Page 37 of The Vines Between Us

Chapter Twenty-Seven

ALEXANDRE

I glanced outside, the gentle breeze carrying in September air with a crisp promise of autumn through the open window.

Two weeks before the harvest festival, and my body had already adjusted to vineyard rhythms—early to bed, early to rise, meals dictated by sunlight rather than calendar appointments.

Beside me, Hugo slept deeply, one arm flung above his head, auburn hair spread across the pillow.

In sleep, his face retained that quality I'd first fallen for as a teenager—a gentle openness that made my chest ache with tenderness.

I brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, careful not to wake him.

The floor was cool beneath my feet as I slipped from bed and padded to the window.

From Henri's—my—bedroom, I could see both properties stretching out in the half-light.

The vines stood in perfect rows, heavy with fruit approaching ripeness.

The sight no longer filled me with anxiety but with a profound sense of rightness.

This was home. Not just a temporary stop, not a obligation to fulfill, but home in the deepest sense of the word.

I dressed quietly and headed downstairs, starting coffee before stepping outside.

The morning air carried the earthy scent of vines and soil, dew-dampened grass and distant wood smoke.

Walking the edge of the vineyard had become my morning ritual, a time to plan the day ahead while connecting with the land.

At the crest of the hill where our properties met, I paused.

The eastern sky was lightening, streaks of pink and gold pushing back the night.

From this vantage point, I could see all eight vineyards that now formed the Alliance—a patchwork of land that represented not just livelihoods but a community's determination to preserve something precious.

"Thought I might find you here."

I turned to find Hugo approaching, two steaming mugs in hand. He passed one to me, the warmth welcome against the morning chill.

"Sorry if I woke you," I said.

He shook his head. "Marcel called. The new press arrived at Domaine Lefèvre. They need help setting it up before the team from Domaine Cloutier arrives with the first batch for processing."

I nodded, checking my watch. "I'll head over after breakfast. The inspection team is coming to check our bottling equipment at ten."

"Already on the calendar." Hugo smiled. "Madame Fontaine called yesterday. The tourism office wants final details for the festival brochure by noon."

"I'll stop by on my way back from Marcel's."

We stood in comfortable silence, drinking our coffee and watching the sunrise illuminate our vines. The easy coordination of our days still amazed me—how quickly we'd fallen into partnership, both personal and professional.

"What are you thinking about?" Hugo asked, nudging my shoulder with his.

"How different this is from my life in Paris.

There, I scheduled fifteen-minute increments, spent my days in climate-controlled offices, and went weeks without feeling the sun on my face.

" I gestured toward the vineyards. "Here, every day is different.

Every decision matters in a way I can see and touch. "

"Having regrets?"

I turned to him, surprised. "None. Not a single one." I set my mug on the stone wall and took his hands. "I keep waiting for the moment when I miss my old life, when I start craving the city or the corporate ladder or even just reliable internet. But it hasn't happened."

Hugo's smile was soft in the morning light. "Because you're home, Alexandre."

The simple truth of it struck me with unexpected force.

I was home—not just in the physical sense of occupying Henri's house, but in the deeper sense of belonging.

In the three months since I'd returned to Saint-émilion, something fundamental had shifted inside me.

The restlessness that had driven me for years had quieted.

"I am," I agreed, my voice rough with emotion. "I really am."

Hugo leaned in and kissed me, tasting of coffee and morning. When we parted, he squeezed my hands once before releasing them. "Come on. We've got a full day ahead, and Marcel will never let us hear the end of it if we're late."

By mid-afternoon, I'd visited three vineyards, finalized festival details with Madame Fontaine, and was elbow-deep in Domaine Moreau's ledgers when Jean-Marc arrived with a case of bottles.

"Fresh from the printer," he announced, setting the box on my desk with a flourish. "What do you think?"

I lifted one of the bottles, admiring the elegant label. "Alliance des Vignerons Indépendants" arched across the top, with "Cuvée Héritage" prominently displayed beneath it. The vintage date—this year—was followed by "Saint-émilion Grand Cru" and a stylized image of our hillside vineyards .

"They're perfect," I said, turning the bottle to examine it from all angles. "The embossing on the vineyard names is a nice touch."

Jean-Marc beamed. "Each participating vineyard gets equal billing, just as we agreed. Wait until you see how they look filled with our wine."

Our wine. The phrase still gave me a thrill.

The Alliance's first joint vintage—a blend using grapes from all eight vineyards, created with Henri and Claude's experimental varieties at its heart.

We'd produced only a limited quantity this first year, focusing on quality over volume, but early tastings suggested we had something exceptional.

"How's the festival setup coming along?" I asked, carefully returning the bottle to its case.

Jean-Marc dropped into the chair across from me. "On schedule. The tents arrive tomorrow. Madame Cloutier has organized twenty local food vendors. The tourism office reports accommodation bookings up eighty percent from last year."

"And security?"

"All arranged. Extra patrols, as requested. Though there's been no sign of Rousseau or any VitaVine representatives for weeks."

I frowned. "That's what worries me. They didn't invest all that time and money just to disappear without a fight."

"Actually," Jean-Marc leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I heard something interesting from my cousin who works for a wine distributor in Bordeaux.

Apparently, Rousseau was effectively fired—or as they put it, 'reassigned to corporate development strategies in Siberia.

' The board wasn't pleased with his failure to secure our vineyards, especially after all the negative publicity. "

"Really?" I couldn't hide my surprise. "That's... unexpected."

Jean-Marc nodded. "VitaVine's investors were furious about the media coverage. The exposés on their predatory tactics caused their stock to drop fifteen percent. Rousseau became the sacrificial lamb."

