I can’t help a laugh. “Zing? What’s that mean, Mr. Don’t-Be-Subjective?”

“It means a sharply piquant flavor,” he deadpans.

I shake my head, still chuckling. “I’ll never win with you, will I?”

Dale doesn’t reply. He says simply, “Just enjoy your breakfast, Ashley. We have a big day today at work.”

I slather more jam on my toast as I realize I haven’t even touched my bacon and eggs. The eggs look perfectly scrambled, too, just the way I like them. I have to eat them. He made them especially for me.

“Oh?” I bring a forkful of eggs to my mouth.

Light and fluffy and perfect with a touch of butter, just as I knew they’d be. I can’t help a satisfied, “Mmm.”

“You approve?” he says.

“Wow. Yes. Best eggs I’ve ever eaten.” I’m not even embellishing.

“Good. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “We’re beginning the harvest of the Syrah today. I figured you’d want to be involved.”

“Your vines,” I say softly.

“Yes.” He looks down at his plate.

“I imagine you like to be there. To…”

“To what?”

“I don’t know. Protect your vines?”

He smiles slightly. Just the thought of his vines makes him happy. “Sort of. They’re vines. They’re part of our business. They have to be harvested. Harvest is my favorite time of the year, honestly. But…”

“But those vines are special.”

He nods. “Yes, more special this year because we’re producing our first old-vine Syrah.”

“Right. You told me.”

“I need to make sure none of the fruit is harmed.”

“But your harvesters know what they’re doing,” I say. “I’ve been with them the last few days.”

“They do.” He offers no further explanation.

He doesn’t have to.

The Syrah vines are special to him. More than special.

He’s part of them.

He loves them.

And I wonder—only for an instant—if he loves them more than he loves me.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Dale

I both love and hate Syrah harvest.

Ashley won’t understand, and I don’t expect her to. Harvest, when we capture our bounty. This year’s Syrah is so beautiful, so perfect. And while I want to take the fruit from the vines—want to make those beautiful grapes into magnificent wine—still I resist inside.

But it’s the circle of life, as it is with any living thing. Because those particular vines are my sanctuary doesn’t change that.

I just like to be there. Exist next to those vines as their fruit is taken from them.

Watch over them, in a way, like they watch over me the rest of the season.

Until winter, when they’re dormant. I still sleep with them, but it’s different. They’re alive but hibernating.

Winter is hard for me.

I push the thought aside.

Winter isn’t here yet. This is autumn. Harvest time. And Ashley.

Two more months of Ashley before I fade into the cold cloak of winter.

She takes the last bite of bacon, rises, and takes her empty plate to the sink. “I have to stop eating like this. I’m going to gain a ton while I’m here.”

Her body is perfect, and honestly, if she gained weight? She’d still be perfect to me. I fell in love with her, not with her body. With her vibrancy. Her exuberance. Her light. A few pounds won’t change those fundamental things about her.

I think about how to respond to her, when my phone buzzes. Hmm. I don’t recognize the number. I excuse myself and take the phone into my office.

“Dale Steel.”

“Mr. Steel, this is Dr. Montgomery from Woodrow Rehab Center in Grand Junction.”

Is that where Floyd is? I never asked Dad. “Yes, good morning.”

“I’m your father’s physician.”

Not my father, but whatever. “Yes, what can I help you with?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s had a myocardial infarction.”

“A heart attack?” Why doctors can’t just speak English is beyond me.

“Yes.”

“How is he?”

“He was transported by ambulance to St. Mary’s. I’m sorry, but that’s all I know right now.”

On the first day of Syrah harvest? Really, Floyd? “I’ll contact the hospital,” I say to the doctor. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“You’re welcome. We’ll hope for the best.”

“Thank you. Goodbye.” I end the call.

Now what? I have to deal with the dumbass who fathered me after I just told Ashley we have a big day. Only one person can help me. Dad.

I return to the kitchen, where Ashley is loading the dishwasher. Her ass looks delectable in those jeans…

But no.

So much else is going on now.

I owe Floyd Jolly nothing. Not a damned thing. But his doctor called me, which means Floyd put me down as an emergency contact. Not my father. Not my brother. Not anyone else.

Me.

His firstborn.

He may be dead already, for all I know. But if he isn’t? Can I let him die alone?

“Ashley…”

She turns to face me. “Yeah?”

What am I supposed to say to her? She knows nothing of my birth father, that he showed up a few weeks ago. A big part of me doesn’t want to pour out the story now.

But another part of me does want to.

I’m already hiding so much from her—so much that I’ll never be able to reveal.

Can I reveal this tiny bit?

It’s not a secret, really. Mom and Dad know. All the aunts and uncles know. Probably all the cousins. Dee may have already told Ashley, for all I know.

“Have you talked to Diana lately?” I ask.

“Just yesterday, actually,” Ashley says. “She loves her boss and all her coworkers. They’re letting her take the lead on one of the committees.”

“Good. That’s good.” I clear my throat. “Did she tell you anything else? I mean…about me?”

“No. Why would she?”

“You want some more juice?” I ask, heading to the coffeemaker for a fresh cup.