Page 12 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Eight

ALEXANDRE

T he morning sun had barely crested the eastern hills when Hugo arrived at Domaine Moreau, dressed in worn work clothes and carrying pruning shears. I'd been up since dawn, trying to make sense of Henri's scattered financial records, but welcomed the interruption.

"Ready to get your hands dirty?" Hugo asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

I glanced down at my city clothes—dark jeans and a button-down that had seemed practical in Paris but now felt ridiculous. "I might need to change first."

"Check your old room," Hugo suggested. "Claude mentioned Henri kept some of your old things in there. I bet they still fit, you haven't changed that much since you left."

The room felt smaller than I remembered.

Dust motes danced in the shafts of morning light as I pushed open the wardrobe.

Inside hung several pairs of work pants and faded shirts—clothes I'd left behind fourteen years ago when I left for university without looking back.

I ran my fingers over the fabric, surprised they'd been preserved all this time.

When I emerged in the old clothes, Hugo's expression softened. "There he is," he said quietly. "The Alexandre I remember."

The clothes felt strange against my skin—too loose in some places, too tight across the shoulders—but as we walked into the vineyard, something inside me began to uncoil.

"We'll start with row assessment," Hugo explained, handing me a notebook. "You record, I'll evaluate. We need to map which sections are salvageable and which need replanting."

The morning passed in quiet efficiency. Hugo moved down the rows with practiced ease, examining vines, testing soil, occasionally kneeling to inspect a root system.

I followed, recording his observations, asking questions when I didn't understand.

By midday, my city-soft hands were smudged with dirt, my back ached pleasantly, and the notebook contained a detailed map of Domaine Moreau's condition.

"You missed a spot," Hugo said as we stopped for water, pointing to a nearby section of vine I'd overlooked on my map.

I moved closer to see what he meant, our shoulders brushing as we bent over the same plant. His shirt had pulled loose from his jeans, exposing a strip of tanned skin that made my mouth go dry.

"Here," he said, his hand covering mine as he guided my fingers to feel the difference in the grape clusters. "These aren't developing properly. Feel how they're still hard?"

His touch was professional, instructional, but my body responded as if he'd caressed me deliberately. I jerked my hand back, nearly stumbling.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "Still getting used to... this."

Hugo's eyes met mine, understanding flickering there. "The vines or being close to me?"

The direct question caught me off guard. The old Alexandre would have deflected, made a joke, changed the subject.

"Both," I admitted.

He smiled—not mocking, but gentle. "We can work on both. At whatever pace you need. "

The promise in his words made something flutter in my chest. Not just desire, but hope.

"The vineyard is better than I expected," Hugo admitted. "Henri couldn't do the physical work these past few years, but he knew what mattered. The heart of the vineyard—the old Merlot block—is intact."

I took a long drink, watching Hugo over the rim of my bottle. Sweat had darkened his auburn hair at the temples, and a smudge of dirt crossed one cheekbone. The sight of him—so at ease among the vines, so confident in his knowledge—stirred something in me I'd been trying to ignore.

"Let's check the Cabernet Franc next," I suggested, surprising myself with how naturally the words came. "Henri always said it was the backbone of our blend."

Hugo's smile was warm. "You remember more than you think."

We moved to the eastern section of the vineyard where the terrain subtly shifted. Hugo knelt, beckoning me closer, and scooped a handful of soil.

"Feel this," he said, depositing some into my palm. "The soil composition changes completely here. Notice the texture?"

I rubbed the earth between my fingers, feeling the difference. "It's... grittier?"

"Limestone content," Hugo nodded approvingly. "That's why our wines have that distinctive mineral complexity. The roots have to work harder here, struggle more."

He gently pressed his fingers into the earth, creating small indentations. "This drainage pattern took centuries to develop naturally. VitaVine's mechanical harvesting would compact it all, destroy what makes this terroir special."

