“Nope, it wasn’t,” Devon said. “And he’s the smart one, like you.”
She glanced at him sideways. “I don’t know about that.” She gestured vaguely at the bar around them. "Smart enough to spot forgeries but apparently too stupid to realize my mentor was setting me up to take the fall for something I didn’t do, and I have no idea why.”
Something twisted in his chest at the defeat in her voice. “Did you talk to Harold after the auction?
"There wasn’t anything to say. I spent the last two years building cases against suspected forgeries, researching the history of vintage wines, and preparing them for auction. I was good at my job. I can’t explain what happened, and Harold didn’t give me a chance even to try.” She shrugged. “Instead… well, you saw what he did—and he had my authentication documents right there in his hands for everyone to see. There’s nothing I can do.”
“You said he set you up. If you get the paperwork and it shows that something’s off, it’ll exonerate you.”
“My signature. My stamp. His word against mine.” Her shoulders slumped forward. “Those bottles were fakes. I got a good look at them while he was humiliating me. It wasn’t easy to see it, but they were swapped with the originals.”
“What about the authentication paperwork?”
“Didn’t get a good look at that because Harold’s hands were flapping about like a bird learning how to take flight. But it doesn’t matter. They’ll be filed, and it’s cause to fire me on the spot.”
The bartender refilled her glass without being asked, and Devon frowned. "How many of those have you had?"
"Not nearly enough." Emery raised the fresh drink in a mock toast. "Here's to the beginning of a distinguished career going up in flames before it ever really got off the ground.”
"Here's to new beginnings," Devon countered, clinking his glass against hers before she could drink. “The best is yet to come.”
That earned him a genuine smile, the first he'd seen from her all evening. "You always were too nice for your own good."
"Was I? I don't remember us talking much in high school. And you’ve been avoiding me since you spent the night.”
"Maybe, but we both know I’ve always noticed you.” The admission slipped out with the casual honesty of someoneseveral drinks past her usual filter. "You were different from the other kids. Quieter. More..." she waved her hand, searching for the word, "...substantial." She leaned closer. “And sexier.”
Devon felt heat creep up his neck. "Did Emery Tate just admit to having a crush on me?"
"Past tense," she said quickly, though her cheeks flushed pink. "Very past tense. Ancient history."
“Ah, yes, a month ago is ancient history," he agreed. "So, what's next for you? Besides drinking the bar out of top-shelf whiskey?"
Emery's expression darkened. "Honestly? I have no idea. Harold will make sure I'm blacklisted from every major auction house on the West Coast. I’m living in an Airbnb, and my savings account is looking about as promising as my career prospects."
"There are other places to work in wine."
“We both know my reputation is ruined. Word travels fast in this industry. But you already know that.” She took another long sip. “I left the art history world two years ago and reinvented myself. Now, at thirty-four years old, I’m starting over. Again. My mother always said I should have been a teacher like my sister."
"Your mother clearly doesn't know you very well."
“We slept together once, and you think you know me?”
"I know you spent senior year writing a paper on terroir that made our agriculture teacher rethink everything he knew about soil composition. I know you got into Stanford on a full scholarship and graduated summa cum laude with a degree in art history and chemistry. And I know you turned down three job offers from major museums to work in wine authentication because you wanted to combine art and science in a way that mattered."
She stared at him with parted lips and wide eyes. "How do you possibly know all that?"
"Small town. I’ve heard things."
"People talk, or Devon Boone paid attention to something other than ESPN?”
"Maybe both." He met her gaze steadily. "The point is, you're brilliant at what you do. Harold is a snake who threw you under the bus to save his own skin. That doesn't erase everything you've accomplished."
Emery was quiet for a long moment, swirling the liquid in her glass. "You know what the worst part is? I actually loved that job. Every morning, I got to touch history. Hold bottles that were crafted by people who died over a hundred years ago. Authenticate pieces of liquid art." Her voice cracked slightly. "And now, every time I look at a wine label, all I'll think about is fraud and forgery and failure."
"That's the alcohol talking."
"No, that's reality tumbling from my lips. The alcohol is just making me honest about it."
