Chapter 21
Twenty-one
Elise
The vines in Bordeaux are smaller than what I’m used to, twisted old things that cling low to the ground.
Their buds have already pushed through, tender green shoots unfurling into the spring air.
My task is to thin them, topinch away the extras so the strongest ones can grow.
It’s fiddly, back-bending work. Every time I crouch to snap off a weak shoot, my knees protest, but I remind myself that this is how the vineyard’s future takes shape, and this is important vintner work.
Sebastian works beside me, his movements efficient, practiced.
He doesn’t speak much at first, but his presence looms large.
The other hands keep sneaking glances his way.
He isn’t just another worker in the rows but the vintner, the one responsible for the health of it all.
Yet here he is, pinching shoots, dirt under his nails, same as everyone else. That earns him respect.
After a while, he glances at my vine. “You’ve got a good eye,” he says, nodding at the two shoots I’ve left. “Balanced.”
I smile faintly. “Back home, the vines are taller. You’d barely recognize them compared to these. More like small trees than stumps.”
He quirks a brow. “Trees? Then this must feel strange to you.”
“Strange, yes. But easier to see what I’m doing,” I admit, straightening and rolling my shoulders. “Though my back disagrees.”
That earns me the ghost of a smile. “It’s the curse of Bordeaux. Old vines, close to the ground. More bending, more patience.” He snaps off a shoot with quick fingers, letting it fall. “But the fruit…” He gestures to the row. “Concentrated. Worth the pain.”
I tilt my head. “At Paradise Hill, the vines look bigger, fuller. I always thought that meant more grapes.”
“Not always,” he corrects. “Your vines are spaced wider, trained higher, so they look larger. But here, they are closer, denser—many more per hectare. Chateau harvests far more than your vineyard ever could.”
I huff a laugh. “So bigger doesn’t always mean better.”
He chuckles. “Not in vineyards. Sometimes, small is stronger.”
Small is stronger. I wonder if that applies to more than vines.
I grin and bend to the next vine, snapping away a cluster of thin shoots. “Maybe I like babysitting more than I thought.”
For a moment, he watches me, expression unreadable, before nodding once. “Keep that one,” he murmurs, pointing at a thicker shoot I’ve almost removed. “It will balance the spur.”
I leave it in place, and as I shift my hand, something wriggles on the underside of a leaf. Tiny, greenish-brown, with spindly legs and a body that looks wrong. My stomach turns. “Sebastian,” I call, straightening quickly. “What is this? I haven’t seen this at home.”
He steps closer, brows knitting as I tilt the leaf for him to see. His face hardens instantly. “Eudemis. Grapevine moth larva. Very bad this early in the season.”
My throat goes dry. “It’s harmful?”
“Devastating,” he says. He looks at me then, sharp and serious. “You were right to ask. If we don’t tend to it immediately, it will spread through the block.” Before I can reply, he adds, “Good eye. Very good.”
His gaze lingers a second longer than necessary before he turns back to the vine. It’s nothing more than professional gratitude, I tell myself. But something in his tone gets to me all the same.
I shouldn’t care what he thinks of me. Not this much. And yet, his nod lingers, replaying in my mind even as we move down the row.
We spend the rest of the afternoon moving row by row, vine by vine, checking leaves and marking sections to treat.
He explains as we go, telling me which natural sprays will slow the larvae without damaging the soil.
“Copper, if necessary. But only if. We prefer extracts, oils, things that keep the balance.”
I nod, trying to absorb it all. “So, you fight a war, but gently.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Gently, yes. That is Bordeaux. Precision, not force.”
“Back home we’d bring in the big guns,” I admit. “Spray and be done with it.”
“That is an option, but we’re better to start with spot treatment. It’s healthier when managed well.” He glances at me with something almost like approval. “You found this before it spread. That saves us weeks, maybe the harvest itself.”
I swallow, the magnitude of this taking me by surprise. “I just thought it looked…wrong.”
“Exactly,” he says. “That is the eye of a vintner.”
The phrase roots itself inside me. No one has ever said that to me before. For a moment, it feels less like a compliment and more like a doorway I didn’t know I was waiting to step through. For all the bending and the aching and the mud under my nails, in this moment, I belong here after all.
By the time we finish, the sun is dipping low, streaks of pink and orange fanning across the sky.
My shoulders ache from hours of stooping, and my hands still smell faintly of soil and crushed leaves no matter how many times I wash them.
