Chapter 11 Snapper
SNAPPER
Ispent the afternoon trying to keep busy and failing miserably. I reviewed the harvest plan even though I knew it could change multiple times before we were certain it was time to pick. After pacing around my house like a caged animal for too long, I gave up and went for a run.
At four-thirty, I showered and stood in front of my closet, trying to figure out what the hell to wear.
Jeans felt too casual. Dress pants felt too formal.
I settled on dark cords and a button-down shirt, then immediately second-guessed myself and was about to change when my phone buzzed with a text from Eberly.
Everything’s ready. You’re going to love it.
At six-thirty, I gave up on waiting and headed to Saffron’s house even though I could make the drive in an easy ten minutes. Still, it felt like an hour. When I arrived at her house, my palms were sweating.
Get it together, Avila.
I made it up the porch steps and knocked before I could talk myself into getting in my truck and coming back in fifteen minutes—when I was actually supposed to arrive. When the door opened, every coherent thought I’d ever had evaporated.
Saffron wore a deep-green dress that looked like it was made of velvet.
It was fitted at the waist, then flowed from there to hit just above her knees.
Her hair was down, falling in soft waves past her shoulders, and she’d put on makeup—not much, but enough that her eyes looked bigger and her lips so soft that it made me want to kiss her.
“Ready?” I asked after telling her how beautiful she looked.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” I said, leading her outside.
I opened the passenger door and tried not to stare at her legs as she climbed in. Tried and failed.
The air on the return trip to Los Cab felt like it did before a thunderstorm. Saffron kept her hands folded in her lap, occasionally glancing over at me like she wanted to say something but couldn’t bring herself to. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.
“You’re being very mysterious about this,” she commented.
“Is that a bad thing?”
She smiled. “I don’t know yet.”
I drove through the main gates and took the west road that led to the Stonehouse. I parked near the entrance and came around to open Saffron’s door.
“I haven’t been here since Bit and Eberly transformed it into this,” she said, waving her hands at the garden. “Snapper, it’s...” she started as I led her inside.
“Do you like it?”
“Like it? I—” She stepped forward slowly, taking it all in—the wine already breathing on the table, the food being kept warm in covered dishes.
She shook her head. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”
“No?” I helped her with her chair, and she sat, still looking around as though she couldn’t believe it was real. I poured the first wine—a Pinot Noir from three years ago that I knew was one of our best—and settled across from her.
“To finding the formula,” I said, raising my glass.
She touched hers to mine. “To finding the formula.”
We drank, and I watched her close her eyes as the wine hit her tongue. She’d always done that, ever since we were teenagers sneaking tastes during harvest. Like she needed to shut out the world to really focus on what she was drinking.
“This is incredible,” she said.
“Wait until you try the food.”
Eberly had outdone herself. There was duck confit with roasted root vegetables, a salad with figs and goat cheese tossed in a citrusy dressing, and fresh bread that was still warm. All of it was perfect, so much better than if I’d taken her to a restaurant in town.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. Saffron spoke first.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Your shoulder.” She gestured at it. “How bad is it? And don’t give me the line about how it’s getting better. I want the truth.”
I set my fork down and flexed my arm instinctively. “Bad enough that I can’t compete this year. Maybe not next year either.”
“That must be killing you. Rodeo is—”
“Was,” I corrected. “Rodeo was my life.”
Her brow rose. “Was?”
“I was thinking about retiring long before I was injured.”
“Did Kick know?”
I shook my head. “That was the hard part. We’re a team. I’m the header, he’s the heeler. You don’t just go out and find a roping partner. It takes years to get as in sync as we are.”
“Won’t you miss it?”
“I’ve thought about it long enough to know I won’t.”
“I never thought I’d hear you say that.”
I chuckled. “Me either, but like with any professional sport, you age out quick.”
“Men older than you compete.”
I nodded once. “Men older than me might not have as good a reason to stay home as I do.”
Her doubtful expression ate at me, but the only way I knew to convince her I meant it, was by doing it.
She took another sip of wine, her gaze never leaving my face. “What will you do instead?”
