Chapter 29
Twenty-nine
Elise
Kingston has been here a week now, and he disappears into Chateau’s administration building every morning like he’s lived here for years—no hesitation, no awkwardness about taking over a space that doesn’t belong to him.
He’s working just down the hall from Claire.
She says he strides down the long stone hall, laptop under his arm, nods once to whomever he passes, and then shuts himself inside a small office at the far end.
It used to be a storage room, Claire told me, before someone pushed an old desk against the window and set up Wi-Fi. Now, it looks like Kingston owns it, his jacket hanging neatly from the chair.
I should resent how easily he does this—how a man like him can walk into a centuries-old chateau and make it his headquarters—but mostly I’m charmed. It’s Kingston, after all. He’d carve out an office in the middle of a field if he had to, and people would still line up to bring him reports.
He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d solve the bed problem.
He bought a new mattress and had it delivered to my room.
I don’t know how he got it in, and it takes up almost the entire space, but the last week has been wonderful as we fall asleep tangled in our bed together.
I wake up with his arms wrapped around me and feel safe and adored.
Outside my room, things have also improved. Sebastian hasn’t given me one brutal chore since Kingston’s arrival. We’ve worked well together, with me following his lead and trading ideas and questions.
On my lunch break, I carry my coffee down the hallway to Kingston’s space and pause outside his door.
Through the old wood I can hear the low cadence of his voice on a call—serious, clipped, all business.
He doesn’t sound like the Kingston who tangled his legs with mine this morning, stealing kisses while I tried to brush my hair.
He sounds like a CEO, the man who keeps Renew Motion moving even when he’s half a world away.
I lean against the cool stone wall, sipping, and try to picture him back home, sitting in his corner office above the vineyards, sunlight spilling through glass instead of this narrow French window.
The image doesn’t fit as neatly as it used to.
Now, I see him here too, folded into the rhythm of my borrowed life.
Claire passes with a stack of folders in her arms. “He’s been in there since sunrise,” she whispers with a grin.
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“He doesn’t even notice the noise. We had someone drop an entire case of bottles down the hall, and he just kept talking.”
I laugh. “That sounds exactly like him.”
She adjusts the folders higher, studying me with raised brows. “You like having him here.”
I don’t answer right away because what she said isn’t a question. It’s a fact. I do like him here. I like the sight of his jacket on a borrowed chair, his voice rolling through stone walls, his presence steadying me in ways I didn’t realize I craved.
When he finally emerges, his expression softens the instant his eyes find mine. That shift—CEO to man I adore—still steals my breath.
“All finished?” I ask.
“For now.” He slides his laptop into its case. “They’ll survive a few hours without me.” He smoothes a strand of hair behind my ear, as natural as if we’ve been doing this for years. “What about you? Walk?”
I nod, and we fall into step together, waving to Claire and leaving Chateau behind.
The vineyard air is soft and fresh with the promise of summer.
The leaves on the vines have begun to deepen their green.
Gravel crunches beneath our shoes as we follow the rows downhill.
Kingston slows his pace, his hand brushing mine until I catch it, weaving our fingers.
“You realize,” he says, eyes sweeping the landscape, “that you and Tarryn can steal half their practices for Paradise Hill.”
I laugh, tipping my head against his shoulder. “Steal them? That’s bold.”
“Incorporate, then.” He squeezes my hand. “I can’t help it. Walking these rows with you, seeing how you’ve learned every inch, I immediately think about what you can do back home. What you will do.”
What I’ll do. That’s the part I keep circling around in my head.
There’s nothing really broken at home, and some of these practices stem from Chateau’s size.
But many of them will adapt nicely to enhance our operation.
We can always be better. I can always put my mark on things.
And I feel ready. Ready to return, ready to shoulder more, ready to believe I can.
I stop walking to really look at him. “You think I’ll be different when we go back?”
“I don’t think,” he says. “I know.”
His voice sends heat racing through me. Maybe he believes it enough for both of us.
We continue walking, the vines stretching out on either side.
We drift farther down the slope, the air cooler here, tinged with the smell of freshly turned soil and new growth.
Kingston stops at a post, running his hand over the weathered wood.
He studies the rows with the same sharp attention he gives a Renew Motion meeting agenda.
“You’ve been watching them prune differently,” he says.
“I have.” I tug at a leaf, rolling its edge between my fingers. “They leave a little more growth than we would. It’s slower, more deliberate. At first, I thought it was wasteful, but it gives the vines strength heading into the cold.”
He tilts his head, considering me, not the vines. “That sounds like you.”
“Me?”
“Mmmm.” He straightens, dusting his palm on his jeans. “You thought coming here was going to be fun, some kind of escape. But maybe you needed the time to strengthen yourself, build reserves before the next season.”
