Page 128 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“You can ask,” I say.

Something in her face shifts.

Just once.

“Crates,” she says. “And the outdoor heaters. They need to go inside.”

“Done.”

The next hour is organized panic wearing boots.

Rain starts before noon, cold and hard enough to darken the gravel. The vineyard becomes moving people, tarps, crates, flowers, and guests arriving early because apparently bad weather makes everyone think wine should begin sooner.

Daisy is everywhere. Damp hair near her cheek. Sleeves pushed up. Notebook tucked under one arm. Voice bright, fast, in control.

I carry heaters, crates, boxes, a table that should have required two people, and one bucket of dahlias Helena shoves at me while saying, “Don’t damage them or I’ll use your head as a vase.”

Fair.

Liam and Carla leave after thirty minutes with excuses about another appointment.

Cowards.

By two, the storm has settled in for real.

By three, the road past the lower vineyard is half mud, and Eleanor Thorn is looking at Daisy in a way I don’t like.

“Absolutely not,” Daisy says before her mother speaks.

Eleanor sighs. “But darling girl.”

“No. We are not staying.”

“The lower road is bad, and the upper road is backed up from the tasting crowd. Forrest’s mother called to say she’d rather have you both for breakfast tomorrow since the weather is so rough.”

I look at Daisy.

Daisy looks at me.

“No,” she says again, weaker this time.

Eleanor’s voice softens. “I could use you in the morning. Just for a few hours. The rain changes the whole setup for tomorrow’s tasting reservations.”

I step closer, close enough that my shoulder nearly brushes hers.

Not touching.

Almost.

Enough that I can smell rain in her hair, coffee on her sweater, and that faint citrus thing she wears like she doesn’t know it stays in a room after she leaves.

She goes still beside me.

So do I.

“We can leave,” I say, keeping my voice low for her alone. “My truck will be fine.”

She looks at me.