"Anything Italian. Red or white."
Tabitha's whole demeanor brightens, her posture straightening with genuine interest. "Then you're going to love this. We truck in Montepulciano and Sangiovese grapes from the vineyards in the panhandle for our Italian wines." She lifts a hand toward the far tanks. "Italians are actually Sunny's specialty. I'm sure you noticed during the tasting."
I nod like a man who definitely noticed, and not like someone who spent the entire flight watching the winemaker instead of tasting her work. Rachel's smirk widens. She's going to be insufferable on the drive home.
When we return to the tasting room, Tabitha pours one final glass, a red blend she calls their signature reserve. This time I make myself focus, letting the wine sit on my palate before I swallow. There’s dark fruit layered with something smoky and warm, and a finish that lingers long after the glass is empty.
"That's impressive," I say, and I mean it. "You've got something special here."
"We like to think so." Tabitha leans against the bar, satisfaction settling into her expression. "The Navarro family has owned this for well over a hundred years, and Isabela and Sunny have spent the last five years perfecting what you're tasting. Every bottle that leaves this property has both their fingerprints on it."
"Well, they've succeeded," Rachel agrees. "This place is beautiful, and the wine is outstanding."
I pay for a bottle of the Italian red and the Viognier, and Tabitha wraps them with the careful hands of someone who treats every bottle like it matters. She slides the bag across the bar, and as I reach for it, my gaze betrays me one last time, drifting to the glass wall.
Sunny is standing motionless between the tanks, her eyes locked on mine.
I wait for the scowl, for that sharp turn of her head that shuts me out. It doesn't come. She holds my gaze through the glass, steady and unguarded, and something shifts in her expression that I can't quite read. My pulse kicks hard, and my hand tightens around the wine bag.
"Thanks for stopping by," Tabitha says, her voice carrying just enough warmth to suggest she saw the whole thing. "I hope to see you both again soon."
"You can count on that," I promise, and for once, I'm not just being polite.
Back in the truck, Rachel makes it halfway down the drive before the silence gets the better of her. She turns in her seat to face me, that knowing smile already firmly in place. "So."
"So what?"
"Sunny Reese." She says the name like she's presenting evidence. "You couldn't keep your eyes off her. I'd swear you didn't taste a single drop of that wine."
I keep my gaze on the road, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. "She was all right."
"All right." Rachel's laugh fills the cab. "Charlie, you looked at her like she was the only thing in that building. Tabitha could have poured you motor oil and you would've called it excellent."
My jaw works, but I can't argue with that. I barely remember anything past the Viognier.
"I've met her before," I admit, and the words come out easier than I expect. "On the road, when I was hauling the last load of horses. She had a flat tire."
Rachel goes quiet for exactly one beat. "You're kidding."
"I changed it for her. She wouldn't tell me her name, said we'd probably see each other around Stone Creek." I glance at her. "She was right."
My sister's grin could power every light in the valley. "Oh, this is perfect. No wonder you were useless in there." She settlesback against the seat, looking deeply satisfied with herself. "Sunny's single, by the way. In case you were wondering."
I don't rise to the bait, but I don't deny it either. I can picture that scowl she leveled at me through the glass, the deliberate way she kept her back turned, and then that moment when she wasn't turning away at all. I can still picture the way she moved between those tanks like the room belonged to her, because it did.
When I pull up beside Rachel's truck, she climbs out and pauses with her hand on the door, looking back at me with the expression of someone who's already planning her next move. "This is going to be fun," she announces, and shuts the door before I can respond.
Chapter 5
Wade meets me at the barn every morning at five AM with coffee in hand and that perpetual scowl etched into his craggy face, delivering a running commentary on which horses did what overnight, who kicked the stall door, who refused to eat, and who decided three in the morning was the perfect time to test the new fencing.
The first few mornings, I hang on every word. By midweek, my attention has developed a mind of its own, drifting to blonde hair and blue eyes behind glass, to the faint glow of vineyard lights along the eastern property line that I've started watching from the veranda each evening like a man with nothing better to do.
Thursday morning, Wade is mid-sentence about Colby's mares when the silence registers. I blink and find him staring at me, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth.
"Did you hear anything I just said?"
"Yeah. The bay mare."
