Her smile falters for half a second. “You’re up at the Voss place.”
It isn’t a question.
“Yep,” I say. “Trying to get the tasting room back in shape.”
A man at the far table mutters something that sounds like “good luck,”and not in a friendly way. I pretend I don’t hear it.
The woman clears her throat. “Well, if you need help with the power, Blackwell Distillery usually sends one of their guys up to check lines after a storm.”
“I’m sure they do,” I say lightly. “I’ll manage.”
“Right. Of course.” She points out where I can find the items on my list. I make notes, thanking her, then order my coffee and a muffin.
“Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.”
She blushes, busying herself with the register. “You’re welcome. That’ll be nine fifty.”
I pay her, then flash a smile, pretending I don’t feel the weight of every stare following me out the door.
Outside, the morning air feels sharper. As I walk to my vehicle, every smile in town carries an unspoken warning: the Blackwells own more than the distillery. They owneveryone’s silence.
I stop by the hardware store next. It’s the same energy. The clerk’s polite but distracted, eyes flicking to the phone on the counter as if waiting for someone to tell him what he’s allowed to say.
When I mention the vineyard’s generator, he coughs and mumbles, “Best check with the board before you install anything permanent.”
The board.
Tristan’s board.
I glare at him, not saying anything.
He bows his head and continues ringing me up.
By the time I load everything into the back of my SUV, my good mood is gone. I drive out of town with the windows cracked, letting the wind scrape away the tension clinging to my skin.
Halfway up the ridge, I spot a black truck pulled onto the shoulder. A man leans against the hood, a phone pressed to hisear, sunglasses reflecting the trees. He doesn’t look my way, but something in my gut twists.
The truck reminds me of Cal’s—except it's newer and larger. I swear I’ve seen it before, but I can’t be sure.
I press the accelerator and keep driving, trying to ignore the unease coiling in my stomach. There’s something familiar about him, although I don’t recall ever seeing him before.
When I reach the estate, the vines sway in the breeze like nothing happened. The porch still smells faintly of rain. I unload the supplies and set the new generator battery on the counter.
The phone rings before I can even catch my breath.
“Voss Estate,” I answer automatically.
Static hums on the other end, but no one speaks.
I wait. “Hello?”
For a heartbeat, nothing—then a slow exhale, heavy breathing—before the line clicks dead.
I set the phone down carefully, my pulse ticking in my throat.
For a long minute, I just stand there, listening to the hum of the fridge and the wind moving through the vines.
Then, faintly, from outside, the rumble of a truck engine starts up.
