The front door opened before she could knock, revealing Ashley in workout gear with her dark hair pulled back in a high ponytail. “Morning, Emery. You’re a little early.”
"I wanted to make a good impression on my first day."
"Smart thinking. Though honestly, after the way Dad was singing your praises last night, I think you could show up in pajamas, and he'd still be thrilled." Ashley grabbed her keys from a table near the door. "I'm heading into town for a yoga class, but Mom and Riley are in the kitchen if you want coffee before your meeting. Most mornings, Elsa is here to cook breakfast. Since you’re living on the property, you’ll be invited when she does.” Ashley leaned a little closer. “A small piece of advice. This family is overwhelming as hell. And you’re gonna want to pass on that gathering. But for the first couple of weeks, don’t. It will upset Elsa and offend my mother. However, after that, you can start cherry picking which mornings to bail.”
Emery blinked. Her pulse raced. Growing up, the Boone children had strolled through the streets of Stone Bridge as if they were going places. Emery had been one of those kids who hadn’t fit into any group. She hadn’t been popular. She’d trieda couple of sports but wasn’t any good. There were only three things that interested Emery. Art, history, and chemistry and it had made her a bit of an odd duck.
Leaving Stone Bridge had been an easy choice. College had been where Emery found her people—and herself. It was also where she’d fallen in love with wine, which was odd since she’d grown up in Napa. But living there, in some ways, had made her immune to what had been right in front of her.
An opportunity to do something distinctive. Something different. Something that combined a rich story with a dusty bottle, creating a unique piece of history that could be held onto for generations… or shared with those who appreciated and valued the tale.
Hasley appeared behind her sister, also dressed for departure with a purse slung over her shoulder. “Is my sister telling you all the tricks?”
“Just the breakfast one,” Ashley said.
“Here’s another one for you.” Hasley adjusted her bag. “Our mother is a lovely woman. Kind, caring, and while I wouldn’t say she meddles… she can be a little…” Hasley looked toward the ceiling and tapped her temple. “… Extra. She might ask a lot of questions. She might?—”
“What my sister is trying to say is that because you're single and so is Devon, and she already believes something might have happened, she’s gonna play matchmaker.”
That was the last thing Emery needed.
“But it won’t be as bad as it is with us girls. It’s never as bad,” Ashley said.
“No truer words.” Hasley looped her arm around her sister. “And fair warning— our mom made her famous cinnamon rolls this morning. She only breaks those out for special occasions."
"Special occasions?" Emery asked.
"New family members, holidays, and whenever she's trying to butter someone up—or fix them up,” Ashley explained with a roll of her eyes. "In your case, I think it's a combination of the first and last.”
Emery groaned.Professional boundaries, she reminded herself. It’s not like that was impossible. She and Devon had never been a couple. They only slept together a couple of times. Sexted on occasion. Flirted like crazy. But it all stopped now.
The sisters headed out, leaving Emery to follow the sound of voices toward the back of the house.
Family portraits lined the long corridor. She walked slowly, examining each one. There were images of Walter Boone as a young man, beginning the long process of turning his father’s hobby into a thriving business.
More of the four Boone children and their various activities. Bryson and Devon playing football. The girls in the cheerleading outfits. Family portraits. Candid shots.
Even framed images of Riley’s siblings and their children lined the walls.
The rich history that filled the space made Emery’s chest tighten.
She continued toward the kitchen, which was enormous—all warm wood, granite countertops, and copper pots hanging from a wrought-iron rack. French doors stood open to a patio where herbs grew in terra cotta planters, and the morning sun streamed through windows that offered a perfect view of the vineyard beyond.
Riley sat at a massive island that could easily seat twelve, cradling a mug of coffee between her hands. She looked more relaxed than she had the night before, dressed in jeans and a soft sweater, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Brea stood at the stove, transferring golden cinnamon rolls from a baking sheet to a platter.
“I thought I heard you come in.” Brea turned with the warmth of a woman who'd been mothering people for decades. "I hope you slept well, sweetheart. The guesthouse can be a bit quiet if you're not used to country sounds."
"I slept wonderfully, thank you. And this kitchen is incredible—it's like something from a cooking show."
"Walter designed it for me as an anniversary gift twenty years ago. He said if I was going to regularly feed half of Stone Bridge, I needed proper facilities." Brea set the platter on the table and poured Emery a cup of coffee from a pot that looked like it could caffeinate a small army. "Now sit, eat something. You'll need fuel for whatever my boys have planned for you today."
Emery settled into the chair across from Riley, accepting the coffee gratefully. "Where are Devon and Bryson?"
"Walking the vines," Riley said. "It's their morning ritual. They go out early to check on things, argue about irrigation schedules, and generally solve the world's problems before the rest of us are even awake."
"Don't let them fool you," Brea added, settling into a chair with her own mug. "Half the time they're out there gossiping like old ladies. Yesterday, I caught them having a heated debate about whether the new sommelier at Meadowbrook knows what he's talking about."
"And the verdict?" Emery asked.
