"I heard that," Brea called out, refilling wine glasses. "And it was an improvement."
"It was alphabetical," Walter complained. "Wine records should be organized by vintage year, not grape variety."
"Here we go," Bryson muttered to Riley. "The Great Filing System Debate of 2019."
The easy banter was interrupted by a sharp knock at the back door. The sound cut through their laughter like a blade, andEmery noticed the family's relaxed postures shifted immediately to a more guarded stance.
"I'll get it," Devon said, but Walter was already moving toward the door.
"Winston," Walter said as he opened it, his voice carefully neutral. "Monica. This is unexpected."
Riley audibly groaned, and Bryson looped a protective arm around her shoulders.
Emery’s pulse increased. When she’d taken the position at Terroir and Gavel Auction House two towns over from Stone Bridge, her encounters with David Callaway had always been professional, and she’d found him to be kind and considerate. His son and daughter, Winston and Callie, had been a little bit cooler, but they treated her with respect, even if they had reservations about someone who’d worked in a museum having her position in the wine industry. However, as time passed, both Winston and Callie became nothing short of insulting by refusing to work with her when looking for premium wines and collector bottles.
“Sorry to stop by so late—unannounced.” Winston Callaway stepped into the kitchen with the kind of presence that demanded attention—tall, impeccably dressed despite the late hour, with the sort of polished confidence that came from old money and older grudges. Behind him, Monica looked like she'd stepped from the pages of a society magazine, her hair perfectly styled and her designer dress probably worth more than most people's monthly salary.
Emery glanced down at her twenty-dollar sweater and faded slacks and sighed. Her career at the museum had barely taken off when she’d decided to switch jobs. She’d taken two years out of her life to train for her position with Harold. It required education, certification, and an unpaid apprenticeship. The process had drained her financially.
“It’s not a problem,” Brea said. “We’re all so sorry about your dad.”
"I wanted to thank you personally for the food and flowers. The gesture meant a great deal to my mother during this difficult time,” Winston said, his voice carrying the cadence of practiced sympathy.
"Of course," Brea said, her natural warmth evident despite the apparent tension. "I can't imagine what she's going through."
Winston's gaze swept the kitchen, taking in the bottles on the counter and the family gathered around the island. When his eyes landed on Emery, something flickered across his face—recognition quickly masked by politeness, but not quite fast enough. His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly before smoothing into an expression of concern.
"I see you have company," Winston said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes as he looked at Emery. "Ms. Tate, from Pemberton's Auction House." He paused, tilting his head as if searching his memory. "I heard…saw… well, I'm sorry about what happened. That must have been difficult."
The false sympathy in his voice made Emery want to duck under the counter and hide. There was something calculated in the way he watched her, as if he were studying her reaction rather than actually expressing concern.
"Thank you," she managed, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
"Are you back visiting?” Winston let the question hang, his tone casual but his attention laser-focused on her answer. Monica shifted beside him, her eyes darting between Winston and Emery with barely concealed interest.
"Emery's joined our team," Devon said, stepping slightly closer to her in a protective gesture that didn't go unnoticed.
"Has she?" Winston's expression remained pleasant, but Emery caught the brief tightening around his eyes, the way his hand curled into a fist at his side before he relaxed it. "How...fortunate. For both of you, I suppose." He glanced at the bottles on the counter. "Starting a new authentication program if the rumors are true?"
There was an edge to his words that made the statement feel less like congratulations and more like an assessment of a problem he'd need to solve.
"Our expansion plans are ambitious," Walter said carefully. "But we're confident in our team."
"I'm sure you are." Winston's smile remained fixed. "I have to say, it's quite bold to enter the premium market given the current... climate." His gaze flickered to Emery again. "Competition is fierce in that space."
"We're not concerned about competition," Bryson said, his voice carrying an edge.
"No, I suppose you wouldn't be. The Boones have always been... optimistic." Winston said, shifting his gaze to Walter. "I came by also to ask a favor. We were hoping Bryson and Devon might consider serving as pallbearers at my father's funeral. I know there was business rivalry between our families, but my mother specifically requested it. She said it would have meant something to Dad."
The request hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history. Emery watched the brothers exchange glances, seeing the internal debate play out in their expressions.
"Of course," Bryson said finally. "We'd be honored."
"Thank you." For a brief moment, Winston's smile seemed genuine, but his eyes remained cold when they slid back to Emery. "That means more than you know. The funeral is Saturday at two. St. Mary's."
Monica, who’d been silently surveying the kitchen like a predator assessing territory, finally spoke. "I have to say, I'm surprised to see Emery here," she said as if Emery wasn't even in the room. "Considering the scandal and all. I would think thisfamily has been through enough without bringing that kind of reputation into the home."
The temperature in the room plummeted. Emery felt her face flush with mortification and anger, but before she could respond, Brea stepped forward with the kind of maternal fury that could level mountains.
