17. Emma
Seventeen
Emma
I shouldn’t have been surprised, really. The telltale click clack of my mother’s kitten heels always did presage an incoming storm front.
“Emma Harrison!”
The door to my office slammed open with enough force to rattle the frosted glass panes. There stood Mother in all her gloriously prim disapproval, lips pursed into a thin bloodless line as she surveyed the modest workspace.
Her glacial eyes landed squarely on the half-empty bag of Cape Cod potato chips resting near my keyboard. With a disdainful sniff, she crossed the room in a series of measured, condemning strides.
Time seemed to slow to a viscous crawl as her manicured fingertips plucked a crumpled invoice from the organized clutter on my desk. One delicately arched eyebrow inched upward as she scanned the itemized total.
“A hot tub, Emma? Really?”
The words dripped with patrician scorn, each syllable a rapier thrust of censure. I could only gape soundlessly, caught flat-footed in the merciless spotlight of her scrutiny.
Jaw ticking in obvious displeasure, Mother wagged the incriminating document like a teacher chastising an errant pupil. “Did it not occur to you to invest in something more…prudent? A treadmill, perhaps, or a set of free weights?”
If her first verbal slap hadn’t landed hard enough, the follow-up detonated in my gut like a sucker punch, knocking the wind from my lungs with brutal finality.
“You’re gaining weight, dear,” Mother continued in that same ever-patient, faintly mocking tone. “And these constant empty calories certainly won’t help matters in that department.”
My cheeks ignited in a molten blush as humiliation’s cloying tendrils gripped me in their icy vise. Throat constricting painfully, I found myself unable to summon any defense against her scathing chastisement.
Mother’s gaze raked over me in a single sweeping, disdainful assessment. Whatever she saw rekindled the spark of blatant dismay flickering behind her mirrored composure. “You simply must endeavor to take better care of yourself, Emma.”
The crumpled chip bag lay emblazoned in my fuzzy periphery, a gnarled reminder of this latest in a lifetime’s litany of failures to uphold her lofty expectations. My heart began cracking against the accumulated strain, compounding fissures splintering wide until scorching anguish spilled forth in a scalding torrent.
The first hot tear traced its burning trail down my cheek unheeded, rapidly followed by a sodden rush of briny scorn and self-loathing. Ugly, racking sobs convulsed out of me without warning or control as two much pain and inadequacy finally gave way beneath their crushing burdens.
One, two, three shuddering gasps for air rattled out of my heaving chest before Mother straightened, ivory lips parted in the faintest ‘o’ of stunned discomfiture at this most mortifying of displays. Embarrassment swiftly chased the dismay from her porcelain features, displeasure conceding to weary resignation.
“Oh, Emma…” She closed her eyes briefly, collecting herself as decades of pride, breeding, and bone-deep reserve reasserted their implacable hold. “This…isn’t what I intended. Everything I’ve said, every criticism, is only because I worry for you. Because I love you, and want only the very best for my daughter.”
A feather-light caress brushed the febrile curls back from my brow as Mother continued in a softer tone, “You have such boundless potential, such unrestrained brilliance. I would be remiss not to guide you in realizing that to its fullest.”
She blinked, giving herself a tiny shake before forcing a watery facsimile of a smile that somehow cleaved through the fugue enshrouding my heart. Her index finger tapped against my chin, the gentlest admonition.
“This…scene would be unseemly anywhere else. So dry your tears, you shouldn’t be cry and making me feel guilty about caring for your well-being.”
I lower my gaze, unable to meet her eyes. My hands find refuge in my pockets, fidgeting with loose threads as I pivot to leave. “Okay, Mom. I’ll try to do better.”
I exit the office before she can say anything else, before the weight of her expectations can crush me further. The door clicks shut behind me, a soft, final sound that echoes in the hallway.
Minutes later, I’m sprawled on my worn leather couch—a castoff from the BnB’s lounge that Mother had deemed “charmingly rustic” (translation: not fit for paying guests)—I sought solace in the familiar. The cabin’s scents enveloped me: lavender from my homemade sachets, mingled with the vineyard’s ever-present notes of grape and earth.
