Page 15 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Eleven

ALEXANDRE

I barely slept that night, my mind replaying the moment in Hugo's living room—the weight of history between us, the photographs of our grandfathers, and that near-kiss that had sent me fleeing like a coward.

When dawn finally broke, I was already dressed and pacing the kitchen, nursing my third cup of coffee.

The knock at the door came earlier than expected. Hugo stood on the threshold, hair pulled back in a messy bun, dressed in worn work clothes. If he harboured any resentment about my abrupt departure last night, his face didn't show it.

"I thought we might get an early start," he said, holding up a paper bag. "Brought croissants."

I stepped aside to let him in, grateful for the pretense of normalcy. "I've made coffee."

We ate in silence at the kitchen table, the only sounds the crinkling of pastry paper and the occasional sip of coffee. Finally, Hugo spread a hand-drawn map across the table.

"I've been thinking about our vineyards," he said, tapping the paper. "If we're going to stand against VitaVine, we need to know exactly what we're working with."

I leaned forward, studying the map. He'd drawn both properties, Domaine Moreau and Domaine Tremblay, with detailed sections marked by soil type and grape variety.

"We should walk the entire perimeter today," I suggested. "Both properties, assess what can be saved."

Hugo nodded. "I've been thinking the same thing. It's nearly thirty-six hectares combined."

That's a full day's work."

"At least," he agreed, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You up for it, Parisian?"

Despite myself, I smiled back. "Try to keep up, Tremblay."

We started at the northeastern corner of Domaine Moreau, where the morning sun cast long shadows across the vines.

Hugo carried a clipboard, making notes as we walked, while I documented everything with my phone camera.

The familiar rhythm of vineyard work returned to me with surprising ease, muscle memory from all those childhood summers.

"These Merlot vines are actually in decent shape," Hugo said, running his fingers along a woody stem. "They need serious pruning, but the root systems should be healthy."

I crouched beside him, examining the base of the vine. "Henri always said these north-facing slopes produced the most complex fruit."

"Claude said the same thing about his eastern slopes," Hugo replied. "They argued about it every harvest."

We shared a smile, the weight of last night's discoveries hovering unspoken between us.

By midday, we'd covered about a third of Domaine Moreau. The sun beat down mercilessly as we paused under an ancient oak tree at the property line. I passed Hugo my water bottle, watching as he tilted his head back to drink.

"Your grandfather's irrigation system is outdated but salvageable," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Mine needs complete replacement."

"What if we connected them?" I suggested. "One system serving both properties."

Hugo's eyebrows rose. "That would require significant restructuring."

"But in the long run, it would be more efficient. We could share maintenance costs."

"You're thinking long-term then?" Hugo asked, his eyes searching mine.

I looked away, focusing on the vineyards stretching before us. "For the properties, yes."

We crossed onto Domaine Tremblay after lunch. Hugo's vines were in better condition than mine, though still suffering from neglect. He'd clearly been working himself to exhaustion trying to maintain them alone.

"You've done remarkable work here," I said, genuinely impressed.

Hugo shrugged. "Not enough. I should have hired help, but after Claude's debts..."

"We'll figure it out," I said, surprising myself with the "we."

As the afternoon wore on, we moved deeper into Hugo's property, documenting, discussing, planning.

Working together felt unnervingly natural, as if fourteen years hadn't passed at all.

We anticipated each other's thoughts, finished each other's sentences.

When I stumbled on a rocky outcropping, Hugo's hand shot out to steady me, lingering perhaps a moment too long on my arm.

We were climbing a steep section when Hugo's shirt caught on a broken trellis wire. The sound of tearing fabric made us both turn.

"Damn it," he muttered, examining the long rip that had opened across his shoulder and down his back, exposing a swath of sun-bronzed skin.

"Here, let me see," I said, moving closer to check the damage. My fingers brushed against the warm skin revealed by the tear, and I felt him tense beneath my touch. The contact sent an electric current up my arm, awakening memories I'd spent fourteen years trying to forget.

Through the torn fabric, I could see the lean muscles of his shoulder blade, more defined than they had been in our youth but unmistakably familiar. A fine sheen of sweat made his skin glisten in the afternoon sun, and I found myself transfixed by the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.

"It's nothing," he said, but his voice had dropped to a lower register that made something twist deep in my abdomen. When he turned to face me, I caught the flash of heat in his eyes before he masked it.

I stepped back quickly, suddenly aware of how close we were standing, of the scent of him—earth and sweat and something uniquely Hugo that had haunted my dreams for years. "We should continue," I managed, my mouth unexpectedly dry. "There's still the southwestern section."

As he turned away, I allowed myself one more glance at the torn shirt clinging to the contours of his back, and swallowed hard against the surge of desire that threatened to overwhelm my carefully constructed defences.

