10. Faye
FAYE
He's probably in the kitchen, nursing a glass of whiskey, replaying the day in his head the way he always does after something shakes him.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling.
The fan spins in slow circles, casting shifting shadows across the plaster.
My body still hums from his touch, from the way he held me after, like I was something precious, something breakable.
Not the way he looked at me when he first found me in that office, his amber eyes dark with something raw and untamed.
I press my palm to my stomach. The life growing inside me is still too small to feel, but I swear I can sense it. A quiet promise. A future.
Flynn's future.
I've spent so long fighting to prove I don't need anyone. That I can handle the weight of the winery, the expectations, the loneliness. But Flynn never asked me to carry it alone. He just wanted to make sure I was safe while I did.
My throat tightens. I've been so afraid of wanting him—of needing him—that I almost missed the truth. He doesn't want to own me. He wants to keep me. The way you keep something rare. Something irreplaceable.
The bedroom door creaks open, and Flynn steps inside, his broad frame filling the doorway, the light catching the silver in his stubble. He's holding something behind his back, his amber eyes soft in a way that makes my chest ache.
"You're up."
I sit up, pulling the blanket to my chest. "What's that?"
He smirks, stepping closer. "Patience."
I roll my eyes, but my pulse quickens. "You know I hate surprises."
"No," he corrects, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You hate waiting for surprises."
I huff, but he's right. My fingers twist in the fabric of the blanket, my skin still warm from last night, from the way he'd held me after, his hands gentle even when his words weren't.
He pulls the hidden item from behind his back… a small, leather-bound notebook. The cover is worn, the edges frayed. He holds it out to me.
I take it, running my fingers over the embossed initials on the front. E.B.
My breath catches. "Mom's?"
Flynn nods. "Found it in her study just now. She left it for you."
I flip it open. The first page is a sketch of the vineyard, the lines precise, the shading delicate. Beneath it, in her looping script: For Faye, who will carry this forward when I can't.
My throat tightens. I trace the words, my vision blurring.
Flynn's hand covers mine, his calloused fingers warm. "She wrote in it every day. Notes on the vines, the soil, the weather. But also…" He flips a few pages. "Her dreams for the reserve. Everything she wanted about it."
I swallow hard. The pages are filled with her handwriting… some neat, some hurried, all of it hers. Recipes for blends, sketches of labels, even a list of names she'd considered for the wine.
And then, tucked between the pages, a pressed grape leaf.
I press my lips together, blinking fast. "She never showed me this."
"She was probably waiting for the right time," Flynn says quietly. "She wanted you to have it when you were ready."
I look up at him. His face is unreadable, but his thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow and steady.
I set the notebook aside, my hands trembling. "I don't know if I'm ready."
"You are." His voice is firm, sure. "You've been ready for a long time."
I shake my head, but the words stick in my throat. Because he's right. I have been ready. I just didn't know it until now.
Flynn shifts closer, his knee pressing against my hip. "Faye."
I meet his gaze.
"I love you."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. My breath stutters, my fingers curling into the blanket.
He doesn't look away. "I love your stubbornness. Your fire. The way you fight for this place like it's your last breath." His hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushing my bottom lip. "I love that you're mine."
I exhale shakily. "Flynn?—"
"Say it back."
I open my mouth, but the words won't come. Not because I don't feel them, but because they're too big, too much. They wrap around my ribs, squeeze my lungs, make my heart hammer like it's trying to break free.
His eyes darken. "Faye."
"I—" My voice cracks. I swallow. "I love you too."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Took you long enough."
I shove his shoulder, but he catches my wrist, pulling me into his lap. His arms wrap around me, his lips pressing to my temple.
I melt against him, my fingers clutching at his shirt. The notebook digs into my hip, but I don't care. All I can feel is him… his warmth, his strength, the steady beat of his heart against my palm.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. "There's more."
I blink. "More?"
He reaches for the box, flipping it open.