The leather is cool against my skin, grounding me as I try to shake off the emotional turbulence. I reach for my phone, before grabbing the photo frame from the coffee table and placing it to mark the place in the novel I am reading—dual escapes, one digital, one analogue.
My fingers moved on autopilot, scrolling through Instagram as I attempted to drown out Mother’s lingering words. Reels flashed by—a kaleidoscope of sunlit vines, glistening glasses, and beaming visitors. Our vineyard’s digital face, each frame carefully selected to project an image of pastoral perfection.
Then, a video stopped my thumb’s mechanical journey. A place in Japan, offering… wine baths? The sight of people submerged in deep, burgundy-hued tubs, surrounded by oak and candlelight, tugged at something within me. It was whimsical, unconventional—everything I would love to bring into our vineyard
A laugh, small and fragile, escaped my lips. Without hesitation, I forward the video to my WhatsApp group with Leo and Ethan. Those two will get a kick out of this—
A small, rebellious smile tugs at my lips. I can already picture Ethan’s reaction—his eyes lighting up, fingers flying over his iPad as he drafts proposals to add this to our resort amenities. We’ve been knee-deep in plans to transform the quaint BnB into a luxury resort, complete with cabin upgrades that would make Architectural Digest swoon. Adding “wine therapy” to our wedding destination pitch? It’s so outlandish, it loops back to genius.
The only wild card is Leo. Since he agreed to step in as both CEO and CFO of Aimer les Vins, every conversation has been a deep dive into profit margins and ROI. It’s like he’s possessed by the spirit of a Wall Street tycoon, all talk of “liquidity ratios” and “debt-to-equity.” But beneath the corporate jargon, there’s a method to his madness. After all, this is the man who turned the stock market into his personal ATM, amassing billions over the past eighteen years through tactics that probably deserve their own Harvard Business School case study.
His financial wizardry makes him our biggest investor, with Ethan and me trailing behind. It’s a fact Leo never lets us forget, especially during budget meetings. But his eyes—those calculating green orbs that can intimidate hedge fund managers—always soften when he looks at our vineyard. This isn’t just an investment to him; it’s home.
I roll onto my side, making myself comfortable on the plush leather couch. The cabin’s interior is a blend of rustic charm and modern luxury—a testament to our ongoing renovations. Outside, through floor-to-ceiling windows, rows of grapevines stretch to the horizon, a living, breathing balance sheet in Leo’s world.
My hand reaches for the side table, fingers brushing past my phone to grasp an Alpenliebe candy. As it dissolves on my tongue, a wave of nostalgia washes over me. The sweet, milky flavor transports me back to childhood summers when Uncle Arjun would visit from India, his suitcase always laden with these treasures. Even now, halfway across the world, he keeps my stash replenished—a small act of love spanning continents.
I return to my book, “She Was Made for Me” by Jen Morris. Five minutes pass in this bubble of tranquility. The protagonist is about to confront her love interest when my phone chimes, the sound echoing in the cabin’s open space. I let out a soft groan—partly at the interruption, partly at the exquisite tension in the novel.
Slipping the photo frame back between the pages, I reach for my phone. The screen illuminates, casting a soft glow on my face. It’s a text notification from our group chat.
I blink, momentarily stunned. This isn’t the Leo I expected—all numbers and projections. This is… passionate, almost poetic. My eyes dart across the words “queens” and “rose petals,” and for a fleeting moment, I envision myself submerged in a sea of burgundy wine, crowned with delicate petals with the rugged man next door his soothing voice in my ears as he- A blush creeps up my neck, and I’m grateful for the solitude of my cabin. I shake my head clear of the intoxicating images and try to formulate a response, but Leo isn’t done.
I smile, warmth spreading through my chest like the sun-drenched vines outside my window. Leaning back into the leather embrace of my couch, I let out a long, contented sigh. The Alpenliebe’s sweetness lingers on my tongue, mingling with the taste of possibility—a flavor profile as complex as our finest Cabernet.
