Chapter Fourteen
Morning came quietly.
Not with an alarm or a rush of responsibility, but with pale and soft light sliding across the floor and warming the edge of the bed. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. The ceiling was unfamiliar. The air smelled faintly of earth and something green. Cedar, maybe. Or wine. Or both.
I lay there longer than I meant to, listening to the welcome silence.
No city noise. No sirens. No neighbors slamming the doors. Just birdsong and the low hum of something alive waking up outside.
It wasn’t my life.
Yet, somehow, it seemed the ideal way to wake.
I slipped out of bed quietly, tugging on the sweater I’d folded over the chair the night before.
The house felt settled, but not at all silent.
Sunlight filtered in through wide windows as I walked toward the kitchen illuminating wood floors and stone counters worn smooth by time and use.
Nothing about the space felt staged or precious. It was lived in. Homey.
Something moving outside in the field claimed my attention, and I wandered out the back door.
The vineyard stretched out under a veil of morning mist, the rows of vines standing at attention, perfectly cultivated to ensure the best growth.
The air was cool and damp, smelling earthy like soil and leaves and promise.
I wrapped my arms around myself and took it in, the quiet pressing gently instead of weighing me down.
That’s when I saw him.
Tristan stood at the edge of one of the rows, sleeves rolled up, boots already dusted with dirt.
He was bent slightly, focused on something near the base of a vine, hands moving with practiced ease.
The morning sun caught in his hair, turning it a shade warmer than I remembered, and for a moment I stared.
He didn’t look like the man who joked his way through road trips or winked his way out of awkward moments. He looked grounded and perfectly at ease. This place asked something of him and he showed up for it, every day.
I hadn’t realized I was smiling until he straightened and caught me staring.
“Well, well, well,” he called lightly, “if it isn’t the guest who inspects the help.”
I laughed, stepping down onto the first stair. “I was making sure you weren’t slacking.”
“Devastating,” he said, wiping his hands on a cloth tucked into his back pocket. “I try so hard to maintain an air of competence.”
“Doing a terrible job of it.” I pulled my sweater tighter around my chest. “Very unconvincing.”
He grinned and came closer, stopping a respectful distance away and giving me space to decide what came next. I appreciated that more than I could say.
“Coffee’s on,” he said, nudging his nose toward the house. “Help yourself. I’ll be inside in a few minutes.” He turned on his heel and returned to his vines.
I meandered through the door, feeling perfectly at ease, and strolled through the living room.
It was lived in with a blanket tossed haphazardly over the edge of the couch and the throw pillows resting as if someone had napped on the couch.
Various framed pictures littered the bookshelves but only one stood out.
A picture of him in front of the vineyard holding a bottle; perhaps the very first bottle?
Heavy boots clomped on the stairs and the door closed with a bit of a thud.
“Anna?”
“In here,” I called out. “Snooping.”
“Hardly.” He walked closer and checked his watch. “Getting hungry?”
I nodded. “But I’d love to make you breakfast.”
“No way, this is my house and you are my beautiful guest who deserves to be doted on once in a while.”
The heat blooming across my cheeks was unstoppable.
He offered his hand and without hesitation, I linked fingers and followed him to the kitchen.
While explaining his morning routine, he whipped up a quick breakfast. Eggs sunny side up, toast, and a bowl of mixed berries. The coffee was already poured and the steam curled lazily from the mugs.
It wasn’t fancy but any stretch of the imagination, but it was perfect.
“This is the part where I apologize,” he said, setting a plate down.
“For what?”
“For the fact that this is decidedly not breakfast in bed.”
I laughed, surprised by how warm the very thought made me feel.
“But,” he added, turning toward the counter. “I’m open to negotiations. Maybe someday.”
The casual way he said it, unassuming as if it wasn’t a big thing, made my chest tighten anyway.
We sat at the small kitchen table, knees brushing occasionally, sharing easy conversation that didn’t feel like it was filling space.
He asked about my favorite breakfasts with the kids.
I teased him about how seriously he took his coffee.
He admitted, without shame, that he burned toast more often than he’d like.
