Chapter 16 #3
Then she opens them, already moving.
“Helena,” she calls. “Flowers inside. Lorna, tasting room backup plan. Mom, have someone call the bakery and ask if they can deliver through the side entrance. Forrest—”
She stops.
Like she caught herself asking too easily.
I wait.
Her eyes come to mine.
“You can ask,” I say.
Something in her face shifts.
Just once.
“Crates,” she says. “And the outdoor heaters. They need to go inside.”
“Done.”
The next hour is organized panic wearing boots.
Rain starts before noon, cold and hard enough to darken the gravel. The vineyard becomes moving people, tarps, crates, flowers, and guests arriving early because apparently bad weather makes everyone think wine should begin sooner.
Daisy is everywhere. Damp hair near her cheek. Sleeves pushed up. Notebook tucked under one arm. Voice bright, fast, in control.
I carry heaters, crates, boxes, a table that should have required two people, and one bucket of dahlias Helena shoves at me while saying, “Don’t damage them or I’ll use your head as a vase.”
Fair.
Liam and Carla leave after thirty minutes with excuses about another appointment.
Cowards.
By two, the storm has settled in for real.
By three, the road past the lower vineyard is half mud, and Eleanor Thorn is looking at Daisy in a way I don’t like.
“Absolutely not,” Daisy says before her mother speaks.
Eleanor sighs. “But darling girl.”
“No. We are not staying.”
“The lower road is bad, and the upper road is backed up from the tasting crowd. Forrest’s mother called to say she’d rather have you both for breakfast tomorrow since the weather is so rough.”
I look at Daisy.
Daisy looks at me.
“No,” she says again, weaker this time.
Eleanor’s voice softens. “I could use you in the morning. Just for a few hours. The rain changes the whole setup for tomorrow’s tasting reservations.”
I step closer, close enough that my shoulder nearly brushes hers.
Not touching.
Almost.
Enough that I can smell rain in her hair, coffee on her sweater, and that faint citrus thing she wears like she doesn’t know it stays in a room after she leaves.
She goes still beside me.
So do I.
“We can leave,” I say, keeping my voice low for her alone. “My truck will be fine.”
She looks at me.
Rain taps against the tasting room windows.
Behind her, the vineyard blurs through the glass.
She is damp, tired, holding a notebook curling at the edges, and still standing like she can keep the whole property from sliding into the lake if someone hands her enough binder clips and one functioning pastry.
“But if you want to leave,” I say, “we leave now.”
Her mouth parts slightly.
Not much.
Enough to make me wish this was a different room, a different day, a different lie.
Eleanor goes quiet.
Daisy’s gaze stays on mine.
Her throat moves.
“I want to stay because I missed the vineyard,” she says, as if the confession costs more than it should. “And because I can help tomorrow. And because I want breakfast with your mom before she decides I’m avoiding her and starts communicating through the Wolfcraft newsletter.”
“I appreciate that,” I say.
I mean it.
Mom would understand if we left before the weather got worse, but she would love seeing Daisy. She would pretend to be casual about it. She would fail before the coffee finished brewing.
“Thank you.”
Daisy nods once, too fast. “Fine.”
Then she turns back to her mother, chin lifted like she is negotiating with the weather, her childhood, and every bad idea that ever wore a cardigan. “We’ll stay one night.”
Eleanor’s relief is immediate and too careful. “Good. Wonderful. I’ll make up your room.”
Daisy freezes.
I don’t understand why until Helena, standing near the flowers, says, “The guest cottage has roof work. My old room is full of centerpiece supplies. The blue room has boxes from the tasting room renovation. Soren’s room is under renovation after they demolished the gray room to make it big enough for a nursery. ”
Eleanor says, “Daisy’s room is the only one available.”
Daisy looks at her mother.
Then at me.
Then back at her mother.
“My room,” she repeats.
“One night,” Eleanor says.
“Mom.”
“What?”
Daisy’s eyes widen, and for once, no joke comes.
That’s how I know it’s bad.
Daisy can make a joke with a phone at one percent, a bleeding heart, and a man asking about napkin texture. Silence from her is not silence. It is a system failure.
Eleanor glances between us. “Is there a problem?”
Several.
All of them have Daisy Thorn in a childhood bedroom and me trying to remember every rule while rain traps us in a vineyard that smells like cider, wet leaves, and bad decisions.
Daisy opens her mouth.
Closes it.
“No,” Daisy says. “No problem.”
Helena coughs into her fist.
It sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
Daisy points at her without looking. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You breathed with intent.”
Helena lifts both hands. “My lungs apologize.”
I look at the rain.
Then at Daisy.
There were plenty of things I prepared to fake this weekend.
Sleeping in Daisy Thorn’s childhood bedroom was not one of them.