Page 11 of The Vines Between Us

I said nothing, letting the silence stretch. It was a negotiation tactic I'd used countless times in Paris—force the other party to fill the uncomfortable void. Rousseau recognized the game immediately; his eyes gleamed with appreciation.

"I'll be direct, Monsieur Moreau. VitaVine is prepared to make an immediate offer for Domaine Moreau. Full debt clearance, plus a fifteen percent premium. Clean slate, no complications."

"Not interested," I replied.

"You haven't heard the figure."

"I don't need to."

He leaned back, studying me. "Sentiment is admirable, but rarely profitable. Your grandfather's legacy is already fading with each passing day those vines remain untended."

"Then I'd better get back to tending them."

Rousseau chuckled, reaching into his jacket to produce a business card. He placed it on the table between us.

"The offer stands for thirty days. After that..." He shrugged elegantly. "Market conditions change. Debts accumulate. Equipment fails."

The threat was subtle but unmistakable.

"Is that what happened to Mathieu Lefèvre?" I asked. "Market conditions changed?"

Something cold flashed behind his eyes before the mask of cordiality returned. "Monsieur Lefèvre made a business decision that benefited all parties. As will others in the coming months."

He stood, rebuttoning his jacket. "Think about it, Alexandre. You're a businessman. You understand that sometimes the kindest thing we can do for something we love is to let it go to those with the resources to save it."

"I know exactly what Domaine Moreau needs," I replied, leaving his card untouched on the table. "And it isn't VitaVine."

His smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "We'll speak again soon."

The café remained silent as Rousseau departed, the bell's cheerful chime incongruous with the tension he left behind. Through the window, I watched him pause on the square, surveying the village once more before returning to his Bentley.

"Well," Madame Fontaine finally said, "that was illuminating."

Marcel shook his head. "Fifteen percent premium. That's three times what he offered Mathieu."

"They want your land badly," Alain added. "Must be something special about the Moreau terroir. Henri poured his heart and soul into it for a reason."

The bell chimed again, and I tensed until I saw it was Hugo entering, carrying a crate of produce. He stopped short, sensing the atmosphere.

"What happened? You all look like you've seen a ghost."

"VitaVine happened," Madame Fontaine replied, taking the crate from him. "Their man Rousseau just left after making Monsieur Moreau an offer."

Hugo's eyes found mine, concern evident. "Rousseau was here? What did he say?"

I shrugged. "Standard acquisition pitch. Debt clearance plus fifteen percent."

"Fifteen?" Hugo's eyebrows shot up. "That's—"

"Still not enough," I finished.

A small smile touched his lips. "No. It's not."

The café gradually returned to its normal rhythm as Hugo joined me at the table. Madame Fontaine brought him coffee without being asked.

"They approached Claude twice before he got sick," Hugo said quietly. "First with threats about water rights, then with a lowball offer when our harvest numbers dropped."

"What did he do?"

"Told them to go to hell." A shadow crossed Hugo's face. "Then he got sick, and they circled like vultures. Started buying up adjacent properties, controlling the access roads."

"That's why you've been struggling," I realized. "Not just Claude's nursing care debts."

Hugo nodded, a strand of auburn hair falling across his face. I fought the urge to reach out and brush it back, the way I once would have without thinking. "They're systematic. First they isolate you, then they squeeze."

I thought of Rousseau's polished threats and manufactured charm, but my mind kept drifting to the warmth of Hugo's presence across the table. "They'll come for both our properties. We're vulnerable separately."

"Yes," Hugo agreed, his warm brown eyes holding mine a moment longer than necessary. "But together..."

Our eyes met across the table, and something electric shifted between us—not just the old intimacy, but something new layered atop the familiar attraction I'd been fighting since I first saw him in the market. A common purpose that somehow felt like an excuse to remain in each other's orbit.

"The Moreau-Tremblay blend," I murmured, remembering the bottle we'd found. My fingers tightened around my glass, needing something to hold onto as memories of shared summers and stolen kisses threatened to overwhelm me.

"Our grandfathers understood something we're just figuring out," Hugo said, his voice dropping lower. The timbre of it sent a familiar shiver down my spine. "Some battles can't be fought alone."

I pushed Rousseau's untouched business card across the table. Hugo picked it up, studied it, then deliberately tore it in half. I watched his graceful hands, remembering how they felt against my skin years ago.

"Partners?" he asked, extending his hand, the word carrying weight beyond business.

I took it without hesitation, unprepared for the jolt of awareness that shot through me at the contact. His palm was warm and calloused from vineyard work, achingly familiar. "Partners," I managed, reluctantly letting go when the touch lingered too long.

For the first time since returning to Saint-émilion, I felt something like hope—and something like desire. Rousseau and VitaVine might have resources and ruthless tactics on their side, but they'd miscalculated badly. They thought they were picking off isolated, vulnerable vineyards one by one.

They weren't prepared for us to fight back together. And I wasn't prepared for how much I still wanted Hugo, after all these years.