Only when we burn

Chapter 11: One good memory

We pulled into the Seine Valley Winery Company’s parking lot by midday. I cut the engine and took a deep breath. The cake on Aarti’s lap looked fragile, ridiculous even, but it felt like the most important thing we’d carried all morning. I wanted today to mean something different for Jackson. Just one good memory where there had only been shadows. Given our tight timeline and Aarti’s last-minute baking rescue, I was weirdly proud of what we’d managed to pull off.

“Did you and the cake box survive the ride?” I asked with a smile.

She peeked inside the lid, then beamed. “Still standing. Unlike me last night.”

I smirked, but let the joke hang. She and Nate must have talked about what happened, as the air between them had mellowed. I could feel it. Not tense exactly, just... guarded. There were side glances and lingering silences, unspoken things hovering between words. After breakfast, I’d quietly excused myself and left them alone while I ran into town to buy Jackson a gift. When I returned, they were sitting together again, the quiet not so loaded. Their banter came back in soft bursts, sarcastic jabs and warm smiles that seemed meant only for each other.

The property in daylight was nothing short of breathtaking. The main building stood proud, and the manicured lawns stretched like a velvet carpet on either side of the cobblestone path, and towering Norfolk pines lined the perimeter. Overhead, bursts of violet jacaranda blossoms fluttered down like confetti, their soft petals dusting the stones in dreamy purple shadows.

A lovely young lady ushered us into the tasting hall as soon as she spotted us. “One moment, please,” she said, picking up the phone. “Mr. Ivory, your guests are here.”

She replaced the receiver and offered us a warm smile. “Would you like to taste some of our wines while you wait?”

“Yes, of course,” Aarti replied, casting a hopeful look between Nate and me. “I need a cure for my hangover.”

The girl chuckled and gestured for us to follow. “Right this way.”

She led us to a small tasting table, a polished wooden bar with a few elegant stools tucked neatly underneath. It sat beneath a large arched window overlooking the vineyard.

“Are you able to put this in the cool room for us and get the waiter to bring it out when we are finished with lunch?” I asked, placing the cake box onto the counter.

“Of course, Miss Watson. I’ll do that right away.”

She disappeared briefly into a back room and returned empty-handed, then took her place behind the tasting bar with a bright, professional smile.

“My name is Mindy, and I’ll be taking you through a short tour of the wines we produce. We’ll start with the reds. The first wine is the Syrah, or more commonly called Shiraz. It’s a woody wine and it boasts an undercurrent of blackberry and blackcurrants…”

As she poured, my attention drifted. Down a hallway, I spotted Jackson handing a stack of papers to a woman outside his office. He murmured something and gestured behind him. She nodded, smiling.

Aarti elbowed me. “Quit staring, it’s rude.”

“He’s my boyfriend,” I whispered back. “I’m allowed to stare.”

She stifled a laugh as Mindy raised an eyebrow, amused.

***

I recognised Jackson’s footsteps long before I saw him. There was something about the way he walked, steady and sure, like every step had a purpose.

“Hi, guys,” he said as he approached. Aarti hopped down from the stool to hug him. Nate gave him a nod as Jackson’s hands landed softly on my shoulders. His lips brushed my temple. “Hey, beautiful.”

“Hey,” I replied, cautious but warm.

“I’ll take it from here, Mindy. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

“Hungry?” he asked, addressing all three of us.

“Starving,” Aarti answered dramatically.

“Come on then,” Jackson said, threading his fingers through mine. “I’ll give you the quick tour on the way to the restaurant.”

He was in his element, explaining the winery’s legacy, the family history, the story behind each blend. We wandered through cool barrel rooms and stone archways, our footsteps echoing as he shared stories about his great-grandfather founding the place.

“And this…” Jackson opened a chilled room and flicked on the lights. Inside a glass cabinet stood a bottle of wine, aged and dignified. “...was his very first vintage. Nearly a hundred years old.”

Aarti gasped. “How much is that worth?”

“About two thousand dollars,” Jackson replied casually.

“Can you still drink it?”

“In theory. But we don’t keep a century-old bottle to pop open after work, Aarti.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So what do you keep it for, then?”

“History. Legacy. Investment,” Jackson said, chuckling as he slung an arm over her shoulder.

They walked ahead, laughing. I lingered beside Nate.

“If you still want me to punch him for last night, I can,” Nate muttered, nudging me.

“As tempting as that sounds, I’d prefer shirts to stay on this time.”

Nate snorted. “Who said anything about shirts off?”

I rolled my eyes as we followed them down to the restaurant, a sun-drenched space half-filled with quiet diners. The table set for us looked extravagant.

“Jackson, you shouldn’t have,” Aarti squealed, sliding into her seat.

The moment we were seated, I was hit by the aroma of rosemary and warm bread. The table before us looked decadent and just a little excessive. So very Jackson.

