Epilogue
Elise
The last six months have been a blur. We made the most of the fall harvest, and then winter settled hard over Paradise.
But nothing’s been still. Zach’s been meeting with the police, supposedly telling them everything he knows.
He’ll probably serve some time, but Kingston and his brothers have stood by him.
Family doesn’t stop being family, and I think it’s become clear to all that Max was the one pulling the strings.
He’s facing jail time for sure. He still swears nothing happened with Evelyn, but after all his lies, no one’s buying it. It’s just a matter of finding the proof. And the police are investigating.
In happier news, Trace and Dad have finally made it official—they’ve retired. We threw them a huge party, and now they’re off on a cruise somewhere warm. Dad confessed that he’s been seeing someone. Evidently, he was worried I’d take it hard, but I’m glad for him. He deserves that kind of peace.
And today, Kingston and I are heading south of the equator, along with the rest of his siblings.
The grandkids are with their grandparents.
The engines thrums through me as Kingston’s plane cuts toward Argentina.
We’ve all come together for this trip, leaving the snow and winter behind in favor of some warm weather.
Kingston’s siblings and their partners fill the cabin—Greyson and Trinity tucked into the seats behind us, Beckett and Sadie trading quiet smiles, Ryker and Ginny already arguing over cards, and Tarryn leaning forward with Declan at her side, her notebook open to vineyard drawings.
For Tarryn and me, this is more than family time.
It’s a chance to walk the rows in another place, study new grapes, and dream about what they could become back at Paradise Hill.
Across from me, Kingston stretches one long leg out, his hand curled loosely around a glass of water, his gaze fixed on me more than the horizon. Six months have passed since that family dinner that changed everything, and he still looks at me like I’m both miracle and trouble. I love it.
We’ve been happy, eventually sorting through all our past wounds and mistakes, and vowing to treat each other honestly.
That’s left us tangled together through long days at the vineyard and quiet nights in his house.
My label is taking shape now, bottles lined in tidy rows with a logo I designed myself, using my name and a glass etching of Paradise Hill.
It still feels impossible that something I created could sit on a table halfway across the world.
The plane tips slightly as we climb higher, and I press my palm to the cool window. Clouds stretch beneath us like folds of white silk. Kingston leans forward and tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my cheek.
“You nervous?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Excited. Argentina feels like another world.”
“You’ll love it,” he says. “Though you’ll have to forgive me for butchering the language. My Spanish is limited to cerveza and bano.”
I laugh. “That’s most of what you need to survive.”
His grin widens, and he picks up one of the vineyard maps I’ve spread across the seat between us. “Tell me again why these vines are special.”
I lean closer, fingertip tracing the rows marked in bold. “They’re malbec. The soil here is rocky and high altitude, which gives the grapes a rich, dark flavor. It’s not something we can grow at Paradise Hill. But I want to blend with them, create something bold that still feels like me.”
Kingston tilts his head, studying me with that sharp intensity that sometimes makes my breath falter. “Feels like you,” he repeats softly.
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “What?”
“Just thinking how far you’ve come. Six months ago, you didn’t believe you belonged anywhere. Now, you’re planning vintages that carry your name.”
I look down at the map, my throat tightening. He’s right. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine anything lasting, when I believed every good thing was borrowed time. Now, I feel rooted, and it has everything to do with him, with the progress we’ve made together.
The plane jolts through a pocket of air, and I grip the armrest. Kingston reaches across and covers my hand with his. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
I breathe out slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax. He doesn’t let go right away, and I don’t want him to.
When the turbulence settles, I glance out again. The sky glows with morning light, endless and bright. The future is not something to fear but something to step into, hand in hand with him.
As we land, the wheels bump against the runway, and the jolt makes me grab Kingston’s arm. He only laughs, unbothered as always, and when the plane slows to a crawl, he kisses the top of my head.
“Welcome to Argentina,” he says, as if he built the place himself.
The heat rushes in the moment we step off the stairs. It’s a different kind of warmth than back home, drier and spiced with the scent of earth and citrus trees that line the road. I breathe it in and close my eyes for a second, letting it sink into me.
