"Until we weren't." Riley's laugh held old pain. "We were so young, so stubborn. We both made mistakes."
"Speaking of mistakes, I nearly choked on my coffee when I heard Bryson had married Monica Gilford."
Riley rolled her eyes so hard Emery was surprised she didn't strain something. "Monica. The rebound marriage that lasted exactly eighteen months and should’ve lasted about eighteen minutes."
"That bad?"
"She married him because she wanted to be a Boone, not because she wanted to be married to Bryson. And she spent most of their marriage trying to turn him into someone he wasn't." Riley pushed her mug aside. "Thank God they never had kids."
"I heard she's dating Winston Callaway now."
"She is, and they're welcome to each other. Winston's got enough ego to match hers, plus he's got money, which is really all Monica's ever cared about." Riley paused. "I have to admit, it's nice having her focused on someone else. She spent years trying to get her claws back into Bryson every time she was between relationships."
"And now she's Winston's problem."
"Exactly. Let him deal with her social climbing and her passive-aggressive comments about his wine choices."
The back door opened with a bang, followed by the sound of male laughter and good-natured arguing.
"—telling you, if we irrigate Block Seven any more, we’re going to drown the roots," Bryson's voice carried into the kitchen.
"And I'm telling you that Block Seven has different drainage than Block Six. We can't treat them the same way." Devon's reply was patient but firm, the tone of someone who'd had this argument before.
The brothers appeared in the kitchen doorway, both mud-splattered and windblown from their morning walk. Bryson headed straight for Riley, dropping a kiss on the top of her head before settling into the chair beside her. "Morning, beautiful. Did my mother feed our new employee yet?"
"She tried to feed her to death with cinnamon rolls," Riley said, leaning into his side. "I barely saved her from a sugar coma."
Devon caught Emery's gaze and smiled, and despite her best efforts, she felt that familiar flutter in her chest. "Ready for your first official day?"
"Ready as I'll ever be." She stood and carried her empty mug to the sink, hyperaware of his presence behind her. "Thank you for the breakfast, Riley. And for the company."
"Anytime. It's nice having another woman around who's not related to these two." Riley jerked her thumb between the two men.
Bryson mock gasped. "I'm wounded. Deeply wounded by your lack of loyalty."
"You'll survive," Riley said dryly. "Your ego's too big to be permanently damaged."
"My ego is perfectly sized, thank you very much." Bryson reached across the counter and picked off a piece of one of the tasty treats.
"If by perfectly sized you mean enormous, then yes." Riley cocked a brow.
Devon laughed. "She's got you there, brother."
"Et tu, Devon?" Bryson placed a hand over his heart in theatrical betrayal. "My own blood, turning against me."
"I'm not turning against you. I'm just acknowledging reality." Devon leaned against the counter.
Emery watched the easy banter between them, the way Riley fit seamlessly into their dynamic, the obvious affection that underscored even their teasing. This was what family looked like—not the careful politeness that had developed between her and her parents, even her sister, since her dad’s professional nightmare changed the family dynamics.
"Speaking of reality," Devon said, glancing at his watch. “We should head to Dad's office. He's probably been awake since five, making notes about expansion plans—as if premium wines haven’t been in the making for a few years now.”
“Perhaps, but jumping into selling our vintage bottles is something entirely new,” Bryson muttered. “And when Dad gets excited about a new project, he goes into full strategic planning mode."
"Is that bad?" Emery asked.
"Let's just say you might want to bring a notepad," Riley advised. "And maybe some caffeine. Walter Boone, with a business plan, is a force of nature. And for the last two months, all he can talk about is the idea of creating wines that can be considered vintage and collector items.”
“Nothing like piling on the pressure,” Emery mumbled.
