Chapter 35

Ava

It was well after sundown, and I had given up on expecting Chris to come over like he had said. He still hadn’t shown up, and it was getting so late that I thought maybe he got sidetracked or simply forgot.

Truthfully, I wasn’t even sure why I had said yes. After what Leonard had said earlier, I was hesitant to spend too much time together—whether to quell any suspicions about my ‘relationship’ with Chris or to keep myself from losing control around him, I wasn’t sure.

Maybe he knew that. Maybe that was why he hadn’t come.

But it was when I was already in my pajamas and curled up on the couch with a book that I heard a knock on the door. Frowning, I got up and peered through the window to see Chris standing on the stoop, sheepishly holding a bottle of red wine in his hands.

I opened the door and placed my hand on my hip, but he spoke before I could scold him.

“I know, I know, I’m late,” he said. “I’m late. I got caught up with work at the Packhouse.”

“Well, you’re here now,” I replied, stepping aside to let him in. My gaze dropped to the bottle in his hand. “And you came with supplies, I see.”

Chris chuckled as he stepped over the threshold. “I did say I’d come over, didn't I? Thought we could use a glass or two after the day we’ve had.”

I laughed, shaking my head in amusement as I led the way into the kitchen. “I was so hungover earlier, I thought I might never drink again,” I mused. “But a small glass wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

Rummaging through the pantry, I gathered up the makings of a simple charcuterie board—crusty bread that I had baked earlier that day, a few different varieties of cheese, some smoked meats and olives. Chris propped himself against the counter, watching with a wry grin as I prepared the board.

“You never mentioned that you were going to prepare something so gourmet,” he teased when I set the board down on the counter between us. “Although I have to admit, it looks like it’ll pair well with the wine.”

“Well, let’s find out, shall we?” I opened the bottle and poured the deep red liquid into two glasses, taking care to give myself a smaller amount. I couldn’t afford to lose control. Not again.

Chris held his glass up when I handed it to him. “To a successful day,” he said. We clinked our glasses together and drank.

A moment passed, the silence drawing between us. I felt the overly sweet wine burn the back of my tongue, and I suppressed a bad face, not wanting to hurt Chris’s feelings. But it seemed as though he was having the same thought as I.

“This is disgusting,” he said, setting the glass down on the counter with a grimace. He picked up a piece of bread and cheese and quickly ate it, almost as though he was trying to drown out the bad taste.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Was it expensive?” I asked.

“Very.”

There was another moment of silence as I tried another sip, hoping that maybe my taste buds would get used to the flavor, but it was even worse this time—far too sweet, and tasting almost like grape juice rather than well-aged wine.

I pursed my lips and set my glass down. “Oh, well,” I said.

Chris then smirked. “You know, I seem to recall that your homemade wine is much better than this swill,” he mused. “And I also recall a promise to show me where it’s made.”

Despite my best efforts, I felt a reluctant grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. Chris wasn’t wrong—the wine I made following traditional methods blew any store-bought stuff out of the water.

“Well, if you insist,” I said with a shake of my head. “But I should warn you, it’s a bit of a… rustic process.”

Chris chuckled. “I like rustic.”

With that, I led the way toward the squat wooden door that opened onto the rickety staircase descending into my root cellar—and the adjoining wine cellar where I did my brewing.

“You first,” I said with a grin, gesturing for Chris to head down the steep, narrow steps into the dimly lit brick-walled cellar below.

To his credit, he barely blinked at the musty, earthy aroma that always hung thick in the air down here. His nose did wrinkle slightly, though, when his gaze landed on the large open tubs where the grapes were mashed and left to steep, their rich purple juice splashed along the walls and floor.

“Cozy,” was all he said, shooting me a sidelong look. “So how does this work exactly?”

Rather than explain, I simply grinned and rolled up the pantlegs of my pajamas before cleaning my feet in the nearby sink that I used specifically for this reason. Then, I climbed up onto the ledge of the nearest tub, and without hesitating, I swung one leg over the side and stepped right down into the pulpy, lukewarm depths of the freshly crushed grapes.

Chris’s jaw dropped, but I merely spread my arms with an impish smile. “Come on in, the juice is fine!”

He eyed the tub dubiously, then glanced down at his clothes—sturdy boots, khaki pants, a plain button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “I don’t know, Ava, this seems a bit… unhygienic.”

“Suit yourself.” I shrugged nonchalantly before bracing my hands on the sides of the tub and beginning to rhythmically stamp and swish my bare feet through the gloopy mixture. “But I can assure you, it’s quite clean.”

To my immense satisfaction, it didn’t take long before curiosity got the better of him. With a grunt of resignation, Chris stripped off his boots and socks before rolling up his pant legs, cleaning himself in the sink. and then cautiously hoisting himself into the tub beside me.

“Happy?” he grumbled, eyeing the slimy grape skins squishing up between his toes with clear distaste.

“Ecstatic,” I laughed. “Now, just start smashing—your feet will do all the work of breaking down the skins so the juices can properly ferment.”

Chris sighed heavily but complied, albeit stiffly at first as he got used to the unusual motions and sensations. I bit my lip to keep from laughing outright at the look of intense concentration on his handsome features, the tip of his tongue poking out ever so slightly as he focused on mastering the technique.

It wasn’t long, though, before the simple, rhythmic motions seemed to work their magic on him. Slowly, his shoulders relaxed and his frown lines smoothed out—and soon we were both stomping and swishing with abandon, our laughter echoing off the low brick ceilings.

At that moment, it felt like we were the only two people in the entire world.

In fact, the two of us were so caught up in our reverie that neither of us noticed the slick patch on the floor until it was too late. One second, Chris was grinning at me with a boyish joy that made my breath catch in my throat.

Then, the next, his foot slipped and he was tumbling backward into the tub with an ungraceful yelp.

His flailing limbs sent a tidal wave of oozing purple liquid slopping over the sides of the tub to splatter across the floor, the walls, the two of us. I shrieked and tried to scramble back, but my own feet slipped on the slimy surface. The next thing I knew, the world was tilting upside down and I was joining Chris in a tangled, giggling heap amid the mess, dripping grape pulp.

For a long moment, all we could do was lay there and wheeze breathless laughter until our sides positively ached and tears streamed down our cheeks.

“Still hygienic, huh?” Chris finally gasped, grasping the sides of the wooden tub to haul himself to his feet before he carefully turned and helped me up as well. Our hands squelched together, sticky and sickly sweet.

“I might need to toss this batch,” I said before looking down at our clothes—utterly wrecked, stinking of grapes, and stained purple. “I’m so sorry about your clothes.”

Much to my surprise, Chris merely shrugged. “I’ve got plenty of clothes. Although, if I have to traipse back to the Packhouse looking like this, I might be questioned…”

“Some of Ethan’s clothes are still here,” I said quickly, stepping out of the tub. “You can shower and change.”

Chris hesitated for a moment before nodding in agreement; clearly getting clean and presentable was a bit more important than the shame of wearing my ex-husband’s clothes. Taking care so as not to drip grape juice all over the floor, I led him upstairs to the bathroom, where I gave him a clean towel so he could shower. While he did that, I peeled off my own pajamas and put on my robe, ready to shower myself.

“Thanks for that.” Chris finally stepped out of the bathroom, a towel hung loosely around his narrow hips. Instantly, I felt a blush creep into my cheeks at the appearance of his chiseled muscles and tousled wet hair.

No, I couldn’t lose control around him tonight. I was still sober, and…

“Hey, Ava. Look at me.”

I turned my head to see Chris staring at me with that roguish grin on his face. And then, with a wild laugh, he pulled the towel free from his hips.