Chapter 20
Twenty
Elise
Pounding jolts me awake, and I sit up so fast I nearly fall off the bed. Sunlight already streams through the shutters. I’ve overslept. Working ten-hour days, seven days a week, has me exhausted.
“Elise!” Sebastian’s voice cuts through the fog of sleep.
“Coming!” My voice cracks as I stumble to the door, tugging on yesterday’s jeans and shoving my arms into a sweater.
When I open it, he stands there with his brows drawn tight. “You can’t be late today. We have work to do.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I—”
He shakes his head and turns on his heel. “Hurry. This is important.”
I jam my feet into boots and race after him, heart hammering.
My feet clatter against the stairs as I catch up.
Outside, the morning air is cool and damp, tinged with the green bite of new growth.
Mist curls low over the vineyard rows, clinging to the budding vines like pale veils, and the earth gives softly under my shoes as we start down a path.
Sebastian strides ahead with his hands clasped behind his back, posture stiff. His feet barely make a sound while every step I take feels loud, clumsy.
“You can’t oversleep here,” he says without looking at me. His accent sharpens each word. “Vines don’t wait for you to be ready.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” My breath puffs white as I hurry to match his pace. “It won’t happen again.”
He glances sideways, eyes narrowing. “It better not. Today isn’t a day for tourists. I need your attention.”
The sting of his words lodges in my chest, but I bite back the reply forming on my tongue.
I’m not a tourist. I came here to learn, and if that means starting the day already behind, I’ll fight to catch up.
We pass between two tall rows of vines, their early buds light green.
Dew catches the light, glittering like strings of beads.
I think of Black Bear Valley, the way morning fog hugs the lake, and for a moment, it feels like I’ve been dropped into a mirror image—familiar yet foreign.
By the time we reach the winery, the smell has shifted.
Less of the green freshness outside, more of the cellar—cool stone and damp wood, the faint tang of old wine clinging to the air.
It isn’t unpleasant, but it’s dense, layered, as if the walls themselves have absorbed centuries of vintages.
The closer we get, the stronger it grows until it’s all I can breathe.
“Watch carefully.” Sebastian motions me forward, his voice full of pride. “This is where craft meets chemistry.”
Workers pour a slurry of crushed skins and stems into a smaller fermenter.
I expect the familiar ritual of punch-downs—the hard rhythm of someone shoving the cap under—but instead, a pump roars to life.
The liquid is drawn from the bottom of the tank, traveling through a hose, and then it cascades back down over the floating skins.
Sebastian crosses his arms, chin tilted.
“Pump-overs. Gentle, frequent. We do them every two hours, sometimes more. Keeps the cap moist, extracts evenly. You don’t get the harsh bite of tannin, just a silkier profile.
It allows the fruit to speak first.” He shares this like a lecture, not an invitation.
I scribble notes, racing to keep up. At Paradise, we’ve always sworn by punch-downs.
They’re physical, almost violent, like wrestling the grape into submission.
This feels different. Less battle, more conversation.
I feel a small smile tugging at my mouth as the juice trickles over the skins like a waterfall, dark and glossy.
The scent rises warm and lush, making my lungs expand as I draw it in.
Sebastian’s gaze cuts to me. “Something funny?” His tone makes the hairs on my arms prickle.
“No.” My throat tightens, but I keep my chin high. “I think this could be transformative.”
He studies me for a beat. Then his edge softens, just slightly. “At least you see it.” A small shrug. “Most interns only see the mess and the hoses.”
His words send a rush of pride through me. I hug the notebook to my chest. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t fail.”
As the pump whirs, I imagine the tanks back at Paradise Hill.
The cellar is smaller, and not nearly as gleaming, but we could set up a system like this.
Maybe not every tank—at least not at first—but what if we tried it on one block of pinot noir?
Softer, rounder, a new expression of the valley.
I picture Dad swirling the glass, Trace nodding in approval, even Tarryn leaning in with that spark in her eyes when something surprises her.
Sebastian claps his hands, snapping me out of the thought. “Come. There’s more to see.”
I trail him through the maze of equipment.
Everywhere, there’s motion—workers lugging hoses, steam rising from a hot rinse, an acidic scent so strong it makes me lightheaded.
My pen scratches furiously across the page as Sebastian explains, his tone still sharp, but no longer cutting.
By midday, when we pause near an open tank, I catch him watching me instead of the wine.
His mouth tilts into something that almost passes for a smile.
“You take notes like a student. Careful—soon, they’ll say you know more than I do.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, though not from embarrassment this time. I snap my notebook closed. “Maybe I will.”
He chuckles. “Ambitious. I like that.”
As we move on, he reaches past me to adjust a valve, his arm brushing against mine.
Not a hard bump, but deliberate and slow enough that the warmth of him lingers.
I step sideways, but the space is narrow, the steel tank at my back, him blocking the front.
His gaze dips briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes.
“You watch closely,” he says, voice quieter now, threaded with something different. “Not everyone does.”
The air thickens, a heat rising that has nothing to do with fermentation.
I grip the edges of my notebook so tightly the cardboard cover bends.
For a second, I tell myself he’s just testing me, pushing to see if I’ll flinch the way I did this morning.
But the way his voice drops, the way his gaze lingers, it doesn’t feel like only that.
“I came here to learn,” I manage. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“Bon.” His smile sharpens. “Then maybe you will.”
He steps back, leaving me room to breathe again, though my pulse takes longer to settle. I try to convince myself it was harmless, just ego wrapped in charm, but the tension of that moment clings as I follow him deeper into the cellar.
When the day finally winds down and I retreat to my room, I tug off my boots and sit cross-legged on the bed, the notebook beside me. My head still buzzes, like the yeast itself has gotten into my bloodstream. I open my laptop, fingers hovering over the keys before I begin typing.
Kingston,
Today was huge. I watched Sebastian’s crew pump from the bottom to move the grapes off the top, instead of pushing them down.
It seems like a small difference, but it changes everything—the flavor, the texture, even the pace of fermentation.
I filled pages of notes. At Paradise, we’re always so physical with our wines, pushing them down, forcing them to yield.
But this was gentler. It felt alive in a different way.
I couldn’t stop imagining how it might taste in our vineyard, how it could soften our edges without losing who we are.
I kept wishing you were here beside me to see it because I know you’d understand.
I pause, reading over what I’ve typed, and then continue, wanting my words to lift him.
I miss you. And I miss Charlotte’s chocolates, especially the chocolate-covered caramels with pecans.
I miss the rotisserie chicken salad from the grill too.
That’s the first thing I’m getting when I come home.
But mostly, I miss knowing you’re close, part of my world no matter where you’re working.
I carried that feeling with me today, even standing in the middle of a French wine cellar.
My chest feels full as I hit send, almost too full, like the fermenters when the cap rises, threatening to spill over.