Forbidden Vineyard Romance

Chapter 1

The knock came at precisely eight-fifteen on a Tuesday morning, which meant either someone was selling something I didn't want, or my new seasonal help had arrived three days early. I was betting on the former since I'd explicitly told the agency the position started Friday, but when I pulled open the heavy oak door of the vineyard house, the girl standing on my porch with a backpack slung over one shoulder and an expression of determined uncertainty made me reconsider.

"Mr. Thorne?" She had to tilt her head back to meet my eyes, and the morning sun caught the copper highlights in hair that fell past her shoulders in loose waves. "I'm Elena Voss. The agency said you needed harvest help starting this week?"

I took my time looking her over, not out of any particular interest—though I'd be lying if I said the fitted white tank top and cut-off denim shorts didn't register—but because I was trying to reconcile the person in front of me with the "experienced agricultural worker" the agency had promised. She couldn't have been a day over twenty-two, probably younger, with skin that hadn't seen enough seasons in the field to develop the weathered leather look of actual experience.

"The position starts Friday," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "And I specifically requested someone with vineyard experience. You look like you're still carrying a student ID."

Something flickered across her face—irritation, maybe, or wounded pride—but she held her ground. "I'm twenty-three. I worked two summers at my uncle's orchard in Washington. I know the difference between pruning shears and a harvesting knife, and I can lift forty pounds without complaining." She paused, then added with a slight edge of desperation, "I really need this job, Mr. Thorne. The other placement fell through, and I've already paid for the room down the road."

I should have sent her away. Every instinct honed by fifteen years of running Thorne Vineyards told me that hiring a pretty young thing with more enthusiasm than experience was asking for complications I didn't need. The harvest season was brutal, all-consuming work that started before dawn and ended after dark, and the last thing I wanted was to spend my time babysitting someone who'd never felt the particular ache of bending over grapevines for ten hours straight.

But there was something in her eyes—the same stubborn refusal to accept defeat that I'd seen in my own reflection back when I'd bought this failing vineyard at twenty-eight, convinced I could turn it into something worth having.

"Forty pounds, huh?" I stepped back from the door. "Come on in. If you can carry two full cases of wine up from the cellar without dropping them, you've got the job. Starting today. The room you've got is probably a dump; you can stay in the guest cottage instead. It's not fancy, but it's clean, and it's on the property."

Her eyes widened, the green of them startling against the tan she'd already started to develop. "Seriously? Just like that?"

"Just like that. But fair warning—I'm not an easy man to work for. I expect hard work, I don't tolerate excuses, and I have absolutely zero interest in whatever drama you might be running from." I held up a hand as she opened her mouth to protest. "Everyone who comes to Napa running from something, Miss Voss. It's practically a requirement for residency. I don't need to know your secrets, but I do need to know you won't let them interfere with the harvest."

She considered me for a long moment, and I found myself subjected to the kind of frank appraisal that most women her age didn't have the confidence to deliver. Her gaze traveled from my weather-beaten face down to the faded jeans and work boots I hadn't bothered to change, then back up to meet my eyes.

"You've got paint on your neck," she said finally. "From the equipment shed. And you're left-handed—you've got calluses on your left palm that don't match the right. Which means you do your own maintenance work instead of hiring it out, probably because you're particular about how things get done." She shouldered her pack more firmly. "I can work with particular. Particular I understand."

Despite myself, I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. "Cellar's through that door. Two cases of the 2019 Cabernet. Let's see what you've got."

She was stronger than she looked, I'll give her that. The cases went up the stairs without so much as a wobble, and when she set them down on the kitchen table, her breathing was controlled, not gasping. She'd done physical labor before, whatever her other deficiencies.

"Welcome to Thorne Vineyards," I said, extending my hand. "I'm Julian. Mr. Thorne was my father, and he's been dead for twelve years."

She took my hand, her grip firm and warm and slightly calloused in a way that sent an unexpected spark up my arm. "Elena. And I'm not running from anything, Julian. I'm running toward something. There's a difference."

I held her hand a moment longer than necessary, studying the flecks of gold in her green eyes, the faint smattering of freckles across her nose that she hadn't bothered to cover with makeup, the determined set of her jaw that suggested she was telling the truth—or at least believed she was.