It felt... domestic.
The realization caught me off guard.
From the depths of my pocket, my phone buzzed. Pulling it out, I smiled without hesitation. A text from my first born, Josh.
Hey. Confirming pick up is at 4?
I typed back. Let me double check.
When I looked up, Tristan was watching me, not with impatience or concern, but something quieter.
“They okay?” he asked.
“They’re good,” I said. “They always are.”
He nodded as if that answered more than the question.
I opened my flight tracking app and double checked. Assuming no more interruptions as the strike had ended almost nearly as fast as it had started, departure from Victoria was at 2:10 with arrival in Edmonton at 4:45.
I updated Josh with the expected arrival time, to which he sent me a thumbs up.
Tristan and I finished eating slowly, neither of us rushing to stand, to move, or to acknowledge the clock ticking somewhere outside our bubble. Eventually, he leaned back in his chair, studying me with a thoughtful expression.
“You know,” he said, “you’re good for this place.”
I blinked, unsure how exactly that was coming across. “For... the vineyard?”
His shoulders relaxed. “For me,” he corrected gently. “You make things feel lighter. Clearer.”
The words landed deeper than I expected. I wasn’t used to being seen that way, not as someone who eased things, but as someone who added something just by being present.
“I don’t know how long I’ve been running on empty,” he continued. “Chasing the next thing. Fixing what’s broken. Trying to keep everything upright.” He paused and smiled faintly, before resting his forearms on the table. “You remind me to breathe.”
Something in my throat tightened.
“I don’t make a habit of being complicated,” I said quietly.
“I know,” he replied, locking his gaze with mine. “You make a habit of being careful.”
There it was again. That word. Careful.
My pulse jumped slightly. “I have to be,” I said. “My life finally feels... calm. Predictable. I worked hard for that.”
Reaching for my hand, he gently encased it between his two hands. “And calm isn’t a bad thing, but it’s not always the same as happy.”
The truth of it echoed between us, because he was right. It wasn’t the same.
Needing to move, I pulled back and grabbed the dishes.
At the sink, I set them down and turned.
Tristan followed, stopping close enough for me to breathe in a whiff of soap floating off a warmed body.
The space between us felt charged, alive, and it thrummed along with the rush of blood pulsating in my ears.
“I can’t afford to fall apart,” I said, breathless. “Not now. Not ever again.” I was sure he was close enough to feel the pounding of my heart.
“I’m not asking you to,” he said softly. “I just don’t want to pretend this doesn’t matter.” His hand lifted, hovering near mine, giving me the choice. “We matter.”
I thought of my kids.
Of the life I’d built.
Of how tired I was of pretending I didn’t want more because wanting came with risk.
Blinking, I rolled my bottom lip between my teeth and saw the slight tremble on his full lips. With a long inhale, my gaze roamed upward to search his eyes.
He waited with bated breath as he tipped his head to the right, so I reached for his hand.
A slight smirk tickled the edges of a growing smile. He threaded his fingers through mine, the contact warm and steady, like it had always belonged there.
“Anna,” he murmured.
I closed the distance between us, heart pounding but sure.
He tipped his head further and lowered it to mine.
The kiss wasn’t urgent.
It hovered there first, his mouth close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.
He hesitated.
I tipped forward enough that our lips met, softly, almost reverently. The contact sent a low ache through me, not because it deepened, but because it didn’t. Because it could have.
His hands cupped my cheeks, steady but careful, like he was holding something fragile, and maybe he was..
I threaded my fingers through his thick dark hair, and the wanting in me flared so sharply it almost hurt.
I. Wanted. Him.
There was no doubt about that.
But layered beneath it was everything else — my kids, my life, the carefully built walls that had kept me upright for so long. Loving him didn’t erase those things. It complicated them. Made the ground feel unsteady in the most intoxicating way.
I pulled back first.
Not because I didn’t want more but because I wanted all of it to matter.
He didn’t chase the moment. Didn’t try to reclaim it, he stayed close and filled the space.
Some things didn’t need to be rushed because some things were worth waiting for.