At some point, somewhere between the bedroom at noon and the kitchen at dusk, they found the energy to clean the house, toss empty bottles into the recycling bin, dispose of the everything else into the trash and make the Rhapsody residence look less like a fraternity house and more like a home again.

"So you told me this party was in my honor, right?"

"That's right," Kurt said, putting the last of the glasses away.

"Then how did I get stuck washing the dishes?"

Kurt stepped behind Blaine and wrapped  his arms around his waist, nuzzling at the back of his neck and smiling to himself. Blaine savored the moment, looking out the window, taking in the late afternoon sun. "You still feel like locking yourself in for the rest of the day?"

"What were you thinking?" Kurt asked, breathing him in.

"Some fresh air. Let's walk."

****

They hiked through the vines, Blaine in his jeans and t-shirt, Kurt in clothes Blaine’s brother had left behind on his last visit. They walked slowly, deliberately, side-by-side, following about 10 paces behind Blaine's energetic Australian shepherd.

The vineyard looked alive with growth. The gnarled stumps that had been neatly pruned to a "T" when Kurt had first visited Rhapsody now burst open in the vibrant green of young foliage, dotted by clusters of young grapes no bigger than pinheads. In a few months, they would become the foundation for 2013 Syrah and Zinfandel. 

"Time to prune soon," Blaine said, reaching down and snapping off a couple of stray shoots.

"But I thought this was the quiet season. It grows through summer, then you've got harvest and crush in fall, right?"

"Fall's the busiest season, but summer's a constant battle. There's the worry that there won't be enough heat, or that there'll be too much; the issue of water, and pests, and then the birds going after the fruit when it starts to mature. And then there's the pruning. You don't want it to grow too big too fast. You've got to pace things."

Blaine kicked at the dirt, and kept his focus down, away from Kurt.

"So what's next?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"For you. This competition of yours is done. Now what?"

"The rest of the project. Now I go back to writing," Kurt said, smiling, reaching for Blaine's hand. "It's another nine months of nothing but California wine country for Taste Magazine."

He pulled Blaine close, touching nose-to-nose. "I'm not going anywhere," he whispered.

"Not yet."

"Not yet," Kurt echoed, drawing him into a kiss. As they broke from the kiss, Blaine took his hand, leading him up the dusty trail. 

"And where are you taking me?" 

"You'll see."

They walked hand-in-hand through the vineyard, toward the upper reaches of Rhapsody. They reached the upper ridge, near the spot where Kurt had received his brief lesson on the art of the spring prune, but Blaine kept walking. 

He stopped at an expanse of airy open space, a wide field of tall grass and mustard weed dancing on the breeze. 

"Is this where you would expand?" 

Blaine nodded and bit his lip.

"What would you grow here?"

"It depends," he said, setting his hands on his hips. "I could keep planting Syrah. It responds well here. I could expand production."

"Or?"

"Or I could plant other varieties and use them for blending — Petit Verdot, Petite Sirah, maybe  some Cab or Merlot."

"Bordeaux? Say it ain't so." Kurt said, laughing.

"I'm serious. I already source Cab and Merlot for Sotto Voce. It's predominantly Syrah, but it's a blend. If I grew them here instead of buying someone else's fruit, I might have a little more control, and I would know what to expect in terms of volume and quality."

Blaine sat in the dirt, stretching his legs out and resting back on his palms, catching the light breeze and the setting sun on his face. Kurt just stood and watched him for a moment, until a hand reached up, beckoning him down. Kurt sat down between Blaine's legs, settling his back into Blaine's chest, allowing himself to be enveloped. 

"What's stopping you?"

"I didn't want to expand too fast, I guess. And there's the expense. Buying the property's only the start of it."

"You're about to see the demand for Rhapsody skyrocket, you know. And it might even spill over to the value of adjoining properties."

Kurt leaned his head back, drawing them cheek-to-cheek. Blaine turned, closed his eyes and placed a soft kiss to his jaw.

"The thought had dawned on me."