I watched him work, mesmerized by his certainty, the reverence in his touch. His knowledge flowed as naturally as the contours of the land—every slope, drainage pattern, and microclimate variation mapped in his mind like an intimate geography.

"You speak about the vines like they're family," I observed .

He glanced up, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. "Claude taught me to listen to them. They tell you what they need if you pay attention."

"How do you know so much about VitaVine's methods?" I asked as he rose, brushing soil from his hands.

His expression darkened. "I've been tracking them. Spoke with vintners in the Loire Valley where they've already acquired six properties. They use the same playbook everywhere—mechanical everything, chemical shortcuts, volume over quality." He shook his head in disgust. "The wines lose their soul."

He paused, brow furrowing. "What I can't figure out is the business angle. They pay above market value for properties, then seemingly lose money by sacrificing production quality. It doesn't make sense."

I stood straighter, corporate instincts kicking in. "They're not losing money," I said, the realization crystallizing. "They're optimizing for different metrics—volume, efficiency, brand acquisition. It's asset stripping disguised as agricultural business."

Hugo stared at me, surprise evident in his expression. "You can see patterns like that?"

"It's what I do," I said, then corrected myself. "Did. Corporate strategy analysis."

Something shifted in his gaze—respect, perhaps, or a new understanding. "Then we need to think like they do," he said slowly. "But better."

Our eyes locked, and for a moment, I glimpsed what we might accomplish together—his intimate knowledge of the land, my understanding of corporate tactics. A formidable combination.

The moment stretched between us until the midday sun broke through, harsh and demanding. By noon, it hung directly overhead, baking the exposed vineyard rows. My shirt clung to my back, and the notebook pages had become damp from my sweating hands.

"Let's break for lunch," Hugo called, straightening from a vine he'd been examining. "I brought sandwiches. There's shade under the old oak."

The ancient oak stood exactly as I remembered—massive trunk scarred with age, branches spreading wide to create a perfect canopy of dappled shade. As children, Hugo and I had climbed its lower branches; as teenagers, we'd leaned against its trunk during countless conversations about our futures.

Hugo spread a worn blanket on the ground and unpacked a simple lunch—baguette sandwiches, cheese, and a thermos of cold water. We sat with our backs against the trunk, shoulders not quite touching.

"You never talked much about your life in Lyon," Hugo said, breaking a comfortable silence.

I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the distant hills. "Nothing worth talking about."

"Your father visited only twice the whole time I knew you. I remember how different you were when he was around."

My hands stilled on the bread I was breaking. "Henri was my real family," I said finally. "This place was my home."

Hugo didn't press, but his eyes held understanding that made my throat tight. How much had he guessed? How much had Henri told him after I left?

"Henri used to meet my grandfather here every evening," Hugo said, changing the subject. "Claude told me they'd walk the property line together, discussing the day's work."

I thought of the letters I'd found. "They were close."

"More than I realized." Hugo picked at the crust of his sandwich. "When Claude got sick, he spoke of Henri constantly. At first, I thought it was just their shared history, but near the end..." He trailed off, eyes fixed on the distant vineyard rows.

"How bad was it?" I asked softly.

Hugo's face tightened. "There were good days, and then there were bad days. The last two months..." He shook his head. "He couldn't work. Could barely get out of bed. I hired help when I could afford it, but mostly it was just me, trying to manage the vineyard and care for him."

Guilt twisted in my stomach. "I should have been here, I was a fool."

"You didn't know." Hugo's voice held no accusation.

"Claude never wanted people to see him suffer.

He was proud that way, like Henri." He took a deep breath.

"The worst part was watching him worry about the vineyard.

He knew I couldn't handle everything alone, but he refused to sell, even when the bills piled up. "

"That sounds familiar," I said, thinking of my own stubborn refusal to consider VitaVine's offer.

"Some days I wonder if I'm honouring his memory or just being foolish." Hugo's admission hung in the air between us. "The debts keep mounting. Equipment breaks. And I'm just one person fighting against all of it."

