4. Emma
Four
Emma
T he bell above the reception area door jingles, and my heart stutters in my chest as Ridge strides in, Avery cradled securely in his muscular arms. It’s like a bolt of electricity surging through me just from laying eyes on him again. Twice in one morning is simply unfair - how is a girl supposed to catch her breath and recover when he keeps appearing like some kind of mirage conjured from my deepest desires?
I almost topple right off my chair as our gazes lock. Those forest green eyes of his feel like they’re piercing straight through to my soul. The man is pure rugged masculinity from the tousled midnight black hair peeking out from under his cowboy hat to the scuffed boots encasing his feet. A dark scruff shadows his chiseled jawline, like he hasn’t shaved in a day or two, only amplifying his roguish appeal. But it’s the shirt straining against the sculpted contours of his chest that really does me in. I can practically see every ridged plane and valley of those pecs and abs through the thin cotton fabric. He’s every ranch hand fantasy come to life.
“Hey,” Ridge rumbles in that low baritone that has a Pavlovian effect on my insides. There’s the barest hint of a smirk playing on those full, plump lips as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
The single gravelly syllable is like being caressed by velvet, and I have to clench my thighs together as desire pools hotly between my legs. Get a grip, Emma! I mentally rebuke myself, heat flooding my cheeks. This man is a father - he probably just wants someone to watch his kid for a little while, not fantasize about debauching him over the reception desk. Though now that I’ve had the thought, I can’t seem to shake the image of me splayed out on the sleek wood surface, skirt hiked up as Ridge’s muscular frame looms over me, trailing scorching kisses along my overheated skin…
“Hey,” I finally manage to croak out, my voice emerging an embarrassingly breathy rasp. Way to play it cool, genius. I push up from my chair, legs trembling faintly like a newborn colt’s, and come around to the front of the counter. Squaring my shoulders, I paste on what I hope is a warm, normal smile as I greet Avery. “Hey, sweetie.”
Ridge shifts the adorable little girl higher onto his hip, her cherubic face brightening as she recognizes me. “emememe!” she babbles excitedly, making grabby hands in my direction.
“What’s up, buttercup?” I coo, bopping her tiny button nose and cupping her downy cheek. The sweet baby scent of her calms the raging hormones thundering through my veins…for about two seconds before I glance back up at Ridge and that deliciously rugged beard.
Up this close, I can see how the fine silver strands catch the sunlight filtering in through the window. His arms are absolutely mouthwatering, bunched and straining with sinewy muscle from supporting his daughter’s weight. If I lean in just a bit, I could inhale his rugged, earthy scent…
“Got a couple hours of ranch work to get through,” Ridge explains, jolting me from my inappropriate reverie. “I’ll come pick her up once I am done.”
He arches one brow quizzically, like he’s caught me doing something I shouldn’t.
“Uh, y-yeah!” I stammer, resisting the urge to rake my fingers through my hair - a nervous habit leftover from childhood. “Yeah, no problem at all. I’d love to watch Avery.” Forcing a bit more brightness into my tone, I wiggle my fingers at the little girl enticingly. “We’ll have all kinds of fun together, won’t we, sweetpea?”
Avery cheers, squirming happily.
The corners of Ridge’s sensuous mouth tug upwards in an amused half-smile that makes my knees perilously weak. With great reluctance, he transfers his daughter into my arms, our bodies brushing for the barest hint of a moment. But that fleeting point of contact is enough to make my nerve-endings burst into kaleidoscopic sparks. The man is scorching hot - like I’ve been struck by lightning.
“Thanks, darlin’,” he rumbles in that buttery smooth accent. “I owe you one.”
If only he knew just how many deliriously filthy thoughts I’ve entertained about him that I want when claiming that debt from him. But before I can say or do anything too mortifyingly embarrassing, he turns on his booted heel and heads back out the door, hips swaying in that bowlegged ranch hand stride. My eyes are utterly glued to the masterful play of muscle and denim across that supremely fuckable ass.
Somehow I manage to keep my composure until Ridge’s muscular figure retreats through the door, those mouthwateringly snug jeans hugging his lean hips to perfection. The moment he’s out of sight, I exhale a long, shuddering breath, my knees going watery-weak. How am I supposed to get any work done when my mind is utterly consumed with X-rated fantasies about the rugged ranch owner next door?
Avery squirms in my arms, oblivious to the torrent of molten lust roaring through my veins. “Sweep?” she asks hopefully, those big doe eyes blinking up at me.
