Lila extends her hand, and her grip is firm enough to suggest she's no stranger to hard work despite spending her days surrounded by paperbacks. "The horse breeder everyone's been talking about. Welcome to Stone Creek, Charlie." Her voice carries genuine warmth, the kind that's hard to fake. "I hope you're settling in well."
"Getting there," I reply. "Your town's making it easy."
"That's what we do best." Lila gestures around the shop with the pride of someone who built something she loves. "If you're a reader, you're always welcome here. I've got a solid western section, some good horse training books, and I can order anything you need." She tilts her head, studying me. "Something tells me you're more of a late-night-on-the-porch-with-a-whiskey kind of reader."
I can't help but grin. "That obvious?"
"I've been matching people to books for ten years. I can spot a quiet reader from across the room."
Rachel leans against a display table. "How are things with you? Still doing the book club?"
"Every Thursday evening." Lila's face changes, with a light that only comes from talking about something you genuinely love. "We're reading a new mystery romance series right now, and the debates are getting heated. You should join us sometime when the baby comes and you have more free time."
Rachel laughs. "I'm not sure free time exists with a three-year-old and a newborn on the way, but I'll try."
"I'll hold you to that." Lila disappears behind the counter and returns with two paperbacks, pressing them into my hands. "Here’s a couple books on Texas ranching history. Consider them a welcome-to-the-valley gift. You can't breed horses in Hill Country without knowing the land's story."
I glance at the covers, caught off guard by the gesture. "You don't have to?—"
"I want to." She waves off my protest before it even forms. "Just promise you'll come back and tell me what you think."
We say our goodbyes, and the bell chimes behind us as we step out. The early afternoon sun has shifted, casting shadows across the sidewalk.
"She's friendly," I observe, tucking the books under my arm.
Rachel smiles. "There's a reason this town is one of my favorites. The people here are special."
Twenty minutes later, we're back in the truck and heading out of town. The road winds through more rolling hills, the landscape shifting as vineyards appear alongside the ranches and pastures. Rows of grapevines march up gentle slopes, their leaves catching the afternoon sun in shades of green that contrast with the golden grass.
The entrance to the Willow Sage Winery comes into view, marked by a wooden sign with elegant lettering and the silhouette of a wine bottle. I turn down the drive, and the property opens up before us.
The main building sits at the heart of it all, constructed from native limestone that's weathered to a warm honey color. Massive live oaks shade the courtyard, and behind the main building, rows of grapevines stretch across the land in neat lines. I can make out what looks like a production facility tucked in the back.
Rachel smiles, watching my face. "It gets me every time, too. Wait until you see the view from the back terrace."
I park near the main building and climb out, taking in the details. We walk through the courtyard toward the entrance marked "Tasting Room," and I pull the door open for Rachel. Inside, the space perfectly balances rustic and refined.
Exposed beams cross the ceiling, and the bar looks like it's crafted from reclaimed wood, its surface polished smooth from years of use. Wine bottles line shelves behind the bar, and large framed photographs on the wall capture the views of the vineyards.
My gaze drifts to the left, and I freeze in my tracks.
Behind a wall of glass, a woman works among massive stainless-steel tanks, scrubbing the inside of one with steady, practiced strokes.
It'sher.
The woman from the roadside. Her blonde hair is plaited in a long braid that hangs down her back, damp at the edges where the heat and work have gotten to it. She moves with the same stubborn efficiency I remember, scrubbing like the tank personally offended her.
She must feel the weight of my stare because her head lifts, and those piercing blue eyes lock onto mine through the glass. Recognition hits her face in stages—the widened eyes, the parted lips, the flash of something that looks almost like excitement before she catches herself.
For half a second, I think she might smile. Then that jaw tightens, her gaze narrows into the same scowl she leveled at me on the side of the road, and she turns back to her work as if I'm just another piece of equipment in the room.
Heat floods through me, part relief at finally finding her, part something deeper that I have no business feeling about a woman whose name I don't even know. I've wondered if I'd ever see heragain, and here she is, scrubbing wine tanks on the other side of a sheet of glass like the universe has a sense of humor.
"That's Sunny Reese. She's our head winemaker," a warm voice says from behind the bar, pulling my attention reluctantly from the glass wall. A woman with kind eyes and a knowing smile leans against the polished wood, already looking between me and the production room like she's reading a story I didn't know I was writing. "Rachel Freeman! It's good to see you again. What brings you in today?"
Sunny.The name lands in my chest and settles there. Sunny Reese. The mystery woman who's been living rent-free in my head finally has a name, and it fits her like a glove—all that golden hair, all that fire.
"Hi, Tabitha." Rachel steps forward, already beaming. "This is my brother, Charlie Hayden. He just moved to town and bought the old Twin Oaks Ranch. I wanted to bring him by to experience one of Stone Creek's best stops."