"Toward what?" I asked.

She released my hand and stepped back, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. "A future that doesn't involve my mother's expectations. But that's probably more sharing than you wanted." She glanced around the kitchen, taking in the commercial-grade appliances, the copper pots hanging from the rack, the wall of windows overlooking the rows of grapevines stretching toward the hills. "This is beautiful. How many acres?"

"Forty-seven under cultivation. Another twenty of wild land I haven't decided what to do with yet." I moved to the coffee maker, pouring two cups without asking if she wanted one. I already knew she would—anyone who showed up three days early for a job was the kind of person who ran on caffeine and determination. "Cream or sugar?"

"Black is fine." She accepted the mug, wrapping both hands around it as if seeking warmth despite the already-building heat of the June morning. "So what exactly does harvest help entail? The agency was vague."

I leaned against the counter, watching her over the rim of my own cup. She had the kind of face that would photograph beautifully—high cheekbones, full lips, eyes that held secrets—but there was something guarded about her, a wall she'd constructed that I suspected very few people had managed to breach.

"Everything," I said. "You'll start with leaf-pulling and cluster-thinning—that's removing excess foliage and underdeveloped grape clusters so the vines can focus their energy on the fruit we actually want to harvest. Then there's the netting—we have to cover the vines to protect from birds. When harvest actually starts in August, you'll be cutting clusters, hauling bins, doing punch-downs in the cellar if we need extra hands." I paused, letting the weight of the work settle between us. "It's long hours, hard labor, and you'll be too tired most nights to do anything but fall into bed."

She didn't flinch. "I can handle it."

"I believe you can." The admission surprised me. "But believing and knowing are different things. We'll start with the east block today—it's the oldest section, needs the most attention. I'll show you what needs doing, and then you're on your own. I've got three acres of canopy management that won't wait."

She nodded, setting down her coffee with a decisive click. "Show me the cottage first? So I can drop my stuff?"

The guest cottage sat at the edge of the property, a converted stone building that had originally been a toolshed before I'd renovated it into something livable. It was small—one room with a kitchenette, a bathroom barely larger than a closet, and a sleeping loft—but I'd kept the original stone walls and exposed beams, and the effect was rustic charm rather than utilitarian bleakness.

Elena walked through the space in silence, running her hand along the stone, peering up at the loft with its queen-sized bed and skylight. When she turned back to me, there was something unreadable in her expression.

"It's perfect," she said quietly. "Better than the room I was going to stay in, anyway. How much extra for the rent?"

"Nothing. It's part of the job." I turned to leave, then paused at the door. "One more thing, Elena. I don't care what you do on your own time, but if you're bringing men back here, I don't want to know about it. This is a working vineyard, not a playground for your personal entertainment."

Her eyebrows shot up, and for a moment I thought I'd offended her past the point of no return. Then she laughed—a genuine, surprised sound that transformed her face from merely pretty to genuinely beautiful.

"Noted," she said, still smiling. "But for the record, Julian, I didn't come to Napa looking for hookups. I came here to work. Anything else is... distraction."

I held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary, something hot and unnameable flickering in my chest. "Good," I said finally. "Meet me at the equipment shed in twenty minutes. Wear long pants and closed-toe shoes. The vines have thorns, and the mosquitoes are vicious this time of year."

As I walked back to the main house, I told myself the warmth spreading through my gut was just the coffee. I was forty-one years old, old enough to know better than to develop inappropriate interests in employees half my age. Old enough to have learned that mixing business with pleasure was a recipe for disaster, especially in an industry as small and gossip-prone as Napa Valley wine.

But as I changed into my work clothes and gathered my pruning shears, I found myself thinking about the way her tank top had pulled across her breasts when she'd lifted those cases, the determined set of her jaw, the unexpected strength in her slender arms. She was a mystery, this Elena Voss, and I had always been a man who couldn't resist a mystery.

Chapter 2

The first week passed in a blur of sweat, sun, and the particular satisfaction of work well done. Elena proved to be a quick learner—better than quick, actually. She had an instinctive understanding of the vines that couldn't be taught, an ability to look at a cluster and know exactly which grapes would ripen best and which should be sacrificed to the compost pile.