Inside, nestled against black silk, is a key.
I frown. "What's this?"
"The keys to the cellar," he says. "The one your mother always kept locked."
I stare at him. "But… why?"
"Because it's yours now." His fingers brush my jaw. "All of it. The winery. The reserve. The future." His voice drops. "Me."
I swallow hard, my eyes burning. "Thank you."
Flynn's hand covers mine. "You don't have to do this alone anymore."
I look up at him, my heart in my throat. "I know."
And for the first time, I really do.
A Few Weeks Later
The night air is thick with the scent of ripe grapes and earth, the vineyard rows stretching out like dark ribbons under the moonlight.
Flynn's hand is warm around mine, his fingers calloused but gentle as he leads me deeper into the rows, where the oldest vines twist like gnarled fingers toward the sky.
"Where are we going?" I ask, my pulse quickening.
He doesn't answer, just squeezes my hand.
Then I see it—a small table set between the vines, draped in white linen. A single candle flickers in a glass holder, casting long shadows over two crystal glasses and a bottle of wine I don't recognize. The label is simple, elegant, the ink still dark and fresh.
Evelyn's Reserve.
My breath catches.
Flynn stops, turning to face me. His amber eyes gleam in the candlelight, intense and unreadable. "Your mother's dream," he says, nodding toward the bottle. "The first vintage."
I reach out, my fingers trembling as I trace the label. "You finished it."
"No," he corrects softly. "We finished it."
The words settle into my chest, warm and heavy. I swallow hard, my throat tight.
Flynn uncorks the bottle with practiced ease, the soft pop of the cork loud in the quiet. He pours two glasses, the wine a deep, rich ruby in the dim light. He hands me one, his fingers brushing mine.
"To Evelyn," he says, his voice rough.
I clink my glass against his, the crystal ringing like a bell. But all I can do is smell. There are notes of blackberry and spice and something deeper, something that smells like home. I close my eyes, inhaling the scent.
"It's perfect," I whisper.
When I open my eyes, Flynn is watching me, his expression unguarded in a way I've never seen before. His throat works, like he's swallowing something heavy.
Then he sets his glass down.
And drops to one knee.
My heart stops.
The world narrows to the sight of him there, framed by the vines, his broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight. His hands are steady as he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box.
I can't breathe.
He opens it.
The ring inside is beautiful—a single, flawless diamond set in a thin gold band, catching the candlelight and scattering it into a thousand tiny stars.
"Faye Bennett," he says, his voice low, rough with emotion. "I spent my life building something I thought mattered. Then you walked in, and I realized I'd been wrong." His fingers tighten around the box. "You're the best thing I've ever had. Not the wine. Not the winery. You."
My vision blurs.
"I love you," he continues, his gaze burning into mine. "Not just because you're beautiful or stubborn or the only person who's ever made me feel like I could be more than what I was. I love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life making sure you know it."
The words wrap around my heart, squeezing until I can barely stand.
"Marry me," he says, and it's not a question. A promise.
I don't hesitate.
"Yes."
The word leaves my lips like a prayer, like a vow.
Flynn exhales, like he's been holding his breath for years. He takes the ring from the box, his hands steady as he slides it onto my finger. It fits perfectly.
Then he stands, towering over me, his hands cupping my face. His thumbs brush away the tears I didn't even realize were falling.
"I love you," he murmurs, his voice rough.
I rise onto my toes, my hands gripping the front of his shirt. "I love you, too."
And then his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding, his arms wrapping around me like he's afraid I'll disappear. I melt into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, my body pressing against his like I'm trying to crawl inside his skin.
The vineyard fades away. The wine, the candlelight, the world… none of it matters. All that exists is him. His hands on my back, his lips on mine, the steady beat of his heart against my palm.
When we finally break apart, breathless, he rests his forehead against mine. His fingers trace the ring on my hand, his touch reverent.
"You're completely mine now," he murmurs.
I smile, my heart so full it hurts. "Always."