My reverie is interrupted by the sharp trill of my phone. The screen lights up with Daisy’s face—a candid shot from our college days, her blonde curls wild from dancing all night. I tap to answer, my smile widening. “Hey Daiz.”
“Hello Emmy. Guess what?” Her voice is a staccato of excitement, words tumbling out in rapid succession. It’s so quintessentially Daisy—direct, effervescent, the human equivalent of our sparkling rosé. It’s why I love her.
“What?” I ask, already bracing for whatever whirlwind she’s about to pull me into.
“Augustino is on the other line. Wait, let me merge the calls,” she says. Augustino—or Auggie, as we call him—is the final note in our trio’s harmony. A freshman when we were sophomores, we met during a college fest and became inseparable.
There’s a click, then a deep, warm voice fills my cabin. “Hey Emmy.”
“Hey Auggie, what’s up?” I put the phone on speaker, freeing my hands to reclaim my novel. His voice, rich as aged port, makes my cabin feel even cozier.
“So, I was calling because I need help from both of you,” he says.
Daisy and I respond in unison: “What do you need?” Her tone is eager, mine curious—a subtle difference that encapsulates our dynamic.
“My Zio is getting married next year, and I need help finding a good venue. Our family villa in Sicily is a no-go with renovations.” There’s a pause, heavy with unspoken weight. “And… everything else going on.”
I bite my lower lip, a habit from my shy, introverted days. People whisper that Auggie’s father is a leader in one of the five families ruling New York’s underworld. But Auggie? He’s the biggest golden retriever I’ve ever met—all warmth and wagging tail. The idea of him in the Mafia is like suggesting our lightest Pinot Grigio could intimidate a bold Syrah.
Yet, in that weighted pause, I hear echoes of a world far removed from my sun-dappled vines. A world where “renovations” might mean something entirely different.
Suddenly, adrenaline rushes through me like the first taste of our Ice Wine—shockingly sweet, bracingly cold. An idea crystallizes, as clear and precise as Leo’s financial projections.
“How about Aimer Les Vins?” My voice is steady, infused with a confidence that surprises even me. “The renovations here should be done in five to six months. I can send you pictures of the existing vineyard and the renovation project. What do you say?”
There’s a heartbeat of silence. In that moment, I see our estate through new eyes: the terraced hillsides that could host a ceremony, the wine cave where vows would echo off ancient stone, the sprawling lawns perfect for a reception under the stars. Not just a venue, but a canvas for new beginnings.
“That sounds amazing,” Auggie says, his tone brightening. Then, a shift: “But if we agree to do the wedding there, I have to talk to you and Leone to discuss some… security and other pressing issues.”
The words land like pressed grapes—heavy, full of hidden complexities. In my mind’s eye, I see Leo in his office, sleeves rolled up, dissecting Auggie’s request with the same intensity he applies to our financial strategies. Security isn’t just about cameras and guards; it’s about reputation, alliances, the delicate dance of power.
“Of course,” I hear myself say. My voice is soft, but there’s a steel underneath—the same resilience that helps our vines survive harsh winters. “We’ll handle everything, Auggie. Your family’s safety, their privacy… it’s as important to us as the quality of our wine.”
Daisy chimes in, her bubbly tone a stark contrast to the gravity of the moment. “Oh my God, Emmy! A Mafia wedding at your vineyard? This is like something out of a movie!”
“Daiz!” I admonish, but there’s no heat in it. Her candor, while sometimes shocking, is as much a part of her charm as her infectious laugh.
Auggie’s chuckle rumbles through the speaker—deep, reassuring, like the oak barrels in our cellar. “It’s okay, Emmy. But let’s say… a very important family, with very particular needs.”
I nod, though he can’t see me. Outside, the sun is setting behind the hills, painting our vines in shades of gold and burgundy. In this ethereal light, our estate looks almost magical—a place where anything could happen, even a wedding that bridges two very different worlds.