The chatter of the other hands rises around us—tired laughter, the scrape of boots on gravel—as we all travel back toward the dormitory.
The building glows warm against the evening, windows lit, voices carrying through the open doors like a beacon.
Sebastian walks beside me until we step inside. “Dinner?” he asks, his tone casual, though something in it makes me glance at him twice.
Before I can answer, Claire hurries over, a large box in her arms. “Elise, you just got this. Couriered in. What on earth did you order?”
“I didn’t,” I say, frowning as she sets it on the table. A small crowd gathers as I cut the tape and lift the lid. Dry ice fog curls into the air, and for a second, I have no idea what I’m looking at. But then I see a note with my name.
Beneath it is a Paradise Hill rotisserie chicken salad kit. My favorite. Nestled beside it, a stack of glossy chocolates I used to buy from Charlotte’s shop.
My heart swells.
Claire leans in. “Who would send this?”
A smile blooms on my face. “Someone I started seeing before I left. He asked me in an email what I missed. I guess he decided to send it.”
Sebastian peers into the box, baffled. “But you can get salads here. And chocolate. Why would he go to such trouble? France has the best chocolates in the world.”
“Belgium has the best chocolates.” Claire bursts out laughing. “This is why you’re single, Sebastian. You don’t get it.”
He grins, and the crowd laughs. I catch the faintest twinge of something in his eyes before he masks it, shrugging off the jab as though it doesn’t matter. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe he’s used to it.
I scoop up the box, carrying it toward the stairs. Sebastian calls after me, “You don’t want a real dinner?”
I lift the salad slightly. “I already have one.”
Upstairs, I slip into my room and set the box on the desk. It’s late morning back home, so I tap open my phone and hit the call button. Kingston’s face fills the screen almost instantly. His hair is mussed like he’s been running his hands through it, and the sight makes my stomach flip.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means.”
His grin is boyish, unguarded. “You mentioned you missed it. I couldn’t let that stand.”
I glance at the salad, still sealed up tight, ready to be mixed, and laugh nervously. “I should probably eat it while it’s cold, right? I feel ridiculous mixing salad on a video call.”
“Go on,” he urges, leaning back in his chair. “I want to see your face when you take that first bite.”
I fumble with the lid, the plastic squeaking as I pry it off. I pour all the ingredients onto the lettuce. Dressing drips onto the desk, and I lunge for a napkin, nearly sending my fork clattering to the floor. “This is embarrassing.”
“It’s adorable,” he counters. “And very entertaining.”
I roll my eyes, mixing the chicken and greens, trying to look casual though my cheeks are heating. “Happy now?”
“Getting there.” His tone is teasing in a way that makes my pulse skip.
I finally spear a bite and lift it to my mouth. The familiar taste hits, and I close my eyes, a sound slipping out before I can stop it. “God, I missed this.”
When I open my eyes again, Kingston’s watching me intently. His smile has shifted—less boyish, more hungry.
“I should’ve been the one to deliver it,” he says quietly. “Sitting across from you. Watching you eat.”
My eyes widen, heat infusing my belly. I laugh softly, trying to lighten the moment. “Careful, that sounds a little dangerous.”
“Maybe it is,” he says, not looking away. After a moment, he tilts his head. “Tell me about your day. What did they have you doing out there?”
The pride wells up before I can stop it.
“You’ll laugh, but I found a moth larva.
A tiny thing, tucked under a leaf. I didn’t think much of it, but when I showed Sebastian, he practically froze.
It was grapevine moth larva. Apparently, it can devastate an entire vineyard if you don’t catch it early. ”
His brows rise. “And you spotted it?”
“I did,” I say, smiling. “We spent the afternoon marking the vines and planning how to treat them without damaging the soil. Oils, extracts, maybe copper if it gets bad. They’re so precise here.”
“I’m impressed,” Kingston says, and my heart soars.
“Sebastian said it might’ve saved the harvest.” I shrug. “Who knew? I just thought it looked wrong. I’d never seen one before.”
Kingston’s smile falters for half a beat. “He told you that?”
I nod, trying not to fumble. “He seemed…grateful. Surprised, even.”
Kingston leans closer to the camera, his eyes softening. “That’s because you have an instinct. I knew you would, long before he did.”
I push another bite of salad onto my fork, smiling into the screen. And even though the ocean stretches between us, Kingston feels impossibly close.