Chapter 8 Saffron #2
Rather than pull away, he wrapped his fingers around mine. They felt warm and strong, and my breath caught.
“Sorry,” we said simultaneously.
The absurdity of it—apologizing for touching each other when last night we’d been pressed against my kitchen wall, his hands in my hair and my legs wrapped around his waist—broke something loose. I laughed, and it felt like relief.
He smiled, really smiled, and God, when had he gotten so beautiful? Or had he always been this way and I’d just been too scared to really look?
“Great minds,” he said, his thumb stroking across my knuckles before he let go.
“Something like that.”
After we finished sampling, we headed to the winery, and he led me into the production building.
“We’ll use these for the maceration,” he said, pointing to three large tanks.
I ran my hand along the cool steel, studying the monitoring systems built into the sides. The units were beautiful—clean lines, flawless welds, technology that made our equipment at Hope look ancient by comparison.
“This is ideal,” I said.
“The system logs everything.” He moved to a control panel, and data appeared on the screen. “Temperature, CO2 levels, pH. All of it.” His fingers moved over the touchscreen, familiar and confident. “I can set it up to send alerts to both our phones. That way, we can both monitor it remotely.”
Both our phones. Partners.
“Wow.” I stepped closer to the screen. “Show me how it works?”
Our gazes collided, and his face was inches from mine. “Saffron?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not listening.”
“I am.”
“What did I just say?”
I had no idea. “Something about…temperatures?”
He half smiled. “Wrong.” His sounded amused when he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“How do you always know when I’m lying?”
“Because I know you.” His hand lingered near my face, thumb stroking along my cheekbone. “I’ve always known you. Let me help. That’s all I’m asking,” he said, cupping my cheek with his palm.
“You are helping.”
He leaned closer. “You know what I mean.”
I wanted to tell him everything. The foreclosure. The desperation. The fear that kept me awake at night. But I wasn’t able to bring myself to.
“I, uh, need to get home. I have a lot to do before Wednesday.”
Frustration flickered across his face before he smoothed it away and dropped his hand. “Let’s go.” I hated how angry he sounded.
The walk back through the winery felt longer than it should have. Every step echoed in the cavernous space, and the silence between us grew heavier.
We made it halfway to the parking area before Lucia appeared, waving a dish towel. “Mija! Perfect timing. I have breakfast ready.”
I opened my mouth to decline, but she was already linking her arm through mine with the kind of determined warmth that made refusal impossible.
“You must eat. You’re too skinny, and you work too hard.”
I glanced at Snapper and saw the same amusement I had a few minutes ago.
“Thank you, Lucia,” I said as she led us toward the house.
“I made cinnamon rolls. The good ones, not the store-bought garbage.”
The kitchen smelled heavenly with coffee, cinnamon, and chorizo sizzling on the stove.
Lucia settled us at the counter and started piling food on plates like we were still kids.
Which, in a way, we were. She’d been feeding me since I was old enough to sit on these stools, alternating between Spanish and English as she scolded me for not eating enough vegetables or praised me for good grades or listened to me cry over mean things kids had said to me.
The memory of me complaining about Tommy Berkshire teasing me became clear as day. Why hadn’t I remembered it earlier when Cru brought it up? Why hadn’t Snapper reminded me?
This time when our eyes met, he reached over and squeezed my hand as if he knew what I was thinking. I expected him to let go, but he didn’t.
“I was thinking about Concepción’s formula for the Christmas Blessing Wine,” Lucia muttered as she used a spatula to separate more of the chorizo.
“And?” Snapper prompted.
She poured coffee into handmade mugs—the same ones she’d had since I was a child, each one slightly different, made by a local potter. “There’s one more place it could be.”
Snapper made a gesture with his free hand for her to go on.
“In the production logs. They go back to when your fourth great-grandfather made the first wine here in California.”
“What year would that have been?” I asked.
“Around 1875, if I remember right.” Lucia’s eyebrows flared, and she grabbed Snapper’s hand from across the counter. “His name was Salazar.”
“That’s kinda cool,” I murmured.
“No new names in this family. Everyone is named for someone.”
Lucia let go and smacked the back of Snapper’s hand. “We honor tradition,” she said, raising her chin.
He looked sufficiently contrite for his comment that she returned to the stove.
“Where would those logs be kept?” I asked.
“In the caves, but I have no idea where,” said Snapper. “The ones I’ve seen don’t go back that far.”
“They wouldn’t need to. Only as far as the mid-nineteen hundreds.”
“You’ll look after you eat,” Lucia said without glancing over at either of us. “Your grandpapa, Cristobal, would tell stories about how his mother, Concepción, could taste a wine and know everything about it. What year, which varietals were used, sometimes even who made it.”
“I remember seeing something in my great-grandmother’s journals about that.”
Lucia looked between her son and me. “Now, there are many female winemakers. Back then, it was very rare. Concepción and Marilyn Hope received many accolades for the Christmas Blessing.”
“Any idea why they decided not to make the wine again?” I asked.
She looked off in the distance for several seconds. “I remember Alfonso, Salazar’s father, talking about it, but I can’t remember the details. It may not have been their decision.”
“Do you think their husbands wouldn’t let them?” Snapper asked.
His mother rolled her eyes. “Wouldn’t let them? When do you think this was, the dark ages?”
He chuckled. “It was just a theory.”
Lucia muttered something under her breath I couldn’t hear.
“Ma?” Snapper pressed.
“If Eduardo told Concepción she couldn’t do something, he would’ve met with the same fate as your father if he tried it with me.” She opened a drawer, took out a rolling pin, and held it up.
“Jeez, Ma, what would you have done? Smacked him with that?”
