"Your expertise in wine history, chemical analysis, provenance research, and market evaluation would be assets to our business development team.”
Emery felt something flutter in her chest—hope, maybe, or just the desperate desire to believe that her life wasn't entirely over. "What kind of position are you talking about?"
“I can’t make any promises. It’s not solely up to me. I need to discuss it with my family—figure out where you’d fit best in our expansion program. There’d be an application process, interviews, and if hired, the job wouldn’t start right away. But..." He reached out and covered her hand with his. "You're talented and smart and capable. One bad day doesn't erase that."
The touch of his hand sent warmth shooting up her arm, and suddenly she was very aware that they were sitting on a bed together, that he'd spent the night taking care of her, that the morning light was making his dark eyes look almost golden.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked softly.
"Because I believe you’d be an asset to our vineyard.”
"Is that the only reason?"
The question hung between them, loaded with possibility. Devon's thumb traced across her knuckles.
"No," he said quietly. "It's not. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I wanted to kiss you last night, but it wouldn’t have been right. Not to mention you wouldn’t have even remembered it considering how drunk you were.”
The admission shifted something fundamental in the space between them. The careful distance he'd maintained, the professional tone, the protective barriers—all of it crumbled as they looked at each other in the soft morning light.
He leaned closer, his free hand coming up to cup her cheek. “You’re a beautiful woman. The last time, we established that I’ve had a crush on you for years. I’ve followed your career because… You interest me.”
“Not to sound cliché, but you had me at beautiful.”
He kissed her then, soft and careful at first, then deeper when she melted into him. Her hands fisted in his wrinkled shirt, pulling him closer, and he gathered her against him like she was a bottle of wine from the Titanic, and he was afraid to spoil the vintage.
They fell back onto the rumpled sheets together, and this time there was no alcohol clouding her judgment, no desperation driving her actions. Just Devon's hands gentle on her skin, his mouth trailing heat along her throat, and the overwhelming rightness of being exactly where she was supposed to be.
One
THREE MONTHS LATER
The fire crackled softly in the stone pit, casting dancing shadows across the faces gathered around it. Devon’s entire family had assembled, as they often did, for a night of good wine and conversation. However, tonight, the air hung heavy with unspoken grief, the darkness alive with hushed voices and shared sorrow. But Devon couldn’t focus on the latter. He swirled the cabernet in his glass, watching the liquid catch the firelight, his attention drifting to the gravel driveway beyond the circle of warmth. Any minute now, Emery would pull through those gates, and this careful balance he'd been maintaining for the last few months would shift into something entirely new.
He didn’t know what that looked like, or how he’d manage it. This was uncharted territory. She’d made it clear the moment his family got serious about hiring her that they couldn’t ever be anything other than friends. He’d done his best to accept that.
Only, it wasn’t working out so well. Having feelings of love wasn’t something that he understood—that was Bryson’s department.
“I can’t believe David Callaway is dead,” Walter, his father, said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over the group. “His wife called me a few hours ago. Based on the medicalscare he had last year, they think he had a heart attack. The medical examiner will be able to confirm that in a few days."
“I sent over a few pans of lasagna and some muffins,” Brea, his mother, said, reaching for his father’s hand. "He was only what, sixty? That's far too young."
"Sixty-one,” his father confirmed. "I didn't always see eye to eye with David, but he was a good man. Built Callaway Wines back up after his dad’s…” his father glanced up with that twitch in his eye that he always got when he was about to say something that didn’t settle well in his gut. “…troubles."
Devon not only caught the uncomfortable expression, but the careful way his father phrased it. Jasper Callaway's criminal activities were old history. Still, in a small town like Stone Bridge, some stories never quite died—especially since Gabe Maxwell was related to someone associated with the illicit activities. But for the Boones, it was water under the bridge.
“I wonder if any of the rumors are true,” Ashley, one of Devon’s little sisters, said, bringing up another potential shadow hanging over Callaway Wines.
“Now is not the time for idle gossip.” His mother lowered her chin. Her disapproving gaze still had the ability to make all her children recoil and rethink their actions.
“I’m sure I’m the only one wondering if David Callaway had an illegitimate child who’s going to appear out of nowhere and stake a claim on his legacy.” Ashley sank into her chair, lifted her glass, and took a big sip, ignoring the glares from their parents.
Devon remembered the first time he’d heard that rumor. Winston had gotten into a fist fight with some idiot in the center of town. He’d been all of fourteen, and Devon had to admit, if he’d been in Winston’s shoes, he would’ve punched that kid, too.
The rumor circulated every once in a while, and Devon barely paid attention to it. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. At least not the way people in this town gossiped about it.
“First, it’s not our business,” his father said. “Second, the Callaways are grieving. The last thing they need is for this town to whisper about something like that during a time like this.”
"I feel bad for Winston and Callie,” Riley, Bryson’s girlfriend, said softly. "Losing a parent is devastating.” She raised her hand and wiped away a tear that had fallen to her cheek.
