“One hundred and twenty. However, we only have about seventy-five under vine right now. The rest is environmental balance, along with some olive trees. We’ve done well in the olive oil business, though it’s a very small portion of our overall income.” Devon pointed toward the hills that rose beyond the vineyard. "Those hillside blocks get the best sun exposure, so that's where we grow our cabernet, syrah, and pinot. The valley floor is better for our whites—chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, a little viognier."
They walked between the rows, and Emery marveled at the meticulous care evident in every detail. The vines were perfectly spaced, the soil tilled to optimal consistency, and the trellising system was so precisely aligned it looked like agricultural art.
"Your family really doesn't do anything halfway, do they?"
"Dad used to say that good enough isn't good enough when you're working with something that takes decades to perfect." Devon reached out to touch a cluster of grapes hanging heavy on the vine. "Every decision we make this year affects not just this harvest, but the next five, ten, twenty years of harvests."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"It's also a lot of privilege. How many people get to build something that outlasts them?" He plucked a grape from the cluster and held it out to her. "Try this."
Emery accepted the grape, their fingers brushing as she took it from his palm. The contact sent electricity shooting up her arm. From the way his eyes darkened, he'd felt it too.
"It's perfect," she said after tasting it, though she was no longer thinking entirely about the grape.
“Due to weather and other conditions, harvest is incredibly late this year.” Devon's voice had gone slightly husky. "You'll love it—the energy, the urgency, everyone working together toward the same goal."
They were standing close now, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, could smell his cologne mixed with the clean scent of sunshine and growing things. The attraction that had been simmering between them for months suddenly felt impossible to ignore.
His kiss was soft, tentative, giving her every opportunity to pull away. Instead, she found herself melting into him, her hands fisting in his shirt as he deepened the kiss. He tasted like coffee and possibilities, and for a moment, she forgot every reason this was a terrible idea.
Then reality crashed back in.
“We can’t do this.” She pushed against his chest, stepping backward until she hit the wire trellis behind her.
He ran a hand through his hair, looking as shaken as she felt. “That was completely inappropriate—at work.”
"It was."
"This is harder than I thought it would be." The admission hung between them, raw and honest. "I know you want to keep things professional, and I'll respect that. I want you to feel safe and comfortable in your role here, and me doing stuff like that doesn’t help. It’s just that there’s this thing between us."
“There is no us. There can’t be.” Emery's pulse spiked, and something else she refused to name was warring inside her. “What happened between us was because I was in a vulnerable situation. I was drunk and devastated, and you were being kind. That's not anything other than convenience."
“That might explain the night Harold fired you. But what about the time before that?”
“Not the point and you know it.”
“I do, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m zero for two right now.”
She forced herself to hold his gaze, even though every instinct begged her to look away, because she wasn’t sure she could hide how she was really feeling. Her face always gave her away. "I think you're a good man, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I just can’t risk what I’m trying to rebuild here."
Devon was quiet for a long moment, studying her face like he was trying to read something written there in a language he didn't quite understand. "All right," he said finally. “I can live with that. I want you to be successful here. I mean that."
"Thank you. That means a lot."
He turned, pressed his hand on the small of her back, and continued down the path. Her heart hammered, and her solidly constructed walls felt distinctly unstable. No matter how much she told herself and Devon that she wanted things to remain strictly professional, it was impossible not to notice that Devon was all man, and she wanted him outside of the workplace.
They walked in charged silence through several more vineyard blocks, Devon pointing out different varieties and growing techniques with the detachment she'd requested. But underneath the surface courtesy, the tension hummed between them like a live wire.
The production building rose ahead of them—a long, low structure that had clearly been designed to blend seamlessly with the landscape. Large windows offered glimpses of stainless-steel tanks and oak barrels within.
"This is the heart of the operation," Devon said as they approached the main entrance. "Crush, fermentation, aging, bottling—everything happens here during harvest season. Bryson and I share an office here. But, I do most of my work from my office in the main house, or from the tasting room,or the road. Both Bryson and I oversee everything, but he prefers winemaking, and I prefer the business aspects. Minus our teenage banter, as our mother calls it, we’re a perfect partnership.”
Inside, the building was a study in controlled chaos. Workers moved between towering fermentation tanks, checking readings and adjusting equipment with the focused intensity of people preparing for battle. The air smelled of grapes with undertones of yeast and the faint sweetness of alcohol.
"During harvest, this place runs twenty-four hours a day," Devon explained as they walked past a row of steel barrels. "We'll have crews working in shifts, tons of fruit coming in every hour, decisions being made about everything from fermentation temperature to blending ratios."
"And you manage all of this?"