I'd never heard Hugo sound so defeated. The confident vineyard expert from this morning had vanished, replaced by someone exhausted and uncertain.

"I understand," I said, surprising myself with the admission. "In Paris, I have this life that looks perfect on paper. Executive position, corner office, salary that lets me buy anything I want. And it's completely empty."

Hugo turned to look at me, his eyes questioning.

"I don't have friends, just colleagues. My apartment could belong to anyone—there's nothing personal in it.

I work fourteen-hour days because I have nothing to go home to.

" The words spilled out, unchecked. "The morning Bertrand called about Henri's debts, do you know what my first thought was?

Not grief. Not memories. Just irritation at having my schedule disrupted. "

"But you came," Hugo said softly.

"I came because I had to. But staying... that's different." I met his eyes. "Being here, working with you today—it's the first time in years I've felt like I'm doing something that matters."

Hugo's expression softened. He reached out, hesitated, then brushed a leaf from my hair. His fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary.

"Alexandre—" he began, but a distant rumble of thunder cut him off.

We both looked up. Dark clouds had gathered on the horizon, advancing quickly across the previously clear sky.

"Summer storm," Hugo said, gathering our lunch things. "We should get back to the house."

We'd barely made it halfway across the vineyard when the first fat raindrops began to fall. Within seconds, the gentle shower transformed into a downpour. Lightning flashed overhead, followed immediately by a deafening crack of thunder.

"The cellar!" Hugo shouted over the storm. "It's closer!"

We ran for the stone outbuilding that housed the wine cellar, rain plastering our clothes to our bodies. Hugo reached the heavy wooden door first, wrestling it open against the wind. We tumbled inside, and he pulled the door shut behind us, plunging us into near-darkness.

"There should be a lantern," I said, feeling along the wall where I remembered Henri keeping emergency supplies. My fingers found the familiar shape, and soon a warm glow illuminated the space.

The cellar was smaller than I remembered, or perhaps Hugo and I were simply larger than the boys who had once played hide-and-seek among the barrels. Rain drummed against the small windows set high in the walls, and occasional flashes of lightning cast strange shadows across the stone floor.

"We're soaked," Hugo observed, pushing wet hair from his face.

I glanced down at my clothes, which clung to every contour of my body. Hugo's white t-shirt had become nearly transparent, revealing the lean muscles beneath. I looked away quickly, but not before he caught me staring.

"Remember the last time we got caught in a storm down here?" he asked, his voice lower than before .

I did remember. We'd both just turned eighteen, hiding from a sudden downpour much like this one. We'd ended up kissing for hours in the dark, surrounded by the rich scent of aging wine and the distant rumble of thunder.

"That was a lifetime ago," I said, but I couldn't keep the roughness from my voice.

Hugo took a step closer. "Was it?"

The lantern light caught the golden flecks in his brown eyes. Droplets of water clung to his eyelashes and traced paths down his cheeks. I found myself reaching out to brush one away, my fingers trembling slightly as they made contact with his warm skin.

He caught my hand before I could withdraw it, holding it against his face. "Alexandre," he whispered, and the way he said my name made something inside me ache.

We gravitated toward each other slowly, inevitably, like planets caught in each other's orbit. His breath mingled with mine, his lips just centimeters away. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the familiar scent of him beneath the rain and earth.

A tremendous crack of thunder shook the cellar, startling us apart. A cascade of dust fell from the ceiling, and the lantern flickered ominously.

"The storm's directly overhead," Hugo said, his voice unsteady. He stepped back, creating distance between us. "We should check the structural integrity. These old cellars sometimes leak during heavy rains."

I nodded, grateful for the excuse to move away, to catch my breath, to regain control of the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. But as we busied ourselves examining the ceiling and walls, I couldn't help glancing at Hugo, wondering what might have happened if the thunder hadn't interrupted us.

And I couldn't deny that some part of me hoped for another chance.