She worked without complaint, starting each day before I asked and continuing long after I expected her to quit. By Friday, she'd mastered the leaf-pulling technique that usually took seasonal workers weeks to perfect, and by the end of the second week, she was suggesting improvements to my netting system that actually made sense.

I found myself seeking her out during the day, inventing reasons to check on her progress when I should have been focused on my own tasks. I told myself it was just good management—ensuring the work was being done properly—but I knew I was lying. I wanted to see her, wanted to hear her voice, wanted to watch the way her body moved as she navigated between the rows of vines.

She was beautiful in motion, all lean muscle and fluid grace, and I was becoming dangerously obsessed with the way her skin had turned golden under the California sun, the sheen of sweat that collected in the hollow of her throat, the occasional glimpse of toned stomach when her shirt rode up as she reached for a high cluster.

"You're staring," she said on the fourteenth day, not looking up from the vine she was working on.

"I was checking your technique," I lied.

"Uh-huh." She finally turned, wiping her forehead with the back of her glove, leaving a smudge of dirt across her cheek that I had an inexplicable urge to wipe away with my thumb. "You've been 'checking my technique' five times today. I'm starting to think you don't trust me."

"I trust you." The words came out rougher than I intended. "I just... you're doing good work. Better than good. I wanted you to know that."

She studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. "Thanks. That means something, coming from you. You don't seem like the type to hand out praise easily."

"I'm not." I stepped closer, close enough to catch the scent of her—sun-warmed skin, faint lavender from the soap in the cottage, something uniquely Elena underneath. "You've exceeded every expectation I had, Elena. I hope you know that."

Her breath caught, barely audible, but I heard it. We were standing too close, close enough that I could see the individual flecks of color in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips, the rapid pulse fluttering in her throat. The air between us seemed to thicken, charged with something electric and dangerous.

"Julian..." she started, her voice barely above a whisper.

I stepped back. "It's getting late. We should call it a day. There's a cold beer in the main house fridge with your name on it—payment for finishing the east block two days ahead of schedule."

I turned and walked away before she could respond, before I could do something stupid like close the distance between us and find out if her lips tasted as sweet as they looked. I was her employer, for Christ's sake. She was young enough to be my... well, not my daughter, but certainly young enough that any interest on my part was inappropriate at best and predatory at worst.

But as I walked back to the house, I could feel her eyes on me, and I knew—I knew—that whatever was building between us wasn't one-sided. And that knowledge was both terrifying and exhilarating.

The beer turned into dinner, which turned into sitting on the porch watching the sunset paint the vineyard in shades of gold and purple. We talked about everything and nothing—her dreams of starting her own organic farm someday, my ambitions for the vineyard, books we'd read, places we'd traveled. She was surprisingly well-read for someone her age, with opinions on everything from Faulkner to fermentation science that were both informed and passionate.

"You really love this place," she said as the last light faded from the sky, leaving us in the soft glow of the porch light. "I can hear it in your voice when you talk about the vines."

"I do." I took a sip of my wine, the 2018 Pinot Noir that was drinking beautifully now. "It was my father's dream before it was mine. He bought the land when I was ten, spent every weekend and vacation out here trying to make something of it. When he died, I was working corporate law in San Francisco, making more money than I knew what to do with and hating every minute of it."

"So you gave it up? Just like that?"

"Not just like that. It took two years of convincing myself I wasn't crazy, another year of getting my certifications, and about five minutes of standing in this exact spot the day I finally quit my job to know I'd made the right choice." I turned to look at her, her face illuminated by the soft glow from the kitchen window. "What about you? What are you really running toward, Elena? You said it wasn't just your mother's expectations."

She was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the dark shapes of the vines. "Freedom," she said finally. "The freedom to be exactly who I am, without anyone telling me who I should be. My mother... she's very invested in my being the person she designed. The right school, the right degree, the right husband, the right life. She has it all mapped out."

"And you don't want that life?"

"I don't know what I want. But I know I don't want to wake up at forty and realize I lived someone else's idea of happiness." She turned to face me, and there was something vulnerable in her expression, something young and scared and brave all at once. "Does that make sense? Or does it just sound like privileged twenty-something angst?"

"It makes perfect sense." I reached out without thinking, my hand finding hers where it rested on the arm of her chair. Her skin was warm, slightly rough from the work, and the contact sent a jolt through me that I couldn't ignore. "Elena..."

