I'm not going anywhere.
With a growl, I snap the binder shut and press my fingers against my eyes. The winery is in trouble, and my home is in danger. The last thing I need right now is a distraction, no matter how warm his smile is.
The problem is, I'm starting to wonder if Charlie Hayden might be more than a distraction. And that scares me more than the numbers do.
Chapter 4
Charlie
Mason drops the news on me like he's mentioning the weekend weather forecast.
We're leaning against the round pen fence at Twin Oaks, watching Wade work a two-year-old filly through her paces. I'm halfway through a bottle of water, thinking about how to get Sunny Reese to say yes to a date, when Mason crosses his arms on the top rail. "You hear about Willow Sage Winery?"
My grip tightens on the water bottle. "What about it?"
"One of their biggest accounts, Hill Country Distributing, dropped them. Rachel heard it from Charlotte this morning." Mason keeps his attention on the filly, his tone casual, but I've known my brother-in-law long enough to recognize when he's watching for a reaction. "Apparently they're consolidating vendors and cutting smaller operations. Word is the Navarros are in a tight spot."
The filly completes another circuit of the pen, her hooves kicking up small clouds of dust. Wade murmurs something I can't hear, and she slows to a walk, her ears flicking toward his voice.
"How tight?" I ask.
"Tight enough that people are concerned. Hill Country handled a big chunk of their wholesale, and without it..." Mason shrugs a shoulder. "Charlotte didn't have specifics."
I take a long drink of water and let the information settle. Hill Country Distributing is the largest regional distributor between Austin and San Antonio. I've seen their trucks on every delivery route in the valley. Losing an account that size wouldn't just be a setback for a small winery. It could be a death sentence.
My thoughts drift to Sunny before I can stop it. The way she talked about her wine at the tasting, her whole body leaning forward, her guard forgotten. The pride in her voice when she described the land and what it produces. The fierceness underneath the sarcasm, the kind that comes from someone who has poured everything into something and can't imagine losing it.
Mason's snort pulls me back. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one you get when you're about to do something that's either brilliant or gonna blow up in your face." Mason shakes his head. "I've seen it a time or two. Usually right before you buy something expensive."
"I'm not buying anything."
"Uh-huh." He pushes off the fence rail. "I'm just saying, if you're thinking what I think you are, make sure your head is doing the thinking and not something further south."
"Your concern for my decision-making is touching, Mason."
"That's what family's for." He claps me on the back. "I've got to get back. Rachel's got a list of errands waiting for me that's longer than a stubborn mule's memory." He heads for his truck, and my brain’s already running numbers.
I spend the next few days researching.
Running a horse operation taught me early on that the fastest way to lose money is to fall in love with a prospect before you'vestudied the bloodlines. That translates to all business. Emotion makes you bid too high, overlook flaws, ignore the numbers that tell you to walk away. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.
Before I let myself think about what an investment in the Willow Sage Winery might mean for a certain blue-eyed winemaker, I pull up everything I can find.
The winery's public records tell part of the story. Fourth-generation family operation, established 1924, sixty-five acres of planted vineyard plus the production facility and tasting room. They've won regional awards consistently for the past decade, and been featured in three state wine publications. The estate is valued well into the millions, but the operating margins are razor-thin, which is common for small wineries competing against the corporate flood in Hill Country.
The financial picture gets clearer when I pull county records. A significant equipment loan from four years ago, likely the production upgrades I saw through the glass wall during my visits. Property tax assessments that have climbed steadily. A line of credit that's been drawn down and paid back in cycles that suggest seasonal cash flow problems. None of it is problematic on its own but stack it together with the loss of a major distributor and the math gets ugly fast.
I lean back in my chair and study the notes I've spread across my desk. The numbers make sense. The wine is exceptional. The brand has a loyal following, and the location is prime real estate with tourism traffic that grows every year. What the Navarros don't have is capital. They need a financial bridge to get past this crisis and the infrastructure investment to replace the distribution revenue with direct-to-consumer channels that will give them long-term stability.
It's a good investment. I'd be tempted even if Sunny Reese had never poured me a glass of wine and made me forget my own name. But I keep seeing the way she leaned over thatbar when she talked about the Nebbiolo, her guard completely down, describing a wine most people push aside on first taste as if it were the most important thing in the world. A person who talks about their work like that doesn't need capital. She needs someone who won't get in the way.
But she did. Pretending otherwise would make me a liar, and I've never been much good at lying, especially to myself.
I pick up my phone and dial the winery's number. Tabitha answers on the second ring, and I ask to speak with Isabelle. She puts me through after a moment.