“I’ll talk to Leo,” I say. “We’ve faced every challenge together: market crashes, late frosts, even my mother’s… exacting standards.” A wry smile tugs at my lips. “Whatever your family needs, the three of us will make it happen. That’s a promise, sealed in our best vintage.”
After spending the next fifteen minutes catching up before ending the call, I open my laptop. A quick text to Leo and Ethan about the wedding, then I dive into creating a mood board for the meeting with Auggie’s Zio and his fiancée. Color palettes, floral arrangements, wine pairings—each element carefully chosen to reflect both Italian opulence and our vineyard’s rustic charm.
I’m deep in a Pinterest rabbit hole, debating between blush roses and white peonies, when a knock at my door jolts me back to reality. Dragging my feet across the polished hardwood, I open the door—and am immediately engulfed by two small, enthusiastic bodies.
“Emma!” Lily and Cody chorus, wrapping themselves around my waist with the unrestrained affection only children can offer.
“Hey, guys,” I laugh, the warmth of their embrace melting away any lingering stress. But as I look up, my breath catches in my throat. There, filling my doorway with his imposing presence, is Ridge.
Our eyes lock—deep emerald meeting startled brown—and for a moment, the world tilts on its axis. Unbidden, an image floods my mind: Ridge and me in one of our wine baths, the rich Cabernet lapping at our skin, his hands and lips exploring every inch of me. The fantasy is so vivid, so tactile, that I blink dizzily, struggling to regain focus.
This crush is spiraling out of control. With each encounter, each new facet of his personality revealed—his kindness, his understated sweetness, the fierce care he has for his children—I fall deeper into his web. He’s like one of our most complex wines: intimidating at first sip, but with layers that unfold slowly, seductively.
“Hey, Emma.” His deep voice cuts through my reverie like a perfectly aged Syrah—bold, rich, with an undercurrent of something dark and enticing. I swallow hard, trying to moisten my suddenly dry throat. “Hey, Ridge. Come on in.”
As he passes, his scent envelops me—dark sawdust, earth, and something undefinably masculine. It’s an aroma that speaks of hard work under open skies, of quiet strength. He’s dressed in jeans and a Henley, with a thick flannel shirt thrown over it. The layers are a concession to the dropping temperatures; soon, our vineyard will be blanketed in snow. The thought sends a shiver of anticipation through me, one that has little to do with the cold.
“Do you mind looking after Lily and Cody for a couple hours?” he asks. “I have to go pick up Avery from James’ place, and I don’t want them to get bored on the ride.” Then, leaning in conspiratorially, he adds in a whisper that brushes warm against my ear, “Also, I can’t listen to one more second of why Emma is so nice and fun.”
A giggle escapes my lips, unbidden and girlish. Ridge sucks in a sharp, deep breath, the sound almost pained. When he pulls back, his green eyes are nearly obsidian—dark, intense, like the heart of our most robust Syrah. The sight sends a tremor through me, a physical response as potent as any wine tasting.
“Of course,” I manage. “We can soak in my new hot tub.” The kids erupt with excitement, their energy filling my cabin.
“Can we have bubbles?” Cody asks, bouncing on his toes. “And wine?” Lily adds slyly, her father’s smirk in miniature.
“No wine,” Ridge scolds, shooting me a sidelong glance that’s equal parts amusement and…something else. I roll my eyes, playing along with our unspoken banter.
“How about bubbles and candies?” I offer. Their enthusiastic chorus of agreement is music to my ears.
“Thank you, little flower,” Ridge whispers, the endearment falling from his lips as naturally as if he’s been saying it for years. Then, louder, “Be good, both of you.”
“He means you, Lil,” Cody interjects, and Lily’s nonchalant shrug is so quintessentially her father that my heart swells.
As Ridge turns to leave, his gaze travels over me with the same meticulous attention he’d give a prize stallion or a particularly promising vine. His eyes trace the curve of my neck, the slope of my shoulders, lingering at the dip of my waist before rising to meet mine. In that suspended moment, the air between us feels charged, like the static electricity that precedes a summer storm in the vineyard.