"Don't." She didn't pull her hand away, but her voice was strained. "Don't say whatever you're about to say. Because if you do, I'm going to do something stupid, and I really can't afford to be stupid right now."

"Something stupid like what?"

She turned her hand, her fingers threading through mine, and the intimacy of the gesture hit me like a physical blow. "Like kiss you," she whispered. "Like climb into your lap and find out if you're as good at that as you are at everything else. Like forget that you're my boss and I'm your employee and this is probably the worst idea either of us has ever had."

My heart was hammering against my ribs, blood rushing south in a way that made me glad of the darkness hiding my body's reaction. "Elena..."

"I know. I know all the reasons why we shouldn't." She was looking at me now, her eyes dark and wide and full of desire. "You're older, you're my employer, I'm probably just a distraction from whatever loneliness you're dealing with. But Julian... I've been thinking about you since the day I got here. About your hands, and your voice, and the way you look at me like you see something no one else has ever bothered to notice."

"Elena." Her name came out as a groan, half protest, half prayer. "You're twenty-three. I'm forty-one. That's..."

"Eighteen years," she finished. "I can do math. And I don't care." She leaned closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her breath on my cheek, smell the wine on her lips. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you haven't been thinking about it too, and I'll go back to my cottage and we'll pretend this never happened."

I should have. God help me, I should have sent her away, should have maintained the professional boundary that was the only thing keeping this situation from becoming a complete disaster. But I was only human, and she'd been living in my head for two weeks, invading my dreams, making me ache with a desire I'd thought I'd outgrown.

"I can't," I admitted, my voice rough. "I can't tell you that."

Her smile was triumphant and tender all at once. "Then kiss me, Julian. Kiss me before I lose my nerve."

I didn't need to be asked twice. My free hand came up to cup her jaw, my thumb brushing across her cheekbone, and then I was pulling her toward me, my mouth finding hers in the darkness.

She tasted like wine and desire and something sweeter underneath, something uniquely Elena. Her lips were soft and eager, parting under mine with a sigh that went straight to my cock. I deepened the kiss, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, and she met me with a hunger that matched my own, her hands coming up to fist in my shirt, pulling me closer.

"Julian," she gasped when we finally broke apart, both of us breathing hard. "God, I've wanted this..."

"Not here." I stood, pulling her up with me, my hands finding her waist and holding her against me so she could feel exactly what she was doing to me. "The cottage. Now. Before I do something we'll both regret on this porch where anyone could see."

She nodded, her eyes glazed with desire, and let me lead her down the steps and across the darkened yard to the stone cottage. My hands were shaking as I unlocked the door, my control hanging by the thinnest of threads. I was about to cross a line I couldn't uncross, about to take something I had no right to take, and I couldn't make myself care.

The door clicked shut behind us, and then she was in my arms again, her body pressed against mine, her mouth hot and demanding. I walked her backward until her thighs hit the edge of the bed, and then I was lowering her down, following her onto the mattress, my body covering hers.

"Tell me to stop," I managed, my voice barely recognizable. "Tell me now, Elena, because once I start, I'm not sure I'll be able to."

Her answer was to arch up against me, her hips grinding against mine, her hands pulling at my shirt. "Don't stop," she whispered. "Please, Julian. Don't stop."

I took her at her word.

Chapter 3

The first time was desperate, hungry, two weeks of pent-up desire exploding into frantic touching and tearing clothes and gasped pleas. I lost myself in her, my hands mapping every inch of her skin, my mouth following wherever my hands led. She was responsive in a way that drove me wild, arching into my touch, crying out when I found the places that made her shiver, begging for more with every breath.

"Julian," she moaned as I trailed kisses down her stomach, my fingers working at the button of her shorts. "Oh god, please..."

I looked up at her, her face flushed in the dim light filtering through the skylight, her hair spread across the pillow in a copper halo. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, and for a moment I was struck by the enormity of what we were doing, the potential consequences of this moment.

"You're sure?" I asked, my voice rough. "Elena, if you're not absolutely sure..."

"I've never been more sure of anything." She reached down, her fingers tangling in my hair, her eyes dark with need. "I want you inside me, Julian. I want to feel you. Please."

