Emery j in her chest—a loosening of the knot of anxiety that had been her constant companion. "Gabe said something similar."
"He’s a smart man."
"He's also convinced I'm planning to run."
Devon's expression grew serious. "Are you?"
The question hung between them, weighted with implications that went far beyond professional concerns.
"I don't know," Emery admitted. "Part of me wants to disappear, start over where no one knows about any of this. I hear Central New York’s wine country can be beautiful in its own way, nestled in all those Finger Lakes. But another part of me is tired of running. Tired of letting other people's cruelty determine where I go."
"I don’t want you to leave." Devon's voice was quiet but intense. "Not just because you're brilliant at your job. But because I think you're exactly where you're supposed to be."
They had reached the edge of the vineyard, still hidden from view of the main house by towering oak trees. The privacy felt intimate, charged with all the things they'd been carefully not saying.
He stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup her face with a gentleness that made her breath catch. "I know all the reasons this is complicated. But I'm done pretending I don't care." He kissed her then—soft, careful, giving her every opportunity to pull away. Instead, she melted into him, her hands fisting in his shirt as he deepened the kiss. This wasn't the desperate passion of three months ago, or the rush of tangled limbs that couldn’t wait for release. This was something more profound, more intentional, more terrifying in its implications.
"Uncle Devon and the new lady are kissing.”
They sprang apart as a small figure burst through the trees—a little girl with auburn hair and bright, delighted eyes.
"Willa!" Devon called after her as she raced toward the house, her voice carrying clearly.
"Uncle Devon and the new lady are kissing.”
Emery felt her face burn. "Oh God."
"It's fine," Devon said, though he looked frustrated. "That's Erin's youngest. She's eight and tells everyone everything."
"So, by dinner?—"
"Everyone will know." Devon's expression was remorseful but not apologetic. "I'm sorry about the timing, but I'm not sorry I kissed you."
Emery stared at him, mind racing through implications. But underneath the panic, something else stirred. Relief, maybe. Or hope.
"We should go," she said finally. "Your mother's making pot roast, and apparently we have explaining to do."
Devon's laugh was warm. "Welcome to the Boone family. Privacy is a rare commodity."
As they walked toward the house, Emery couldn't decide if she was mortified or relieved. Either way, there was no going back now.
But for the first time since that article was published, she thought maybe she was ready to stay and find out what came next.
Seven
St. Mary's Catholic Church sat at the heart of Stone Bridge like a granite sentinel, its bell tower visible from nearly every corner of town. Devon had attended countless services here over the years—christenings, weddings, his grandfather's funeral—but today felt different. Heavier. The parking lot overflowed with vehicles—a testament to David Callaway's standing in the community—and the afternoon sun beat down with an intensity that made his black suit feel like a form of punishment.
"Christ, it's hot," Bryson muttered, tugging at his collar as they crossed the asphalt. "You'd think October would have the decency to cool down."
"Weather doesn't care about our comfort." Devon scanned the crowd gathering on the church steps. Half the valley had turned out—vintners, restaurant owners, shop proprietors. Even competitors who'd publicly sparred with David over the years had shown up to pay respects.
That was the thing about small towns. Death temporarily suspended rivalries.
"There's Winston," Bryson said, nodding toward the front where Winston Callaway stood greeting arrivals with the practiced grace of someone who'd been groomed for publicappearances since childhood. Tall, impeccably dressed despite the heat, he wore grief like a well-tailored garment—present but controlled.
Beside him, Callie looked like she'd stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. Her black dress probably cost more than most people's monthly mortgage, and her designer sunglasses hid whatever emotions she might be feeling. Monica clung to Winston's other side, her freshly colored blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight. Her expression was appropriately solemn.
"The grieving family and their pet viper," Bryson said.