Kingston guides me with a hand at the small of my back. His touch has become so constant that I miss it when he pulls away, even for a moment. We pass a roadside stand where a man is grilling meat. Smoke drifts over us, and my stomach growls.
“Hungry?” Kingston teases.
“Always.”
He grins, sliding his sunglasses down over his eyes. “I’ll have them set something up at the villa for later. Steak and wine. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”
We gather our things and say goodbye to the others for now as a car waits to takes us immediately to the first vineyard.
We’re starting with a family-run vineyard and winery similar to ours.
The land stretches wide, rows of vines disappearing into the horizon with the mountains behind them.
It’s breathtaking, like a painting come alive.
When Kingston and I arrive, we’re greeted by Mateo, the vintner who owns the property. He shakes our hands firmly, speaking quick Spanish I half understand. Then he switches to English with a grin. “We’re honored to show you our vines.”
He leads us between rows heavy with fruit. I slip my sandals off and let my toes sink into the dirt, which is loose and warm. I crouch to grab a handful, letting it sift through my fingers.
“This,” I say softly, “is what makes the wine what it is. The altitude, the soil, the way the sun hits it.”
Kingston crouches beside me and examines the earth. “Yes, very complex terroir. I was just about to say that myself.”
I elbow him and laugh. “Stick to saving lives, Paradise.”
He grins, unashamed, and kisses my cheek before standing again.
Inside the cool stone cellar, barrels line the walls, their scent of oak and fermenting fruit filling the air. Mateo hands me a glass to taste. The wine is deep and lush, heavy with blackberries and spice, and I close my eyes as it rolls over my tongue.
“Perfect,” I whisper.
Kingston studies me more than the wine. “You’re glowing.”
“I love this,” I admit. “Every part of it. I can see it now, blending these grapes with ours. It’ll be bold. Different. Mine.” Pride swells in me, a warmth that has nothing to do with the wine or the heat outside. Standing here, with Kingston’s hand brushing mine, I know the dream is real.
When the formal tour is over, we thank Mateo, and then Kingston slips his hand into mine and pulls me away. The sun hangs lower now, spilling gold over the vines, and the rows stretch like endless green corridors waiting just for us.
“Come on,” he says, voice low, like it’s a secret meant only for me.
We duck between two lines of vines, the leaves brushing my arms as we pass. I tug off my sandals again and press my bare feet into the soil, loving the way it crumbles and warms beneath my toes. Kingston watches me with an amused smile, like he’s cataloging every move I make.
“You’ll ruin your pedicure,” he teases.
“Worth it,” I say, lifting my arms to spin in the narrow path. The vines blur green and gold around me. When I stop, a little dizzy, Kingston is already there, catching me by the waist.
His mouth brushes mine, soft at first, then deeper. I melt against him, the earthy scent of grapes and dust wrapping around us. I never thought I could feel this light, like my whole life has folded into one sunlit row.
We wander farther until the vineyard opens onto a terrace overlooking the valley. A bottle and two glasses wait there, set out by someone thoughtful. Kingston uncorks it and pours, handing me a glass before settling beside me on the stone ledge. The wine is rich and smoky, clinging to my tongue.
I lean against him, my head resting just below his shoulder. His shirt smells faintly of cedar and the long day’s sun.
“Do you realize how far we’ve come?” he asks.
I glance up. “What do you mean?”
“Neither of us believed in forever. You didn’t know if you’d ever belong anywhere.
And I didn’t think I deserved another chance.
” He tilts his glass, watching the light catch on the surface.
“But look at us now. You’re building something that carries your name.
You’re part of Paradise. You’re part of me. ”
His words press into me like warmth, almost too much to hold. “I didn’t believe in forever,” I whisper, “until you.”
For a beat, we fall into silence, the kind that feels full rather than empty. The mountains glow purple. A breeze lifts the hair at my temples.
When I look at him again, his expression has shifted. There’s a nervous energy in the set of his jaw, a quiet tension I don’t usually see in him. His thumb strokes absent circles over the back of my hand, and I realize he’s working up to something.
“What is it?” I ask, my heart tightening.