothers. Always.”
I imagine him as a boy in the vines, watching his siblings step into roles he could never have. I’m almost sympathetic, except the way he says it—half bitter, half boastful—makes me wonder if he believes it or if it’s part of the tale he’s woven for himself.
“So,” he continues, “I left. I went to South Africa and took a job with a vineyard there. They thought I was only a worker, but I showed them, eh? We created wines that won medals. People began to talk.”
My dinner is placed before me. It’s steak with a red wine sauce. The server tells me it’s Entrec?te à la Bordelaise. One bite, and it melts on my tongue.
Sebastian is animated, gesturing with his hands, but I’m sinking into my chair. The warmth of the food—my steak is flanked by rich potatoes cooked in duck fat with garlic and parsley—makes my eyelids feel even heavier. I nod at the right times, though some of his words run together.
Still, I catch the gleam in his eyes as he sits back. “I wanted to be closer to my mother,” he concludes. “She isn’t well. So I came back to Europe.”
I nod, though something in the way he says this feels rehearsed. His tone doesn’t soften when he mentions his mother. His eyes don’t flicker with worry. Instead, he drinks. It feels like a story he’s polished before.
Sebastian continues talking, louder now, his hands sweeping wide, as if he’s the star of a stage. He’s charming, yes, but a little boorish. And I’m too tired to sift through and find what’s real.
I think back to London, to the night we met last month at the International Wine Competition.
We sat in a noisy bar and argued about wine culture and identity.
The chemistry was there, strong enough to feel like a current under the table, but we didn’t really act on it.
We talked for hours, and he kissed me at the end of the night, but that was as far as I let it go.
I remember feeling exhilarated by the conversation, not the man.
Now, with him flirting across the table and spinning stories that don’t always add up, I can’t tell if I’m seeing him differently because I’m tired or because of the vineyard hand’s insinuation earlier, the comment about me not climbing stairs for long.
Or maybe things shifted enough back in Paradise with Kingston to change the lens I’m using to view this experience.
Either way, the food is good, the wine is better, and I decide I don’t need to solve Sebastian tonight.
Regardless of what else he thinks may be on the table, I was invited here to learn, to see how Sebastian works, how he shapes the wine, what I can take home and use in my own vineyard.
That’s what matters. The rest is noise, no matter what he wants.
By the time we drive back through the vineyard gates, Chateau glows like a lantern against the dark. The main building is alive with noise, laughter spilling from the open doors, music pulsing faintly into the night.
Sebastian leads me there, rather than back to my room, and as we step inside, the foyer is packed. Glasses of wine glint in every hand, and the air smells of oak barrels and perfume. It’s a full-blown party, bigger than anything I expected.
Across the room, Claire catches my eye. She lifts her glass in a salute, her smile quick and knowing. I smile back, grateful to see a familiar face in the crush of strangers.
Sebastian leans close, his voice low. “Would you like to see my apartment?” His grin makes the invitation clear. It’s not at all about architecture.
I steady my shoulders, giving him the polite smile I’ve practiced since I arrived. “Thank you, but no. I think I’ll take a shower and sleep all day tomorrow so I’m ready for work Monday morning.”
His brows lift for a fraction of a second before he masks his expression with another smooth smile. “Ah. Very disciplined.”
I nod, already edging away. “Bonne nuit, Sebastian. Thank you for dinner.”
I slip toward the stairs, clutching the railing as I go down, letting the thrum of music fade behind me as the door closes. Tomorrow is for rest. Monday, for work. And no matter what Sebastian thinks, I’m here to work beside him, not fall into his orbit.