"It's April, Princess," Mason notes, draping an arm around her waist as she reaches him.
"It's pregnancy, Cowboy." Rachel stretches up for a kiss. "I'm ready to go when you are, but I'll wait inside where there's air conditioning and ice cream."
Mason watches her walk back toward the house, his mouth opening like he's about to call after her before he thinks better of it. He shakes his head with a small, helpless smile. "She's been like this for a week. Everything is either too hot or too cold."
"Comes with the territory, I'd guess."
"Yeah, well, that territory has me sleeping on the couch half the time." Mason starts gathering the catalogs, but the grin hasn't left his face. He wouldn't trade a second of it, and we both know it.
We wrap up the auction planning and walk back to the house to collect Rachel. By the time Mason gets her settled in the passenger seat, her eyes are already closing, her head tipping against the headrest with the boneless surrender of someone who lost the fight against exhaustion ten minutes ago.
Mason eases the door shut with exaggerated care and turns to me, keeping his voice low. "Why don't you and your grandmother plan on Sunday dinner at our place. Mom's making brisket."
"We'll be there."
I watch them pull down the drive, then head to the kitchen to throw together a sandwich. I'm two bites into ham and cheese when Gran materializes at my elbow with the silent precision of a woman who has spent seventy-plus years perfecting the art of the ambush. She places a handwritten list on the counter beside my plate.
"I need you to pick something up in town for me."
I glance at the paper, still chewing. "This is a wine order."
"How very observant of you, Charles." She pours herself a cup of coffee with the unhurried movements of someone who has already decided how this conversation ends. "Can you go as soon as you finish here?"
"Gran, you rarely drink wine. You have a glass of sherry at Christmas and that's about it."
"I'm hosting a dinner party in two weeks. The wine should be ordered in advance." She takes a delicate sip from her cup, watching me over the rim. "Rachel mentioned that the Willow Sage Winery has an excellent selection and suggested we place the order in person. She also recommended working directly with the winemaker to ensure the wines pair properly with the menu." Gran pauses, her brow furrowing with all the conviction of a stage actress. "What was her name again? Sunny something?"
I set my sandwich down.
"I thought you could handle it," she continues, her voice as innocent as Sunday school teacher, "since you've already been there."
I stare at my grandmother, and the pieces click together with the subtlety of a freight train. A wine order for a dinner party she's never once mentioned. Rachel suggesting we place it in person instead of picking up the phone. And Gran insisting I speak only with the winemaker, the same woman I couldn't keep my eyes off last week.
"You two are about as obvious as a skunk at a garden party."
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." She sniffs and nudges the list closer to my plate. "The winery is open right now. I suggest you get there before the afternoon rush."
"It's a Tuesday in Stone Creek. How damned busy could it possibly get?"
"Language, Charles." She pats my shoulder with the calm authority of a woman who's never lost an argument. "Handlethis for me. And make sure you speak only with that winemaker."
She sweeps out of the kitchen before I can mount a defense, her coffee cup left behind on the counter.
Thirty minutes later, I pull into the winery parking lot. Just as I thought, there’s a total of four cars. I could have called this in from the kitchen and saved myself the drive, but here I am, doing my grandmother's bidding like the well-trained grandson she raised me to be.
I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, both hands on the wheel. My reflection stares back at me from the rearview mirror, and before I can stop myself, I'm straightening my collar and running a hand through my hair. I catch myself mid-motion and drop my hand like it burned me.
What the hell am I doing?
I'm a grown man. I've built a breeding operation from the ground up, negotiated six-figure horse deals without blinking, and relocated an entire ranch across state lines. And right now, my palms are sweating because a woman I've spoken to exactly once might be on the other side of that door. My stomach is doing things stomachs have no business doing, and my heart is hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
I push through the tasting room door, and my eyes betray me immediately, cutting straight to the glass wall before I've taken two steps inside. But the production area beyond sits dark. The tanks stand idle. The workspace where I last saw her, scrubbing equipment with that fierce concentration, is empty.
My chest hollows out, and I stand there longer than any rational person should, staring at a vacant room as if she might appear through sheer force of will.
"Well, look who's back." Tabitha's voice pulls me around. She's leaning against the bar with the easy posture of someonewho's been watching me stand in the doorway like a fool. "Flying solo today?"
"Rachel's taking it easy." I cross to the counter and hold up Gran's list, grateful for something to do with my hands. "My grandmother is hosting a dinner party. She heard through the grapevine that Sunny has a talent for pairing wines with food and insisted I place the order directly with her."