He trailed kisses down Kurt's neck.

"You know, even if you don't plant it, it might be a good investment, and it gives you a barrier around your existing vineyard."

"Or part of it..."

"Or part of it."

Blaine sat up, wrapping his arms around Kurt's waist and hooking his chin over his shoulder.

"Have you ever thought about becoming a business manager?" he asked.

"Well, you've already trained me to be a professional vine manager. Maybe it's time for a promotion."

"Professional vine manager?"

"New title for the guys working the vineyard. More respectful than 'field hand'."

"I like it," Blaine said, moving in for a purposeful kiss.

They sat like that, woven together, for close to an hour, watching a pair of red-tailed hawks soar in concentric circles overhead as the sun dipped behind the Carneros hills. 

"The little ones must be flying now," Blaine said. "Otherwise, we wouldn't be seeing them together like that."

"Hmm?"

"The hawks," he said, pointing them out. "They're back to their courtship dance. In early spring, they really put on a show. But once the eggs are in the nest, you don't see them fly together again until after the hatchlings take flight."

"And then?" Kurt asked, leaning their heads together.

"They're monogamous. They mate for life. Once they're able to be together again, they're inseparable. That pair has lived here for at least three years."

"Smart birds," Kurt said, leaning in for another kiss. It was quickly interrupted by the dog, who yipped and pawed at Blaine's arm.

"Someone hasn't eaten today."

"Smart dog," Kurt said, reaching over to give the shepherd a pat behind her ears. "Dinner's  starting to sound pretty good." He shuffled her dog tags between his fingers.

KDP.

"KDP? What kind of name is that?"

"Well, it's KD."

"Like KD Lang?"

"Not exactly..."

"And the P? Oh my god, is your dog named Katy Perry?"

"Not exactly..."

"Then the P stands for?"

Blaine stood up and extended a hand to help Kurt up, averting his eyes.

"Puppy."

"No."

"What?"

"Katy Puppy?"

Blaine looked at him with bemused distress, knowing that his penchant for the pop princess had  been discovered.

"Do you still want me to feed you?"

Kurt willed away his laughter by biting his lip.

"I didn't say a thing."

They walked back toward the house hand-in-hand, the raspberry sunset bleeding into the inky indigo of the emerging night. About halfway down the hill, Kurt felt a jarring vibration in his pocket, and then again about 30 seconds later. 

"The spa day must be over," he said. "Command appearance, tomorrow morning."

"I thought you liked Quinn."

"I do, when I don't have other things on my mind."

Blaine smiled to himself, and looked away.

"Do you want to head back down there tonight?"

"No. At least if that's okay with you. I like it up here, the privacy. No chance of bumping into anyone. Just us."

They reached the front door, and Blaine stopped to pull Kurt into an embrace.

"Okay. Just us."

****

"Is this a thing? Is this our thing?" Kurt asked, legs tangled with Blaine's as the morning sun slapped at the bedroom windows. 

Blaine shut his eyes and stretched his arms and settled into the pillows, into the feather bed, into Kurt, making himself comfortable and not looking ready to get up and start the day.

"Mmm. What? What thing is our thing?"

"Mornings."

"Oh. Mornings. Mmm, maybe? You have to admit, it's a nice way to wake up."

Kurt rolled over, curling into Blaine's arms. His kissed his ear, running his tongue along its shell, drawing out a soft moan. He was already noting and recording these spots for future reference: the ear, the clavicle, the little birthmark near where his neck met his spine, the tiny spot behind his knee. Each one, touched just so, elicited its own moan, gasp or sigh. And Kurt intended to remember each and every one, to have it catalogued in his head, and maybe his heart.

"I need to be up soon and call for the car."

"I'll drive you," Blaine murmured, "and I think you already are."

****

"I could have had the driver pick me up, you know," Kurt said, hunkering down in the passenger seat to try to defeat the wind gusting into the open-top truck.

"Something tells me that perk's not going to be available much longer. Besides, I needed to run some errands. Isn't this more fun?"

