Prologue
THREE MONTHS AGO…
Devon Boone hadn't planned on staying for the entire wine auction but watching Emery Tate get publicly eviscerated by her boss had been like witnessing a car accident, impossible to look away from.
He'd been nursing a glass of overpriced Bordeaux in the back of the Terroir and Gavel Auction House with his Operations Manager, Gabe Maxwell, when Harold Pemberton, the owner of Terroir and Gavel, had taken the microphone and announced that "irregularities in authentication" had been discovered. Emery had stood frozen at the front of the room as Pemberton detailed her alleged crimes with theatrical flair, her face growing paler with each accusation. The crowd had shifted from polite attention to a gossip-hungry gathering, and Devon clenched his jaw watching her endure it.
She'd walked out with her head high, but he'd caught the tremor in her hands.
Now, three hours later, he found her exactly where he'd expected—drowning her sorrows at the Rusted Rail, the kind of establishment that didn't ask questions and poured drinks strong enough that a patron would forget their name.
Emery sat alone at the far end of the bar, still wearing her auction house uniform of black blazer and pearls, though the blazer was now wrinkled and the pearls slightly askew. Her dark hair had escaped its professional style, and she was staring into a rocks glass like it might hold the answers to life's mysteries.
“I’m surprised to see her out in public,” Gabe said. “I can’t believe she made such a grievous mistake.”
“Regardless, Harold didn’t need to hang her for all to see.”
“I don’t know, man,” Gabe said. “Collectors dish out a lot of money for unique bottles, and they need to trust the person authenticating them, and Harold had the proof in hand. Hard to argue with that.”
“I struggle to believe she’d make such a blunder. For two years, we’ve both seen her work at different auctions. She’s a perfectionist, and she’s diligent in her research.” Devon stared at the sexy woman at the end of the bar. “She deserves the benefit of the doubt.”
“You’re going to go have a chat with her, aren’t you?”
“I am.” Devon couldn’t let it go if he tried. For the last month, he’d been doing all that he could to banish her from his thoughts, but she haunted his dreams and occupied his daily thoughts. When she’d returned to Napa Valley two years ago, he’d kept a safe distance. She wasn’t the kind of woman he typically went for. She was intellectual, elegant, and somewhat shy, which he found endearing. Only, in the last few months, since he’d gotten to know her better, he’d learn she wasn’t shy… she was reserved.
“No offense, but considering Winston and Callie are sitting in the back booth, I think I’ll pass on that nightcap.”
Devon glanced toward the booth in question. It hadn’t surprised him to see his family winery’s biggest rival at Terroir and Gavel. Winston constantly bragged about his collection. But seeing them at Rusted Rail, well, that was different. Calliebelieved the bar was beneath her, and Winston thought it was where the poor folk hung out.
Guess they decided to see how the real world lived.
Gabe checked his watch. “And I told my wife I wouldn’t be too late.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Devon slapped Gabe on the back before Gabe turned and slipped out the door of the tavern.
Devon strolled across the bar, boots crunching the peanut shells covering the floor, his gaze locked on Emery. She’d always been the prettiest girl in any room, even when she looked like the most miserable, as well.
“Hey there.” Callendra “Callie” Callaway stepped in front of him, blocking his path. She wore a tight pink top with a low V-neck, a black mini skirt, and knee-high boots with heels at least four inches. Granted, Callie was only five foot four, and she’d always been sensitive about that. But he couldn’t fathom how she didn’t topple over between the new breasts and the stilts for shoes. “Want to throw down a drink with the competition?” She leaned closer. “Maybe you and I could catch up back at my place?”
Devon tried not to laugh. He really did, but it proved to be impossible. However, it came out more like a half-grunt followed by a mangled snort.
“Aww, come on. Still think I’m too much for you?”
“You’re definitely too much of something, and I’m still too old.” He ran his fingers through his hair, staring over the top of Callie’s head while Emery ordered another drink.
That worried Devon.
“You know, that might have flown when I was a freshman in college. But not last year.” She lowered her chin and batted her eyelashes. “Or are we still pretending that one didn’t happen?”
“Not pretending, nor am I denying, just saying we’re not a good match.” He lowered his gaze and smiled. It was impossiblenot to. Callie wasn’t the worst person in the world. Misguided. Immature. Spoiled. But she also had a sweet side. She was kind. Considerate. And often generous with her time and even her money. She volunteered and organized many charitable events, and she was damn good at it. Devon’s mother had to admit that Callie had skills in that department, and she’d even co-hosted an event with Callie.
Now, that was a big deal. Not just because it was Callie.
But because she represented Callaway Wines—their biggest competitor in the space.
And rumor had it they were also about to enter the premium wine market.
But as nice and adorable as Callie could be—she had two fatal flaws—at least in Devon’s eyes. The first being that while she had a role at the family business as a manager of their tasting room, both in town and on-site, as well as running private tours, she didn’t seem to have any ambition outside of finding a husband who could take care of her—which was a problem since the idea of walking down the aisle made Devon twitch.