The metaphor lands so squarely that I don’t speak for a moment. I swallow against the rush of emotion. Leave it to Kingston to fold vineyard science into my life and make it sound exactly right.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Sasha: Dinner tonight, 1900 hrs. No excuses. Bring your handsome Canadian with you.
I laugh, showing Kingston the screen. “Apparently, we’ve been summoned.”
His mouth curves. “I don’t recall agreeing to that.”
“She didn’t give you a choice.”
After lunch, I go back to work with the crew.
The hours slide by in rows of green, shears clicking, canes dropping at my feet.
Sebastian hovers as always, pointing out cuts or murmuring instructions, but the usual edge I feel toward him is gone.
Instead of bristling, I find myself letting his energy wash over me, even grateful for his sharp eye.
Nothing he says rattles me now. The rhythm of the vines steadies me, and by late afternoon, my muscles burn with the kind of fatigue that feels earned.
It feels like I’ve stumbled into a different world when, later that evening, Kingston and I stand outside the private wing of Chateau, its limestone facade washed in the gas lanterns that lead to the private entrance.
Tall windows glow with a golden sheen, the glass framed by precise stonework and trailing ivy.
Inside, I glimpse a long dining table gleaming with crystal and porcelain, silver catching the firelight from a row of candles.
The air carries the faint scent of woodsmoke from the grand hearth, which is refined and deliberate rather than rustic.
Sasha greets us at the door, arms open wide.
She’s dressed in tailored black trousers and a silk blouse, the kind of effortless elegance that speaks of generations steeped in refinement.
Behind her, uniformed staff move quietly through the grand hall, the air rich with the scents of butter, wine, and truffle.
“You made it!” she exclaims, pulling me in before Kingston can say a word. “And you—” She tilts her chin at him, eyes twinkling. “I haven’t seen you in what, ten years? You haven’t aged a day. Still too tall, still too serious.”
Kingston actually blushes. I didn’t think the man was capable. “Hello, Sasha,” he says, the stiffness in his shoulders betraying his discomfort. “It’s good to see you.”
She waves a spoon at him. “Good? That’s all you can manage? And you’ve been here over a week? Staying in the dormitory and haven’t even come by to see me?”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, but the sound slips out anyway. Kingston shoots me a look that promises retribution later, but there’s amusement there as well.
Sasha ushers us to the table, and a footman presses crystal glasses of red wine into our hands. A low fire crackles in the hearth, candles drip wax onto porcelain saucers, and immaculately arranged plates wait on the long table.
We sit, and Sasha begins to tell stories—how she first met Kingston at a trade show in Paris. He was new to the international wine world and unbearably cocky. How he argued with a French distributor until his voice went hoarse, then finally gave up and bought her a drink.
“Arrogant,” she pronounces, pointing her fork at him. “But charming enough to get away with it. And ambitious. Even then, I knew you’d be running the whole show one day. I just thought it would be wine, not medicine…”
I glance at him. His ears are pink, but he doesn’t protest. Just shrugs.
When Sasha turns toward me, my stomach tightens. Her expression softens. “And you, ma chère. You’ve impressed everyone here. You work harder than half the men in the cellar. You listen. You notice. We’d love for you to stay.”
I murmur thanks, heat rising to my cheeks.
I don’t know whether it’s the wine or the praise, but it feels like a blessing.
Somehow, I doubt Sebastian would agree with her sentiment, though.
But no matter, as I know now that’s not what I want.
Kingston squeezes my knee beneath the table, and I nearly burst with pride.
The meal unfolds like a carefully scored production.
Delicate amuse-bouche give way to a first course of silky velouté, then to roast poulet with crushed pommes de terre and haricots verts finished in butter and almonds.
Each plate is paired with a different bottle from Sasha’s cellar.
We eat until our laughter outpaces our restraint, and Sasha scolds Kingston for refusing seconds while coaxing him to take more bread.
Sasha swirls the last sip in her glass, studying the color. “Someday, I’ll see Paradise Hill for myself.”
Kingston’s mouth curves as he pours her more. “And when you do, Elise can take you through every row, every barrel. Smaller scale than here, sure, but the wine holds its own.”
Her brows lift in challenge. “I look forward to testing that claim.”
When the night lets us go, the stars are thick above Chateau. Sasha hugs me, her perfumed cheek warm against my hair. “Take care of him,” she whispers. “He’s stubborn, but he’s worth it.”
“I promise I will.” My throat is tight.
Before she releases me, she leans closer and lowers her voice. “And don’t let him work too much. He forgets sometimes that life is more than numbers and meetings. Remind him.”
The advice sinks into me like a benediction, a responsibility I feel oddly honored to carry.
I nod, and Kingston slips my hand into his as we walk back toward the vines. His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist.
“You enjoyed that,” he says.
“I did.” I lean in, smiling into the dark. “I like seeing you through other people’s eyes. Turns out you were once human after all.”
He chuckles. “Don’t get used to it.”
But I already have.