Blaine reached his right hand over from the steering wheel, giving Kurt's knee a quick squeeze.

"You are better looking than Joe, I'll give you that. But at least he keeps the roof closed."

"If Joe drove this fine vehicle instead of a Town Car, I guarantee you he'd keep the top off," Blaine laughed. "So, are you in meetings all day?"

"I suspect I'm putting in some quality hours with Quinn, breaking down the Challenge, mapping out story ideas — that's a few hours — and I figure I'd better add in an hour or two for venting, hugging, ranting and hand-holding."

"How about if we send 'Tana in your place, lock the door behind her and leave those two to it, then we can go lock ourselves away in your room?"

Kurt gave him his best Bitch, please look.

"Just an idea," Blaine said, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"And enticing as that idea is, Mr. Anderson..."

Blaine's smile just grew bigger, and Kurt was certain he could see a little twinkle behind his dark aviators.

"How long do you think your errands will take?"

"How long do you need them to take?"

It felt like a gentle press, a feeling of air being pushed from his chest that left Kurt tingling.

"How about this? I have a spare key card. Let yourself in when you're done with everything you need to do. If I'm done with Quinn, I'll be there. If not, just make yourself comfortable and send me a text. I'll get there as soon as I can."

"Okay. Three or fours hours, you think?"

"Tops."

"Want me to make dinner reservations?"

Then it was Kurt's turn to grin.

"Let's eat in."

****

For the first time in memory, Kurt beat Quinn to a meeting.

She was prompt to a fault, always early, always anxious to get started. Kurt was... less so.

But when he arrived at Bardessono's restaurant for their 10 a.m. meeting, already running 15 minutes late after scrambling to get to his room and get changed without drawing too much attention to himself. Quinn was nowhere to be found.

"Mr. Hummel?" 

Kurt turned with a start at the waiter's call. 

"You were waiting for Ms. Fabray? She called down a little while ago and said to let you know that she had been detained and would try to be down by 10:30."

Pleasantly stunned by the turn of events, Kurt settled in with his iPad and coffee, reading the news and catching up on emails that had been allowed to accumulate for a few days, the subject lines a blur of congratulations, thanks and shock at Napa's loss.

In the thick of it, a note from Santana jumped out from the rest. "GO GET SOME," she'd written sometime late Sunday. He opened it up, and the note was simple: "Don't say I never did anything for you."

He covered his mouth to stifle his laugh. Santana Lopez, matchmaker. It was indeed a cold day in hell.

Kurt felt a hand on his shoulder and lips on his cheek before he even registered the voice.

"Well, there you are," Quinn said in a satisfied purr. "You didn't wait too long did you? I figured 10 o'clock might have been a little... challenging... for you."

"What? Why?"

Quinn flagged the waiter down, ordered a coffee and only then looked up and gave him a sly smile. "Really, Kurt? When did you get back? Twenty minutes ago?"

"What?"

"Not to worry. Your secret's safe with me."

"I don't even... what... Quinn..." he stammered.

"Shh... it's okay. You deserve a little TLC, and he's cute."

Kurt felt the blood drain from his face — it was strange, he would have imagined blushing at the moment. Instead, instinct and skin temperature told him that he was white as a ghost.

"Let's not, Quinn."

"I'm just saying..."

"No. Just, don't. Okay?"

Quinn smirked over the brim of her coffee cup and sipped away. "Whatever you say, sweetie."

"You seem calmer today. I take it the spa day served its purpose?"

"You could say that."

"And the Challenge is over."

"Yes. That, too," Quinn said, seeming distracted. "Which is one of the things we need to talk about today."

Yes, the old Quinn was back. Like a light switch flipped, she returned to her business mode, the calm of the moment interrupted by the reality of running a magazine and ensuring that the event, to which she'd devoted months of her time and an unmentioned amount of her budget developing, had served its intended purpose.

She reached down into her Birkin bag and pulled out her tablet, pulling up a spreadsheet of to-dos and timelines and goals and markers.