“Actually, sweetpea, I’ve got some work to catch up on,” I murmur, hefting her higher onto my hip as I cross to the office nook off the main reception area. “But you can sleep right here with me while I finish up, okay?”
As if in agreement, she gives a contented little hum and nestles her honey-sweet head against my chest. My heart clenches with gentle longing. She’s just the most precious little thing - to have a daughter this darling someday would be an utter dream.
Once inside, I plop onto the worn leather sofa tucked in the corner, situating Avery comfortably on my lap. Her tiny rosebud mouth splits into an adorable yawn, those long sooty lashes fluttering sleepily. The poor thing must have had an early morning trailing after her dad on the ranch, and the steady rhythm of my breathing soon lulls her into slumber.
The vineyards’ web and social media presence desperately need some sprucing up - fresh photos of the newly blossoming grapes, updated touring info, maybe some Q&A highlight reels to pique interest. Maybe I can get Ethan to talk about his and mine Wine experiments for our socials, or do some live wine tastings. I make a mental note to talk to Ethan about our Social Media presence.
For a blissful stretch of maybe an hour, I immerse myself in crunching numbers for our upcoming summer event packages, blessedly distracted from thoughts of Avery’s outrageously sexy father. My laptop balanced on the armrest, I crunch figures in a spreadsheet, brow furrowed in concentration. Every so often, I glance down at Avery’s cherubic face, so peaceful and unburdened as she slumbers. She looks like a little angel with those plump cheeks and fluttery lashes fanned over her skin.
God, the idea of Ridge creating something so perfect and innocent with his ex-wife makes my heart clench behind my ribs. I can’t even imagine what he went through when that shrew abandoned him and their babies so callously. He may act all gruff and closed-off, but underneath that chiseled, damn exterior, but with the way he was acting around lily that morning or just how he acts around his kids shows he must be a soft and fluffy as a teddy bear.
The thought makes me ache for him in a way that sucker punches the air right out of my lungs. How could someone walk away from the this? From a man who’s not just ridiculously handsome in that brooding, ludicrously fuckable way, but who clearly has the biggest, kindest heart locked away beneath all those gruff and scowls? I feel a wild burst of protectiveness for Ridge.
It’s just not fair that someone so sweet and loving on the inside should get repeatedly burnt by life. Unbidden, my free hand drifts down to smooth over Avery’s baby-soft curls, tracing her angelic features with a featherlight touch. She’s so unquestioningly trusting and open, never cruelly shut off from the world, the way I suspect Ridge has built up walls around his heart. How could someone bear to break that trust, to deliver those kinds of scars at such a tender age?
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that, sweetpea,” I whisper, cupping her plump cheek while a stray tear slides down my own. The injustice of it all ignites a flame of anger towards her mother - how could she betray her children and their father so selfishly?
My thumb gently brushes away the silvery teardrop trickling over her baby-soft skin. Hardly daring to move, to breathe too loudly, I sink into the buttery leather and let Avery’s innocent milky breaths lull me into a light doze. I can’t seem to summon the energy to go back to my spreadsheets and projections. A bone-deep weariness seeps through my veins, leaving me drained and a bit melancholy for reasons I can’t quite explain.
When next my lids flutter open, it’s to find Avery’s cornflower blue eyes peering up at me with sleepy curiosity. “Hey there, snugglebug,” I murmur, voice raspy from my unexpected nap. “I think we both needed that siesta.”
Stretching languorously, Avery beams up at me, all bright smiles and sparkly-eyed mirth, the heaviness weighing me down melting away like so much morning mist. “Hungee!” she announces imperiously, patting her little tummy.
A bubbly giggle slips free at her adorable tippy-toes mannerisms. “You got it, kiddo. Lunch first, then we can play - sound like a plan?”
Her enthusiastic nodding sends those wild walnut curls bouncing, and I can’t resist pressing a smacking kiss to the crown of her head. Unfortunately, the office kitchen is a sad, bare-bones affair with nothing more alluring than a battered mini-fridge and some stale graham crackers. Definitely not up to discerning toddler standards.
“C’mon, Buttercup,” I hoist her higher onto my hip, relishing her warm weight. “Let’s go raid the big kitchen and see if we can scrounge up some better grub.” Thankfully her hunger dims the spark of my grief over her situation to just a low smolder, overshadowed by her wide-eyed wonderment when I carry her into the industrial-sized cooking quarters.
