"Very funny."
"I’m not joking." Isabelle pushes off from the doorframe and heads for the exit. "He'll be here at eight. Try not to scare him off on the first day."
I stare at the empty doorway for a beat after she’s gone. An investor who wants to learn winemaking. Fine. I can spare a few hours explaining fermentation temps and barrel aging to some finance bro in pressed khakis who thinks buying into a winery means he gets to stomp grapes and sip wine on the terrace.
It’s probably some guy out of Austin who decided this looked romantic after a couple of glossy documentaries. He’ll show up with soft hands and a long list of questions, hover for a few hours, and disappear as soon as he realizes it’s hard work.
I heave a huge sigh, all the tension of the past week releasing from my shoulders.
It's a small price to pay for keeping this place alive. I can manage.
The rest of the day passes in the comfortable rhythm of production work, racking the Roussanne, cleaning equipment, reviewing lab results on the latest Viognier samples. Tabitha pops her head in around noon to ask if I've heard the news about the investment, and the grin on her face tells me she already knows the answer.
"Isn't it wonderful?" Tabitha is practically bouncing. "Isabelle's been so stressed, and now the whole thing is handled."
"Yeah, it is." I rinse a sample glass and set it on the drying rack. "Did she tell you about the investor wanting to shadow every department?"
Tabitha's grin widens. "She may have mentioned something about that."
"Do you know who it is?"
"Maybe." The word stretches out like taffy, and Tabitha's expression is doing that thing where she's dying to tell me something but enjoying my ignorance too much to give it up. "You'll find out tomorrow."
"Tabitha."
"Sunny."
I narrow my eyes at her, but she's already retreating, her laughter trailing behind her like a ribbon. I watch her go and shake my head. The two of them are up to something, and I don’t have the time or energy to figure out what it is.
That evening, I lock up the production room and drive home to my small house in Stone Creek. It's nothing fancy, just two bedrooms, a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in, and a front porch that catches the evening breeze. But it's mine, and infive years I've made it comfortable in the quiet, practical way I make everything.
I eat dinner standing at the counter, a bowl of leftover pasta and a glass of wine, and my mind keeps circling the same point. An investor with enough money to save the winery and enough time on his hands to show up week after week to learn the operation.
After rinsing my bowl, I step out onto the porch. The air is warm, carrying a trace of honeysuckle from my neighbor’s fence. The street is quiet, the kind of stillness this town settles into at night.
Charlie Hayden slides into my head. To the way he stared at me across Gran's dinner table, like I was the most interesting person in the room, the quiet sincerity in his voice when he said he'd like to see me again.
I shut that train of thought down and head inside to bed. Tomorrow is going to require the patience of a saint, and that demands sleep.
* * *
The next morning, I get to the winery at six and let myself in through the side entrance, flipping on the lights as I go. The tanks gleam under the fluorescent glare, and I take a slow breath of yeast and steel and the faint sweetness of fermenting grapes, feeling my shoulders finally loosen. This is where things make sense, where everything follows a process and every variable can be measured and controlled.
I pull on my rubber boots, gather my hair and braid it tight, and start the morning routine. I check fermentation temperatures, record pH levels, and inspect the transfer hoses for any sign of wear, moving from one task to the next without thinking about it. The work steadies me, and by seven-thirtyI am focused enough that the new investor barely crosses my mind.
Then the production room door opens.
"Morning, Sunshine."
My hand freezes on the temperature gauge. I know that voice. I've been hearing it in my head for the better part of two weeks, no matter how aggressively I've tried to silence it.
I turn slowly, and there he is.
Charlie Hayden, standing in the doorway of my production room in clean work boots, broken-in jeans, and a dark gray henley. His brown hair is slightly damp, like he showered right before coming here. That easy grin is already firmly in place, the one that says everything is going to work out just fine, no matter what.
"You." The word comes out more like an accusation than a greeting.
"Me." His grin doesn't falter. "Isabelle said eight o'clock, but I figured I'd get here early. I wanted to make a good impression with my new boss."