"So, we did well," she said. "Sold out both events. In terms of attendance and media coverage, we did great."

"I sense a but," Kurt said.

"The results were unexpected."

"We couldn't control that."

"I'm not saying that's a bad thing," Quinn said. "The Sonoma sweep was a surprise to everyone." She leaned in whispering. "Not the least of which was Napa. They got their asses handed to them."

She laughed. Laughed. Kurt sat still — confused, concerned, and a little amused by it all.

"They want a rematch."

"What?! No, Quinn. No."

"I'm not saying right away, but maybe this becomes an annual thing? Bob Devries' insecurity just wrote us a ticket to make this a recurring event."

"Oh god. This is not what I was expecting, Quinn. What about the advertising?"

"Are you kidding? Do you know how much earned media we got on this? That was gold, Kurt. Gold. And all those wineries are planning on advertising the shit out of the fact that they were finalists." She settled back into her chair, cozying up with her coffee cup. 

Kurt was speechless.

"Don't worry. With the first year behind us, and it looking like a success, I can bring someone in to handle the details moving forward, and you can go back to your column, which we also need to discuss."

"I have several ideas sketched out."

"Of course you do, and I'm sure you gave them detailed consideration in the minutes you were waiting for me to show up," she said, laughing. "I know how you work, Kurt. And there are going to be some changes."

"What?"

"To the project."

"How so? I thought we were set with the year in the Wine Country."

"Yes, but why limit ourselves to Napa and Sonoma? Shouldn't the point be that California's wine country stretches from border-to-border? Imagine the possibilities."

"What exactly are you saying?"

"You're staying here. Not here, certainly. I was told that Napa's hospitality will be cut off by Wednesday. You'll finish off the project from — wherever — but you won't necessarily be spending all of your time here. I want you writing about other wine regions, too: Temecula, Paso Robles, Santa Barbara, Monterey, the I-5 corridor, wherever."

Kurt gave her a blank stare.

"You can be based wherever you see fit, so long as you keep to budget," she said. "I can still get you a deal at AmeriSuites."

"So, I'll be traveling again?"

"Yes, but short trips. You're California-based through March, then home."

Quinn's voiced had picked up its New York clip, a rapid staccato that was all business.

"Let's wrap this up. You have other business to attend to," she said.

"You're the only thing on my calendar today."

"That doesn't mean you don't have plans," she said with a little smile, tucking the tablet away and signing off on the tab. "I saw him head up to your room about 15 minutes ago."

****

Blaine cursed Bardessono's architect under his breath. There was only one way in and one way out of the guest areas as far as he could tell, and ever since the profile in Taste, his face was well known around the valley.

His round of errands had drawn hand shakes and congratulations,  and questions about buying Rhapsody wines and requests to pose for camera-phone selfie portraits. People that he didn't know knew him.

In that moment — in any moment, really — he preferred anonymity.

He did his best to look inconspicuous, leaving the truck at the far back of the parking lot, near the restaurant, and toying with his phone and fussing with his leather backpack as he walked through the foyer. He moved through the courtyard with deliberate speed, making a hasty beeline to the room. 

It was only mid-afternoon, and Blaine had not heard from Kurt yet, nor had he expected to. From what he had heard about Quinn, the meeting could go on for hours.

He let himself in with a click and a "Kurt?" only to be met with expected silence.

He set the bag down and unpacked it, item by item, on the kitchenette counter: locally made herbed chèvre and Humboldt Fog blue cheese, water crackers, a knife, two champagne flutes, a bottle of Roederer Anderson Valley Estate Brut sparkling wine, lube, a box of condoms.

I might as well return the favor, he thought.

He put the cheese and wine in the small refrigerator, then put the other supplies away, taking the lube and condoms to the bedroom. He pulled open the nightstand drawer and found it had little room for anything else. Kurt had used it for wine storage, a bottle resting on its side, the familiar label face up.

Sotto Voce was scrolled across the face with his signature in gold Sharpie to one side.

****