It takes a bit of creative ferrying and rummaging, but soon I’ve assembled somewhat of a balanced meal: applesauce, string cheese, Ritz crackers, and a banana for dessert. Avery digs in with toddler gusto, smearing the peach goop all over her cheeks and making me laugh until my sides ache. When the last bite is polished off, she claps her sticky hands together and declares gleefully: “Pay! Pay pay!”
“You wanna go play, huh?” I brush the crumbs from her lap and nose affectionately. “Alright, little Miss Impatient. How about I take you to a very fun place that Ethan showed me?”
She bobs her head up and down vigorously, chestnut curls bouncing in sweet disarray. My heart squeezes at her unbridled enthusiasm over even the simplest pleasures. If only the rest of us could view the world through such bright, shiny lenses of pure delight. I text my mom to tell her to take over the reception during my shift that starts in five minutes as I will be at one of the Vats.
Scooping her up, I nuzzle into the powdery warmth of her neck, inhaling that delicious fresh baby scent. “To the vineyards, noble steed! Our quest for merriment awaits!”
Avery dissolves into peals of giggles as I gallop dramatically from the tasting room, jostling her in my arms. The floral headiness of ripening vines washes over us as soon as I breach the towering french doors leading outside. Heat shimmers in wavering mirages over the endless rows of verdant grape leaves, draping their canopies to shelter the deep blue-purple orbs peeking out from tangled clusters.
An earthy, dusty perfume hangs thick in the arid spring air, ripening vines plumped to bursting. I breathe it in greedily, never tiring of this scent that feels as primal as the earth’s very bones - crisp, spicy-green, and ripe with the intoxicating promise of fermentation to come.
Avery squirms restlessly in my arms, clearly nonplussed by my poetic musings. With a soft laugh, I aim us towards the large wooden vat tucked around the side of the main outbuilding. Ethan had shown it to me this morning, explaining how it collects the stemmed grape rejects deemed unsuitable for vintage - blemished orbs and shriveled skins that will go to waste otherwise.
For my purposes today, though, their imperfections are absolutely perfect.
“Come on, buttercup,” I croon, balancing Avery on my hip as I step into the vat, sighing at the sumptuous slide of skins and pulp underfoot.
It takes a few seconds, but then she must decide it feels just peachy because she launches directly into squishing the grapes between her tiny palms with glee. Reckless flecks of deep purple spray in every direction, spattering our clothes and hair with sticky remnants.
“Eeeeeeee!” she shrieks joyfully.
Laughing in delight, I retaliate by flinging a handful of pulpy skins directly at her tummy. A fresh peal of delighted shrieks erupts as she flings her arms wide, positively showering us in a sudsy purple rain.
“Emm…ma!” she gurgles breathlessly, shaking her riotous curls to rid them of stray grape detritus. Then she launches right back into mushing with abandon, lost in the pure childlike bliss of this simple activity.
I can’t resist following suit, stomping and twisting my bare feet into the slick mash, grinding the ripe flesh and pulp through my toes. Swirling kaleidoscopic stains of plum and aubergine blossom and slither across my pale calves, lapping against the hems of my cut-off shorts.
An involuntary shiver ripples through me at the weird wet friction, as I add my own raucous shrieks and cackles. I’ve never felt so free, so untamed, as I do surrender to this fun messy ritual. Every anxiety, every grown-up care evaporates as I lose myself to the purely hedonistic joy of squishy grapes and Avery’s rosebud laughter.
At some point, the back door crashes open and heavy footsteps thud across the crushed gravel. “What’s all the commotion out here?” Ethan calls, sounding more amused than irritated as he comes around the corner.
“Et’an! Et’an!” Avery shrieks gleefully upon spotting him.
Grinning, Ethan hops up onto the vat’s edge, booted feet dangling into the slick mess. “Well, don’t mind if I do join the party.”
With that, he vaults himself in, sending a tidal wave of pulpy juice sloshing over us. I shriek as the icy shock of sugary sweet must rains down, only to quickly dissolve into helpless laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Ethan comes up spluttering, hair dripping in sticky rivulets down his forehead.
“Having fun there, short stack?” he teases, stooping to scoop up a fat handful of grapes to wing directly at me.
I duck just in time, the gloppy mass whizzing harmlessly past to explode in a thick splatter right across the oncoming solid wall of muscle behind me.
“What in the name of holy hell is going on here?” a low, gravelly baritone growls in a tone that instantly liquifies my insides.
Ridge.