“Stay here. Work the winery. Actually learn the business side instead of just showing up for harvest and then disappearing again.” I paused, then rested my elbows on the table. “Build something that lasts.”
“With your brothers.”
“Not just them…” I stopped myself before I could finish that thought. Maybe with you.
It was too much, too soon.
But she was watching me like she could read my mind anyway. “Who else?”
“You already know who, Saff. But I’m not sure you’re ready to hear me actually say it.”
“What if I am?”
I rested against my chair, wishing she truly was. Until she could bring herself to confide in me, I’d gone as far with this conversation as I was willing to go.
“What about you?” I asked instead of telling her what she wanted to hear. “What do you want?”
Her laugh was hollow. “Besides making this wine?”
The opening was right there. I held my breath, waiting for her to say it. To tell me about the foreclosure, to admit why recreating this wine mattered so much.
“Yeah. Besides that. If you could do anything, be anything, have anything—what would it be?”
She stared at her wineglass, tracing the rim with one finger. “I don’t know.”
“Come on. There has to be something.”
“I don’t—” She stopped, then started again. “I’ve never let myself think about it. Everything’s always been about the winery. About keeping things going. About not letting my family down.”
I reached across the table and took her hand. She startled at the contact but didn’t pull away. “Think about it now. If you had no obligations at all—what would Saffron Hope want?”
She was quiet for so long I thought she might not say anything, but she eventually did.
“I’d want to travel. See the places where wine comes from instead of just reading about them in books.
Walk through vineyards in Burgundy and Tuscany and Rioja.
Taste wines that have been made the same way for centuries. ”
“That’s a good start.”
“I’d want to learn more. Languages. Art. History. All the things I didn’t have time for because I was too busy in the vineyard.”
“Keep going.”
“I’d want—” She stopped, looking down at our joined hands.
“I’ve never been out of the United States.
How sad is that? I read about Paris and Rome and Barcelona, but I’ve never actually gone anywhere.
I watch cooking shows about Italian food and French pastries, but I make the same ten meals on rotation because that’s what I know how to make.
I have travel books loaded into my e-reader that I’ve read from start to finish, but the farthest I’ve ever been from home is New York for a wine conference three years ago. ”
The way she spoke sounded more like she was admitting to crimes instead of just being human.
“Why not?” I asked gently.
“Because there’s always been a reason not to.
Dad needed help with the harvest. Mom needed help with the tasting room.
Felicity got married and moved away, so someone had to stay.
The vines didn’t perform more than one year in a row.
Every harvest, more equipment breaks down.
There was always something more important than… ”
“Than what?”
She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve made myself so small that I don’t even know how to want things anymore.
” She eased her hand away and wrapped her arms around herself.
“I stopped dreaming about anything beyond next week’s work schedule.
I stopped thinking about my life as something that could be different. ”
Her vulnerability made my chest ache. “Saff—”
“You asked what I wanted, and that’s the truth. I want to remember what it feels like to want something just because I want it, not because it serves some purpose or helps someone else or keeps everything from falling apart. I want to be selfish for once in my life and not feel guilty about it.”
I stood and moved around the table, pulling her to her feet. “Then be selfish. Right now. Tell me one thing you want that has nothing to do with anyone else.”
She looked up at me, her eyes wide and vulnerable. “I want to stop being terrified every second of every day.”
“Terrified of what?”
“Of this.” She gestured between us. “Of wanting you this much. Of letting myself feel something real instead of just safe.”
I framed her face with my palms. “I know you don’t think you can trust me, but I’ll keep saying you can, proving you can until you’re ready to.”
“What if you get tired of waiting?”
“I won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”
She stared at me for several seconds, then rose up on her toes and kissed me. It was soft and tentative, like she was testing whether I might disappear if she pushed too hard.
I kissed her back, keeping it gentle even though every instinct screamed at me to deepen it, to take more, to show her exactly how much I meant what I’d said. But Bit’s warning replayed in my head. Let her set the pace.
She broke the kiss. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”
“You’re not a mess.”