She smiled. “More than once.”
While we finished breakfast, Lucia kept up her steady stream of conversation—Cru and Daphne’s upcoming wedding, how Brix and Addy’s daughter, Reagan, was already walking and getting into everything, questions about my parents and how Felicity was doing.
“Coco told Alexis that she wanted to be a winemaker for Halloween this year,” she added with a laugh.
“How old is she now?” I asked.
“Seven going on thirty, just like Alex was at that age.”
Snapper lifted his fork with his left hand, since his right still held mine, and took a bite of his cinnamon roll. “What about Alfonso?”
“Like most four-year-old boys, he changes his mind every day. You were the same way. When you were his age, you wanted to be a smashing pumpkin. Your father and I had no idea what that meant until Gabriel explained it was a band. All I could envision was how much fun your brothers and sister would have covering you in pumpkin guts.”
I squeezed his hand. “That’s adorable.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Snapper muttered, but he was smiling too.
“I have many stories, mija.” Lucia’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Like the time when you two were—what, thirteen?—and you tried to make wine in the barn.”
“I was eleven,” I corrected. “And it was Snapper’s idea.”
“It was a joint idea,” he muttered. “You said, and I quote, ‘How hard can it be?’”
“And you said, ‘Let’s find out.’”
Lucia laughed. “It exploded all over the barn. Took you two days to clean up the mess, and the barn smelled like rotten fruit for weeks.”
“Worth it, though,” Snapper said. “We learned what not to do.”
“You learned that you can’t just put grape juice in jars and hope for the best,” Lucia continued. “Though I suppose that’s valuable too.”
The warmth in this kitchen, the easy laughter, and the way Snapper’s mother looked at us like we were exactly where we were supposed to be made me wistful.
I loved my family, and my sister and I teased each other incessantly, but this was at a whole other level.
Not only did Snapper have six siblings, but there were ten kids in Lucia’s sister’s family, and they lived less than ten miles from here.
Our family was so small in comparison and proportionately less fun.
When we’d finished eating and helped clean up—over Lucia’s protests that I was a guest, which I ignored because I’d been helping in this kitchen since I was old enough to reach the sink—Snapper said, “I should get Saffron home. She’s got prep work before Wednesday.”
“Of course.” Lucia hugged me. “Take care of yourself, mija. Don’t work too hard. And don’t be such a stranger. You’re welcome here anytime, you know.”
“I do and thank you.”
She held me at arm’s length, looking at me with those knowing eyes that always seemed to see too much. “You look tired. Make sure you rest, okay? You can’t take care of the vineyard if you don’t take care of yourself first.”
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
She kissed my forehead, then turned to Snapper. “And you. Stop pestering her. Give her space to breathe.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. I know my sons.” She patted his cheek. “Be patient.”
He flushed. “Yes, ma’am.”
The drive back to my family’s place was quiet at first. Snapper kept his eyes on the road, but his jaw was tight. I stared out the window, watching vineyards roll past, thinking about everything and nothing.
“My mom’s right,” he said. “I am pestering you.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. I keep pushing when I said I wouldn’t.”
“Snapper—”
“No, let me finish.” He took a breath. “I meant what I said about giving you time. About not going anywhere. But I also meant what I said in that text. I want you to know I’m choosing this. Choosing you. Before anything else comes up that makes you doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why me? Why now? You’ve had your pick of women for years. Buckle bunnies, Isabel throwing herself at you every chance she gets, probably a dozen others I don’t even know about.”
“You really don’t know?”
“No.”
“Because it’s always been you, Saffron.” He glanced at me, then back at the road. “Since we were kids. Since before I even knew what it meant to want someone. You’ve always been the one I looked for in a room. The one I wanted to tell things to. The one who made me want to be better.”
“Snapper—”
“I know the timing is shit. I know you’re dealing with something you won’t tell me about. And getting involved with me is probably the last thing you need right now. But I’m tired of acting like we’re just friends when we both know it’s more than that.”
“What if it doesn’t work? What if we try this and—”
“Then we’ll deal with it. But at least we’ll know.”
“Your friendship means a lot to me. I don’t want to lose that.”
“You won’t.” His voice was firm. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Even if the romantic stuff doesn’t work—and I think it will, but even if it doesn’t—you’re not losing me. I know I keep repeating it, but I’m not going anywhere.”
I wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.
He drove up to my house and put the truck in park, but neither of us moved.
“Thanks for this morning,” I said.
“We’re partners.”
“Yes, and I’ll text you tomorrow with an update on the readings.”
He faced me, and the intensity in his gaze made me pause.
“I need to go. Lots to prep.” I pushed the door open before I could do something stupid like climb across the console and kiss him again.
He let me go. Again. Patient in a way I didn’t deserve, giving me the space I’d asked for even though I could see how much it cost him.
I headed toward the house, forcing myself not to look back. If I did, I wouldn’t keep walking.
I made it to the porch before I heard his truck start. The sound of it driving away tugged at something in my chest, like a tether stretching too far.
Inside, the house was too empty, too quiet.
My phone buzzed almost immediately. Saffron…then dots appeared, but no message followed.
Just my name. But it felt like everything—a question, a promise, and a plea.
I’m sorry, I wrote, unsure what exactly I was apologizing for.
When the dots appeared again, disappeared, then reappeared, I held my breath.
What I wanted to say but couldn’t is, I want you so much that when we’re together, it’s hard to breathe.
It was exactly how I felt but wasn’t brave enough to say.
Would he give me the space I needed, or would he run out of patience?
See you tomorrow. If I can wait that long. He added a winking emoji.
God, I hoped he couldn’t.