Page 14 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Ten

HUGO

T he front door closed with a soft click that somehow hurt more than if Alexandre had slammed it.

I remained frozen on the sofa, the photo album still open between us—between where we had been sitting just moments ago.

The cushion beside me retained the warmth of his body, a ghost of his presence already fading.

"Equipment orders," I muttered to the empty room, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. "Right."

I reached for the wine bottle, finding it nearly empty. The 1989 Saint-émilion that Claude had treasured, saved for "moments that matter"—poured and shared for a man who couldn't bear to stay seated beside me for longer than it took to realize we might kiss.

I listened to his footsteps cross the gravel outside, then the car door opening and closing.

The engine started with a low rumble that vibrated through the quiet night.

Only then did I move to the kitchen window, watching his taillights disappear down the drive, red pinpricks swallowed by darkness.

The same view I'd watched countless times as a teenager, standing in this very kitchen after summer evenings spent together, watching him return to Henri's house across the vineyard.

Always leaving, always putting distance between us.

Some things never changed.

Only when the sound of his car had completely faded did I allow myself to exhale, a shaky breath that caught painfully in my throat.

The candles burned low as I sat alone in Claude's living room, surrounded by ghosts—Claude's possessions, Henri's memory, and the echo of Alexandre's presence still lingering in the space he'd vacated.

I poured the last of the wine into my glass, swirling it absently. Claude had always said that great wines, like great loves, required patience. "Some vintages need time to reveal their true character," he'd told me once. "You can't rush what's meant to age."

But fourteen years was a long time to wait, and Alexandre's retreat tonight suggested he might never be ready to face what lay between us. The thought hollowed me out, leaving an ache that the wine couldn't touch.

I stared at the photograph of Claude and Henri at the village festival, their faces illuminated with joy and something unmistakably intimate.

How many nights had they spent like this?

How many almost-moments had they shared before retreating to their separate homes, their separate lives? The parallel was too painful to ignore.

I carried our dishes to the kitchen, methodically washing each one, giving my hands something to do while my mind circled the same painful track.

When Claude was dying, he'd made me promise not to waste my life on regrets.

"I've had my share," he'd said, his voice weak but insistent. "Don't follow my example."

At the time, I'd thought he meant his business failures, the vineyard's struggles.

Now, looking at that photograph of him with Henri, I understood with perfect clarity—his greatest regret had been the things left unsaid between them, the life they might have shared more openly had they known their time was limited .

I dried my hands and walked onto the terrace, looking across the moonlit vineyards toward the lights still burning in Henri's manor house. Alexandre was there now, probably pacing the study or burying himself in financial papers, anything to avoid thinking about what had almost happened between us.

Tomorrow we would see each other again, would work side by side in the vineyard as if tonight had never happened. I would be professional, helpful, keeping my distance while we focused on saving our grandfathers' legacy. It was what we'd agreed to, after all—a business arrangement, nothing more.

But as I stood in the darkness, the scent of the vineyard rising around me, I made a decision.

I wouldn't wait another fourteen years. I wouldn't follow Claude and Henri's example of partial connections and silent longing.

Alexandre Moreau could run from me, from himself, from what lay between us, but I wouldn't make it easy for him this time.

I'd spent half my life waiting for him to come back. Now that he had, I wasn't about to let him disappear again without a fight.

The wine glass in my hand caught the moonlight, the last swallow of the Saint-émilion gleaming like a promise. I raised it in a silent toast toward Henri's house, toward Alexandre.

"à la prochaine," I whispered. Until next time.

Because there would be a next time. Of that, I was undoubtedly certain.