"Did you do all this?" I whispered to him, glancing over the curated spread.

He shrugged, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I know what makes you happy.”

Aarti leaned over the table, eyeing the antipasto platter like it was a prize. “God, is that Manchego? And prosciutto? Tell me we don’t have to share.”

“Share or fight,” Nate muttered, reaching for an olive.

The platter was a riot of colours, rich reds, glossy greens, and warm browns. I grabbed a piece of sun-dried tomato and popped it into my mouth, the tang bursting on my tongue. Jackson’s hand brushed mine as he reached for a slice of sourdough. I glanced up, and he was already watching me. Not smiling. Not speaking. Just watching, like he was still trying to figure out where we stood after last night.

I didn’t say anything. I only held his gaze for a beat longer than I should have, until the moment felt too loud and I turned back to my plate.

Mains arrived one after the other. Roasted lamb shoulder glistening in rosemary jus, slow-cooked duck resting on creamy parsnip purée, a delicate mushroom risotto sprinkled with truffle shavings. The scent of thyme and charred meat hung in the air, grounding and indulgent.

Aarti let out an exaggerated moan as the lamb was placed in front of her. “Okay. Whoever’s responsible for this? I owe them my life.”

She caught Jackson’s eye and grinned. “Please tell me you at least tasted the menu.”

He gave a quiet chuckle, glancing sideways at me before answering. “Just a few dishes.”

No teasing. No pride. Just that low voice that hummed in my chest more than it rang in my ears.

Under the table, his fingers brushed mine again, not holding, not demanding. Just there. I didn’t pull away. And my heart gave a ridiculous little kick.

Beside her, Nate eyed the duck with quiet appreciation. “Now this is how you win a girl over,” he muttered under his breath, casting a sideways glance at Aarti that didn’t go unnoticed.

I nudged Jackson gently. “I think we may have missed something last night.”

Jackson glanced at Aarti and Nate and nodded slightly, watching as Aarti tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Some things have a way of working themselves out."

I studied Aarti's face for a moment, noting the soft flush that hadn't been there yesterday. I made a mental note to check in with her later, privately.

I reached out for some risotto that made me close my eyes. The cream clung to the edges like silk, the truffle adding an earthy flavour to every bite. I murmured a soft “mmm” before I could stop myself.

Jackson leaned in, voice warm and teasing. “You make that sound again, and I’m taking you back to the cellar.”

A flush crept up my neck, but I smiled into my wine.

We were all finally leaning back in our seats, lazy and content, when our plates were empty.

Aarti made a dramatic sigh. “This is obscene. We should be rolled out of here.”

The lights suddenly dimmed. Silence settled.

Soft murmurs swelled across the restaurant. A flicker of candlelight caught the corner of my eye. And then—there it was. The cake. His cake. A single candle flickering in the centre like a tiny spotlight.

“Oh no,” I whispered under my breath, spine going rigid. “I forgot to tell them not to make a scene.”

Jackson’s posture shifted—shoulders tight, jaw rigid—as if something inside him had snapped taut. The energy around him changed instantly. I could feel it pulsing beneath his skin, just out of reach.

The waiter approached with a too-wide grin, carefully setting the cake in front of him. “Happy birthday, sir.”

Then came the song—loud, off-key, and painfully earnest.

“Happy birthday to you…”

Jackson didn’t move. His hand came up to shield part of his face, but his eyes found mine. They weren’t annoyed. They were lost. Guarded.

I barely breathed.

“Did you do this?” he murmured, voice low, the warmth of it brushing my cheek.

My heart lurched. “Yes. No. I mean—yes, but not the singing. I just wanted you to have something. From me.”

The flush in his cheeks wasn’t from embarrassment; it was something deeper. Nate and Aarti were watching us now, expressions unreadable.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I whispered.

There was a long pause.

Then Jackson lifted his hand, palm open to hush the room. He closed his eyes for a beat… two… then blew out the candle in one steady exhale. A smattering of claps rippled through the restaurant, polite and brief, before fading back into the usual hum of conversation. But all I saw was him. The hard line of his mouth eased. His gaze softened when it came back to mine.

“I baked it this morning.”

Jackson blinked. A breath escaped him like a quiet laugh. “You baked?”

“Aarti helped. With a piping bag that was older than your vineyard.”

That did it. His lips curved, not into his usual smirk, but something quieter, sadder. “You guys made that… for me?”

I nodded. “I didn’t know. About today. I just… wanted to do something nice.”

He reached across the table and brushed his thumb over my hand, his touch light but deliberate. And then he reached out his other hand for Aarti’s and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

I swallowed, suddenly unsure what emotion was welling in my throat.

He didn't elaborate, and the silence felt full rather than empty. The rigid tension that had seized him during the singing melted away completely, leaving behind someone who looked almost surprised by his own contentment. Something about this simple, homemade gesture had reached a place in him that grander displays never could.