By the time we reached the far boundary of Domaine Tremblay, the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon.

We'd been walking for nearly twelve hours, stopping only to make notes or examine particular vines.

My hands were stained with soil and grape juice, my muscles aching pleasantly from the exertion.

We paused at the crest of a small hill that overlooked both properties. From this vantage point, the two domaines appeared as one continuous vineyard, the arbitrary property line invisible in the patchwork of vines.

"Our grandfathers stood here often," Hugo said quietly. " Claude used to tell me they'd come up here to plan the harvest together. I think it was just so Henri could get away from your grandmother, Margot."

We both laughed, the tension of the day dissolving into something warmer. Hugo sat down on a large flat stone, patting the space beside him. I hesitated only briefly before joining him.

"What do you think?" he asked, gesturing to the vineyards below us. "Can they be saved?"

I considered the question carefully. "It won't be easy. Or cheap. But yes, I think so."

"Together," Hugo said, not quite a question.

"It makes the most sense," I replied, keeping my voice neutral. "Financially speaking."

Hugo nodded, his eyes on the setting sun. "Of course. Financially."

We sat in silence as the sky turned from blue to orange to deep crimson. The air between us seemed to thicken, charged with something I wasn't ready to name. Hugo's shoulder pressed against mine, our thighs touching on the narrow stone seat.

"I've missed this place," I admitted quietly. "More than I realized."

"Just the place?" Hugo asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

I turned to find him looking at me, his face impossibly close. The dying sunlight caught in his auburn hair, turning it to fire. A smudge of dirt marked his cheekbone, and without thinking, I reached up to brush it away.

My hand lingered on his face. His skin was warm beneath my fingers, and I watched his pupils dilate slightly at my touch. Fourteen years dissolved in an instant, and suddenly we were teenagers again, discovering each other in secret corners of the vineyard.

"Alexandre," he breathed, my name a question and a plea.

I should have pulled away. I should have made an excuse about needing to check the equipment or review our notes or to do something, anything. Instead, I remained frozen, caught between the past and present, between desire and fear .

Hugo closed the distance between us, his lips meeting mine with a gentleness that belied the tension thrumming through both our bodies.

For one heartbeat, I remained still, shocked by the contact.

Then something broke loose inside me, and I was kissing him back with fourteen years of denied longing.

His hand came up to cup the back of my neck, pulling me closer.

The kiss deepened, grew desperate. I tasted the salt of his skin, the sweetness of the grapes we'd sampled throughout the day.

My fingers tangled in his hair, dislodging the band that held it back.

His arms wrapped around me, strong and sure, anchoring me to the moment.

We broke apart, breathless, foreheads touching. Hugo's eyes were dark, searching mine for answers I wasn't sure I had.

"I've thought about doing that every day for fourteen years," he whispered.

The words hit me like a physical blow. Fourteen years. The magnitude of what I'd walked away from—what I was risking again—crashed over me in a wave of panic. I jerked back, nearly falling off the stone in my haste.

"I can't do this," I said, stepping back, hating the familiar constriction in my chest—the same feeling I'd had whenever my father's voice echoed in my head. Worthless. Disappointment. Shame of the family.

"Alexandre," Hugo's voice was gentle. "Whatever you're afraid of—"

"I'm not afraid," I snapped, the lie bitter on my tongue. "I'm being practical. We have vineyards to save, not teenage romances to resurrect."

I turned away before he could see how my hands trembled—my father's son after all, running from intimacy, building walls where bridges should be.

The walk back to our respective homes was silent and tense. At the fork in the path where we would separate, Hugo paused.

"We still need to finish the assessment tomorrow," he said, his voice carefully professional.

"Of course," I replied, not meeting his eyes. "I'll meet you at the equipment shed at seven."

He nodded once.

"I know you're scared," Hugo said abruptly, turning back to look at me directly. "But I need you to know something. I'm not eighteen anymore, Alexandre. I'm not going to wait around indefinitely for you to decide whether I'm worth the risk."

His directness surprised me. The Hugo I remembered had been patient to a fault.

"I'm not asking you to make any declarations or promises," he continued. "But I am asking for honesty. If you're planning to disappear again, tell me now. Don't let me believe we're building something if you're already planning your exit."

"I'm not—" I started, then stopped. Was I planning an exit? Part of me always was, wasn't it? "I, I don't know," I admitted. "I want to stay. But wanting and being able to... those are different things."

Hugo nodded, returning to his vines. "Then figure it out. Because I won't go through this again—caring about someone who's got one foot out the door."

The words stung, but they were fair. More than fair.

"How do I prove I'm trying to stay?" I asked.

"Stop looking for reasons to leave," he said simply.