I stripped off her shorts and panties in one motion, spreading her legs to reveal the glistening pink of her arousal. She was wet, so wet, and the sight of her made my cock throb painfully against my zipper. I leaned in, unable to resist, and dragged my tongue through her folds.

She cried out, her hips bucking off the bed, her hands gripping the sheets. "Oh fuck! Julian, oh god..."

I settled in, my mouth finding her clit, my tongue circling and flicking and sucking in a rhythm that had her writhing beneath me. She tasted incredible, sweet and musky and addictive, and I couldn't get enough. I slid a finger inside her, then two, feeling her tight heat clamp around me as I worked her with my mouth and hands.

"Julian, I'm gonna... oh god, I'm gonna come..."

I doubled my efforts, curling my fingers to find that spot inside her that made her gasp, sucking harder at her clit, and then she was coming apart beneath me, her body convulsing, her cry echoing off the stone walls. I kept going, gentling my touch but not stopping, drawing out her orgasm until she was pushing at my head, oversensitive, begging me to stop.

I crawled up her body, my mouth finding hers, letting her taste herself on my tongue. She kissed me back desperately, her hands fumbling at my belt, trying to get my pants off.

"Need you," she panted. "Julian, please, I need you inside me now."

I helped her, shoving my pants and boxers down, kicking them off, and then I was naked against her, my cock heavy and hard between us. She reached for me, her small hand wrapping around my length, and I groaned at the contact, thrusting into her grip.

"Condom," I managed, my voice strained. "Elena, I need..."

"I'm on the pill," she whispered, her hand still stroking me. "And I'm clean. I haven't... it's been a while, Julian. I want to feel you. All of you."

I should have insisted. I should have been responsible, should have taken the time to find protection. But the thought of being inside her with nothing between us, of feeling her tight heat wrapped around my bare cock, was too much to resist.

"Are you sure?" I asked one last time, positioning myself at her entrance.

"Yes. God, yes."

I pushed into her slowly, giving her time to adjust, feeling her stretch around me. She was tight, incredibly tight, and hot, and wet, and perfect. I groaned, my forehead dropping to hers, my hips stilling as I fought for control.

"Okay?" I managed.

"More than okay." She wrapped her legs around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back. "Don't stop, Julian. Don't ever stop."

I started to move, slow thrusts that gradually built in speed and intensity. She met me stroke for stroke, her hips rising to meet mine, her nails digging into my shoulders. The bed creaked beneath us, the sound of our bodies coming together filling the small space, and I lost myself in the sensation of her, the heat and tightness and absolute perfection of being inside her.

"Julian," she gasped, her head thrown back, her neck exposed. "You feel so good... so fucking good..."

I captured her mouth in a kiss, swallowing her moans, my pace increasing as my control slipped further away. She felt incredible, better than I'd imagined, better than anything I'd experienced in years. I could feel her tightening around me, her second orgasm building, and I reached between us, my thumb finding her clit, circling it in time with my thrusts.

"Come with me," I growled against her ear. "Elena, come with me..."

She shattered, her body convulsing, her cry loud and unrestrained. The feeling of her coming around me, her muscles clamping down on my cock, was too much. I thrust deep one final time and followed her over the edge, my orgasm ripping through me, my release spilling into her in long, pulsing waves that seemed to go on forever.

I collapsed onto her, my weight pressing her into the mattress, both of us breathing hard, our skin slick with sweat. For a long moment, neither of us spoke, the only sound our ragged breathing and the distant chirping of crickets outside.

"Wow," she finally whispered, her fingers tracing patterns on my back. "That was... wow."

I lifted my head to look at her, her face soft and sated in the dim light. "Yeah," I agreed, leaning down to kiss her gently. "That was definitely wow."

I rolled off her, pulling her against my side, and she curled into me, her head on my chest, her leg thrown over mine. We lay like that in comfortable silence, my hand stroking her hair, her fingers tracing lazy circles on my stomach.

"This complicates things," I said eventually, because it needed to be said.

"I know." She didn't sound worried. "But Julian... I don't regret it. I won't regret it, no matter what happens."

I tightened my arm around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Neither will I."

We fell asleep like that, tangled together in her narrow bed, and when I woke at dawn with the first light streaming through the skylight, she was already awake, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"Morning," she said softly.