"Couldn't have happened to a nicer person," I said dryly, though I felt no real satisfaction in another man's downfall—just relief that his threat had been neutralized.

"They've likely also moved onto easier targets elsewhere," Jean-Marc suggested. "Especially with your journalist friends scaring them off with those exposés."

He had a point. The media attention following our discovery of Henri and Claude's experimental vines had been unexpected but welcome.

Agricultural journals, wine publications, and even mainstream news outlets had covered the story—a small community of vignerons banding together against corporate takeover, discovering climate-resistant grape varieties developed decades ahead of their time.

The resulting publicity had brought not just customers but also researchers, grant opportunities, and heritage preservation interest. VitaVine's predatory tactics, once exposed to public scrutiny, had become significantly harder to implement.

"Maybe," I conceded, though the unease lingered. "Any word from the Perrins?"

Jean-Marc's expression sobered. "Nothing official, but Marie mentioned they're struggling. VitaVine's promised support hasn't materialized. Their equipment keeps breaking down, and the corporate technicians take weeks to respond."

Exactly as we'd warned them. I sighed, feeling no satisfaction in being right. "Tell Marie the door remains open. The Alliance bylaws include provisions for reintegration."

"I'll pass that along." Jean-Marc stood, checking his watch. "I should go. We're testing the new sorting equipment this afternoon."

After he left, I returned to the ledgers, but my concentration had broken. The mention of VitaVine had resurrected concerns I'd been trying to suppress. Their silence felt strategic rather than defeated, and I couldn't shake the feeling that Rousseau was planning something .

I was still brooding when Hugo arrived an hour later, carrying a stack of clipboard-bound papers.

"Final harvest schedules," he announced, dropping them on my desk. "Eight vineyards, staggered picking dates, shared equipment rotation, processing assignments. A logistical miracle, if I do say so myself."

I smiled despite my mood. "You've missed your calling as an air traffic controller."

"I'll stick to grapes, thanks." Hugo perched on the edge of my desk, studying my face. "What's wrong?"

"Jean-Marc mentioned VitaVine. I can't help feeling we haven't seen the last of them."

Hugo nodded slowly. "I've had the same thought. It's not like Rousseau to admit defeat so easily."

"The festival would be the perfect target," I said, voicing the fear that had been growing. "Maximum visibility, all the Alliance members in one place, international media present."

"Which is precisely why we've taken every precaution," Hugo reminded me. "Extra security, equipment checks, backup generators. We've even arranged for the wine to be stored in three separate locations."

He was right, of course. We'd anticipated potential sabotage and planned accordingly. The festival was as secure as we could make it while still remaining open to the public.

"I know," I sighed. "I just can't help feeling we're missing something."

Hugo slid from the desk and moved behind me, strong hands kneading the tension from my shoulders.

"We probably are. But we're also stronger than we've ever been.

Eight vineyards working as one, sharing resources, knowledge, connections.

The equipment sharing system is working perfectly.

Every member vineyard has reported increased productivity and decreased costs. "

I leaned back into his touch, letting my eyes close briefly. "You're right."

"I usually am," he teased, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. "Now, are you coming to dinner at Marcel's, or shall I tell them you're too busy being paranoid?"

I laughed, the tension breaking. "I'm coming. Just let me finish this last page."

Hugo wandered to the window while I completed my work, gazing out at the vineyards bathed in late afternoon light. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" he said softly. "Sometimes I still can't believe we pulled this off."

I joined him at the window, slipping an arm around his waist. "Claude and Henri would be proud."

"They'd also tell us to stop worrying and enjoy what we've built," Hugo pointed out. "Remember what Claude wrote in his journal? 'The true measure of success is not in the wine you produce, but in the joy you take in producing it.'"

"Henri had a similar saying," I recalled. "'A vineyard without laughter is just agriculture and manure.'"

I took a deep breath, looking out over the vineyard as the evening light cast long shadows between the rows. Then I turned to Hugo.

"I've been thinking about something," I said, my voice steadier than I expected.

Hugo raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at his lips. "That sounds serious."

"It is." I reached for his hand, threading our fingers together. "I've been thinking about us. About the future. About what we're building here—not just with the vineyards, but with each other."

"And?" His voice was soft, encouraging.

"And I'm not proposing," I said, watching his expression shift to confusion. "Not exactly. Not yet. I'm proposing that we discuss the possibility of someday discussing a proposal."

Hugo blinked, then laughed, color rising in his cheeks. "Alexandre Moreau, that's the most convoluted non-proposal I've ever heard."

"Well," I said, suddenly feeling vulnerable, "I didn't want to push too far, too fast. This is all still new to me—being open, talking about feelings, about home, about belonging."

He pulled me closer, resting his forehead against mine. "You're not pushing. I've been thinking about it too."

"You have?"

"Of course I have," he whispered. "So what exactly are you saying?"

The question hung between us, and for once, I didn't hesitate.

"I'm saying I want it all," I told him simply. "The vineyards, the Alliance, the future we're creating. But mostly, I want you. Not someday. Not eventually. Now and always."

Hugo's smile was radiant. "Well then," he said, "perhaps we should discuss that proposal sooner rather than later."

"Perhaps we should," I agreed, sealing the promise with a kiss.

Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.

The vines stood sentinel, rows stretching into the gathering dusk, heavy with fruit nearly ready for harvest. In two weeks, we would celebrate not just a successful growing season but a community saved, a heritage preserved, a future secured.

And whatever challenges came—VitaVine, climate change, market fluctuations—we would face them together, rooted in this land we both loved, drawing strength from each other and from the legacy our grandfathers had left us.

I was home, at last and forever.