The Copper Vine nightclub sat on the edge of Main Street like a beacon of normalcy in a week that had been anything but. Warm light spilled from its windows onto the sidewalk, and the sound of laughter and clinking glasses promised a few hours of forgetting about forged documents, federal investigations, and whoever was trying to destroy Emery's life.
Ashley pushed through the door ahead of her, immediately scanning the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who'd grown up in this town and knew everyone in it.
That thought amused Emery, considering she’d also grown up in this town. It wasn’t that she’d felt like an outsider as a teenager, because she hadn’t. It was more like she didn’t know where she fit in. Her sister, while not wildly popular, had her group of friends. Emery spent her youth with her nose in a book and her body in the chemistry lab.
"Corner booth," Ashley said, already heading toward a high-backed wooden seat near the bar. "Best view of the room, hardest to eavesdrop on."
Emery slid into the booth across from Ashley, grateful for the semi-privacy. Even here, she could feel eyes on her—curious stares, whispered conversations that stopped when she lookedup. The interview had aired online this morning, and apparently, half the valley had watched it. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad.
A man with a baseball cap leaned against the far railing. He glanced in her direction. He seemed to look past her, but something about the way his gaze glossed right over her made her insides jittery. She was in a room full of strangers in small-town America. Someone was bound to notice her. To figure out who she was. However, between his baseball cap—which didn’t fit the vibe of the nightclub—his casual demeanor, and the fact he didn’t appear to be chatting with anyone, set Emery’s nerves on fire.
A server appeared at their table and Ashley ordered two margaritas. Not generally Emery’s adult beverage of choice, but it would be a nice change of pace.
"So," Ashley said, leaning back against the booth with a satisfied smile. "How does it feel to be Stone Bridge's newest celebrity?"
"Terrifying." Emery pulled off her jacket. "People keep staring." The man with the baseball cap had moved to the corner. His brim covered his eyes, and she couldn’t tell if he was looking at them, or at the two hot chicks, wearing next to nothing, standing near the far end of the bar looking like they might pounce on the first man who spoke to them.
"Let them. That interview was brilliant. You came across as smart, honest, and tough as hell." Ashley's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Plus, the way you called out whoever's targeting you? Chef's kiss. Bryson said he’s had one call and two emails from people in the biz wanting to know more about our future plans.”
“Devon told me, but I can’t help and wonder if that’s real, or idle curiosity?”
“I’d say it’s people respect someone who fights back." Ashley paused as the waiter returned with their drinks, slidingoversized margaritas across the table. "Now, more importantly—I need your completely unbiased, outsider opinion on something."
"Okay?"
"What are the odds that Bryson asks Riley to marry him tonight?"
Emery smiled, grateful for a topic that had nothing to do with her and had a happy spin. “I don’t know. Devon says he can’t tell if Bryson is really that nervous, or if he’s simply waiting for harvest to be over. It’s not like she’s going to say no.”
“I know, right?" Ashley took a long sip of her drink. "Ever since Bryson divorced Monica, he overthinks everything. I get he wants it to be perfect and memorable. But it’s only one part of the bigger picture, and he’s gonna end up making a total ass of himself if he doesn’t just do this thing.”
Emery leaned forward, curling her fingers around the stem of her glass. Some of the week's tension eased from her shoulders. This was exactly what she needed—everyday conversation and the kind of friendship that didn't require constant crisis management.
"What about you?" Emery asked. "Any romantic prospects on the horizon?"
"God, no. Stone Bridge men are either taken, related to me, or—" Ashley's words cut off abruptly, her gaze locked on something across the bar. She groaned. Loudly.
Emery turned to follow her line of sight. A man stood near the entrance, tall and dark-haired with the kind of confident posture that suggested he owned whatever room he walked into. He was handsome in an almost aggressive way—strong jaw, intense eyes, expensive clothes that somehow looked casual.
And he was staring directly at Ashley.
"Who's that?" Emery asked.
"No one." Ashley's voice had gone tight. "He’s not important."
“Okay, but he’s definitely checking you out.”
“Ignore him.” Ashley lifted her drink, but she didn’t sip. She just stared into it as if it might magically transport her somewhere else.
“I can do that, but only if you tell me who he is, because he looks vaguely familiar.”
"Ethan Blackwell.” Ashley took a long drink. "And he needs to stop staring before I throw something at him."
"Blackwell? Like Blackwell Estates?"
"The same. His family owns the vineyard on the other side of our property." Ashley's fingers drummed against her glass. "They sold off most of their land years ago."
Emery watched Ethan navigate through the crowd, his gaze never leaving Ashley. "He doesn't look like nobody important. He looks like someone you have history with."