"Morning." I reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "How long have you been awake?"

"Not long. Just... watching you sleep." She bit her lip, suddenly looking uncertain. "Julian... about last night..."

"Regrets already?" I tried to keep my voice light, though the thought sent a cold spike through my chest.

"No. Never." She leaned in, her lips brushing mine in a kiss that was soft and sweet and full of promise. "I just wanted you to know... this isn't just sex for me. I know that's probably not what you want to hear, and I know I'm probably being naive, but I need you to know that."

I looked into her eyes, seeing the vulnerability there, the fear of rejection, and I knew that I was in trouble. Deep, serious, potentially life-altering trouble. Because whatever this was, it wasn't just sex for me either.

"I know," I said, pulling her closer. "It's not just sex for me either, Elena. I don't know what it is yet, but... it's not just sex."

She smiled, bright and beautiful, and kissed me again, and I knew that whatever complications were coming, they would be worth it for this, for her, for the way she made me feel like I was twenty-five again, full of possibility and hope.

Chapter 4

The next month was the happiest I'd been in years, and also the most stressed. We established a routine quickly—working together during the day, maintaining a professional distance that fooled no one, then coming together at night in either her cottage or my house, losing ourselves in each other until exhaustion claimed us.

She was insatiable, eager to learn what I liked, eager to show me what she liked, eager to try everything and anything. We made love in the vineyard at midnight, the moonlight silvering her skin as I took her against an ancient oak tree. We showered together in the mornings, my hands soaping her body, her mouth finding me under the spray. We spent entire Sundays in bed, exploring each other with lips and hands and tongues, learning every secret, every sensitive spot, every trigger that made the other gasp.

"You're going to kill me," I groaned one afternoon, lying on my back while she straddled my hips, her body rising and falling in a rhythm that was driving me slowly insane. "Elena, I'm forty-one, not twenty-one... I need recovery time..."

"Then don't recover," she purred, leaning down to capture my mouth in a kiss, her breasts pressed against my chest, her hips never stopping their delicious movement. "Just let me use you, Julian. You feel so good inside me..."

I grabbed her hips, my fingers digging into her flesh, and thrust up into her, meeting her downward strokes with force that made her cry out. She was wild like this, uninhibited, taking what she wanted with a confidence that was intoxicating. I watched her ride me, her head thrown back, her hands braced on my chest, her breasts bouncing with every movement, and I felt myself getting close, impossibly close despite having come twice already that morning.

"Elena," I gritted out. "I'm gonna... fuck, I'm gonna come..."

"Yes," she gasped, her own orgasm building, I could feel it in the way she tightened around me. "Come with me, Julian... come inside me..."

I exploded, my release triggering hers, and we came together in a tangle of limbs and gasped cries, her body milking mine, my hands holding her tight against me as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through us.

She collapsed onto my chest, both of us breathing hard, our hearts hammering in sync. "I love you," she whispered against my neck, the words so soft I almost missed them. "I know it's too soon, and I know you probably don't want to hear it, but I love you, Julian."

I went still, my hands freezing on her back. She felt it, lifting her head to look at me, her eyes wide and scared.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I shouldn't have... I know it's too soon, I just..."

I silenced her with a kiss, deep and slow and full of everything I couldn't quite put into words yet. "I love you too," I said when I finally pulled back. "I have for weeks, probably since that first day when you called me out for staring. I just didn't want to say it and scare you away."

Her smile was radiant, blinding, and she kissed me again, her body still joined with mine, and I knew that whatever happened, whatever complications arose, this was worth it. She was worth it.

But complications, as I'd feared, were inevitable.

It started with the looks from the other workers—seasonal hires who'd been with me for years, who knew my patterns, who noticed that I was spending an awful lot of time around the new girl. Then came the whispers, the speculative glances, the way conversations stopped when I walked into the break room.

Elena noticed too, her face flushing when she caught people staring, her shoulders tensing when she heard her name mentioned in hushed tones. But she didn't pull away, didn't ask me to be more discreet. If anything, she became bolder, finding reasons to touch me during the day, a hand on my arm, a brush of bodies in the narrow paths between vines.

"People are talking," she said one night, lying in my bed, her head on my chest.