Pumpkin. She’d given me the nickname when I was twelve and about as round as the orange winter squash. I hated it as much now as I did then.
Felicity had married Wagner Staglin—whose family owned one of the most successful wineries in the valley—five years ago. As a wedding gift from his parents, they were given prime vineyard property and the seed money to start releasing their own vintages. Given the name recognition, their “boutique” operation, which was bigger than ours and our neighbors combined, brought in enough money that my sister could quit her job as a bank teller and become a stay-at-home mom to their son, born exactly nine months after their wedding, and their daughter, who could arrive any minute now. Including at the ball. I smacked my forehead, wondering what Wagner had been thinking with the surprise. He could’ve flown her down rather than drive.
My phone buzzed again.Meet you at Sterling in twenty. You ready for this? Don’t forget, I owe you one. –S
For five years, I’d sent back some variation of “ready when you are” or “let’s get it done.” Tonight, though, would be different, and I couldn’t go into it without telling him so.
Forewarning you, I’m collecting this year.
The typing dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Wait, seriously? I mean, GOOD! It’s about time. So, what’s the favor?
Tell you after.
You got it. Whatever you need, Saffron. You know that.
Whatever I needed. But would he feel that way when he learned what I was really asking? When he discovered I needed his family’s grapes, their winery, their expertise, and approximately six weeks of intensive collaboration to make a wine that might not even work?
I grabbed my keys and headed for my truck, the journal safe in my purse. The drive to Sterling Creek Winery took ten minutes through hills covered in autumn colors. Every winery I passed was closed early. The ball was the area’s biggest charity event of the year, and everyone would be there.
Sterling Creek had been magically transformed with thousands of tiny lights creating a canopy of stars over the entrance, and paper lanterns in burgundy and gold lined the pathways. The barrel room, which could hold five hundred people, was already three-quarters full when I arrived.
“Saffron!” My mother stood near the bar, wearing a navy dress and her mother’s pearls, looking every inch the winery matriarch she’d become. Beside her, Dad wore his best suit—the charcoal one he’d had for a decade but kept in perfect condition.
No one looking at them would guess we were ninety days from disaster.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” Mom said, kissing my cheek.
“Same dress as always,” I said, mentioning it before she could.
“Classic never goes out of style.” Dad’s hand rested on my shoulder, warm and steady. “The auction should be entertaining tonight. I heard half of this year’s bachelors are fresh out of the vineyard.”
I laughed. “With four of Alex’s brothers married, along with an equal number of their best friends, I’m sure she struggledto get volunteers.” Alex—Alexis—was Snapper’s older sister. She’d married Maddox Butler, another Central Coast rock star winemaker, a few years ago. They had two kids now, she ran the business side of Demetria, their winery, and still owned half of a wine bar in downtown Cambria, yet year after year, she executed this event flawlessly as if she had nothing to do but devote all her attention to it.
I made small talk with my parents while the room continued to fill. I saw the Avila contingent at their usual table near the front—the five oldest siblings plus their spouses, with their mother Lucia presiding like a benevolent queen. Snapper and his younger brother, Rascon—who everyone called Kick—walked in a few minutes ago but had been waylaid by those seated at every table they passed.
When Snapper looked in my direction, I held up my hand and waved. Even from across the room, the man drew attention. Six-foot-three, shoulders that came from years of ranch work and rodeo, an easy smile that made everyone feel included, and the deepest, darkest, most gorgeous eyes I’d ever stared into. Not that I allowed myself to very often. Snapper and I were friends. That’s all we’d ever been or would be, regardless of how he took my breath away and made desire course through my body in a way no other man ever had.
“Felicity!” I heard my mother call out. “You made it.”
“When we left the house four hours ago, this sounded like a fabulous idea. Now, I just want a nap.” She rubbed her protruding belly and looked around the room.
“Isabel’s here,” Felicity murmured.
Isabel Van Orr stood near the Avila table, no doubt waiting for Snapper to join his family. The red gown she wore had to have required a team to get her into. Her blonde hair fell in waves that belonged in a shampoo commercial, and diamondsdripped from her ears and throat. She was watching Snapper with the intensity of a cat stalking a bird.
“Same as every year,” I said.
“And like before, you’ll rescue him.” Felicity’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “When are you going to make him actually take you on one of the fabulous date he plans?”
“He plans it knowing he’ll never have to deliver. Plus, we’re friends. He hates dealing with Isabel. I help him out.”
“Right. And he just happens to text you to remind you of your deal.”
Before I could reply, Alex Avila-Butler took the stage. She commanded attention in a silver gown that caught the lights like moonlight on water.
“Hello, everyone, and welcome to the twentieth annual Wicked Winemakers’ Ball. We’ll begin dinner service in about thirty minutes to give you all time to check out this year’s silent auction. Every year, our generous donors truly outdo themselves, and we’re so appreciative of them. Please join me in giving them our thanks.”