His tongue darts out, moistening his lips, and my stomach tightens in response—a visceral reaction, as immediate and overwhelming as the first sip of our most robust Syrah. His eyes, those deep wells of green that have become my personal Rorschach test, hold mine captive. In their depths, I see flickers of something untamed, something that calls to an equally wild part of me that I’ve kept carefully pruned.
He places his cowboy hat back on his head, the motion deliberate and achingly slow. It’s a gesture I’ve seen a hundred times, yet now it feels like a performance, an intimate ritual I’m privileged to witness. The hat settles, casting a shadow that only accentuates the chiseled planes of his face.
“Don’t let them eat too many candies,” he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my bones. “Or I’ll end up with two kids who won’t sleep and won’t let me sleep.”
The corner of my mouth quirks up in a smirk—not the polite, measured expression I offer at wine tastings, but something sharper, more daring. “We wouldn’t want that,” I murmur, my voice dropping to a register I hardly recognize. “I’d much rather something else entirely keeping you up at night.”
The words hang between us, heavy and ripe as our late-harvest Riesling grapes. For a heartbeat, there’s silence—the kind of weighted pause that precedes a significant vintage reveal. Then, like a slow-moving landslide, a deep flush rises on Ridge’s face. It starts at his collar, climbing steadily upward until even the tips of his ears are stained.
He tips his hat, a futile attempt to hide the blush, but not before I’ve committed every nuance of color to memory. In the soft, forgiving light of my cabin, his embarrassment is as beautiful as our Pinot Noir vines in autumn—all deep reds and burnished golds.
He shakes his head, a gesture of disbelief or perhaps surrender, and walks out. The door closes behind him with a soft click that somehow manages to echo through my suddenly too-large, too-quiet space.
I remain rooted to the spot, my heart performing a staccato rhythm against my ribs. Did I really say that? Me, Emma—the shy, introverted girl who used to hide behind my books and phone? The heat that painted Ridge’s cheeks now flames across my own, a delayed response to my own audacity. I blame it on Jen Morris as I am adopting whatever bold personality that she has written for the FMC in She was made for me. Damn you Jen Morris.
“Emma! Can we go in the hot tub now?” Lily’s voice, high and bright, breaks through my daze. I turn to the children, their faces alight with an anticipation so pure, so uncomplicated, that I can’t help but mirror their smiles.
“Alright, you two,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Let’s get this bubble party started.”
As I lead them down the hallway to where my new hot tub awaits—a luxurious addition that epitomizes our resort’s evolution—my mind rebelliously wanders back to Ridge. His presence lingers in my cabin like the last notes of a fine wine on the palate: his earthy, masculine scent clinging to the air, the echo of his deep voice resonating in the corners.
The hot tub room is a tranquil oasis, with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the vineyard in a living tableau. As the children shed their outer layers, giggling with excitement, I adjust the water temperature and activate the jets. Soon, a mountain of iridescent bubbles rises, transforming the tub into a whimsical, effervescent playground.
“Last one in is a rotten grape!” Cody shouts, and they both leap in with squeals of delight, sending water splashing over the sides. Their joy is infectious, pulling a genuine laugh from my lips.
I slip into the water, its warmth enveloping me like a tender embrace. But as I lean back, feeling the jets work their magic on my tense shoulders, it’s not just the heat that’s causing my skin to tingle. The memory of Ridge’s gaze, his flushed face, the way his tongue traced his lower lip—these sensations overlay the present moment, creating a layered experience as complex as our most celebrated Bordeaux blend.
“Emma, look! I’m Santa Claus!” Lily exclaims, having fashioned herself a beard from the bubbles. Her innocent play stands in stark contrast to the decidedly adult thoughts swirling in my mind.
“Very festive,” I laugh, splashing water playfully in her direction. “Maybe we should rename our Cabernet to ‘Santa’s Secret Stash’.”
As the children’s laughter fills the room, harmonizing with the hum of the jets, I find myself in a moment of perfect counterpoint. The day just kept getting better after the shitty afternoon I had.