After a while, I lift up, drawing her with me, and settle back against the couch, pulling a throw blanket over us. Her head nestles in the curve of my neck and she releases a contented exhale that hits me square in the heart.
"For the record," she says, her voice drowsy, "you were right. You did take care of everything that needed your attention."
"I'm a man of my word." I press my lips to her temple. "Though I may have missed a few things. Might need a follow-up visit."
She tickles my side, and I catch her hand and thread my fingers through hers. Crickets chirp somewhere beyond the walls, and the house settles around us.
Her phone buzzes on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with an unfamiliar number. She lifts her head from my shoulder and reaches for the phone, squinting at the display. Unknown caller. The puzzled crease between her eyebrows deepens.
"That's weird," she says. "Who calls at nine o'clock on a Sunday night?"
"Answer it. It could be someone interested in the tasting event." I nod at the phone. "It might be important."
She swipes to answer, tapping the speakerphone icon. "Hello?"
"Sunny." The male voice on the other end is smooth and carries the kind of fake warmth that immediately sets me on edge. "I've been trying to reach you, darling. You blocked my number."
Sunny goes rigid. Her jaw locks, and that sweet relaxed softness that suffused her body ten seconds ago vanishes as if someone flipped a switch.
"Derek." She says the name like she's spitting out something rotten. "I blocked your number because I don't want to talk to you. Not answering your calls seemed a strong enough hint."
"I'm rather persistent. You should remember that." The smugness in his voice makes my fist clench. "Listen, I'm calling because I have news, and I wanted you to hear it from me before it hits the trades."
"I don't care to hear any news about you, Derek."
"You'll want to hear this." He barrels past her refusal without a pause, conversational steamrolling that tells me this man has spent years talking over people who've told him no. "I'm buying Beaumont Crest."
The silence that follows is stark. Sunny's jaw sags and her hand tightens around the phone. I sit up straighter, every protective instinct I have snapping to attention.
"You're buying Beaumont Crest," she repeats, her voice flat.
"We close the deal in a couple weeks. I know how special that place is to you, Sunny." His voice drops into a register that's probably supposed to sound intimate but comes across as calculated. "In fact, I thought of you the whole time I was negotiating the deal."
Her jaw works, and her free hand grips the blanket at her hip. When she finally speaks, her voice is controlled, every syllable measured. "Good for you, Derek. I hope you know what you're getting into, because you're going to need all the luck in the world."
"Sunny, come on. Don't be like that. I was hoping we could talk about it, maybe grab dinner. I want to tell you about my plans for the?—"
"Goodbye, Derek."
She ends the call with a tap that's forceful enough to make the screen protest. Her thumb moves across the screen in quick, practiced motions, blocking the new number, and then she sets the phone face-down on the coffee table.
The room is very quiet in the aftermath.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"I'm fine." The answer is automatic, a reflex, and the tightness in her voice tells me it isn't true. She's still pressed against me, but the loose, easy weight of her body has been replaced by something coiled and ready to snap.
"Sunny, what's going on? What is Beaumont Crest?"
She exhales through her nose, long and controlled. "It’s the winery where I interned in my final year at UC Davis. It's one of the most respected boutique wine operations in Sonoma County, and the head winemaker, Evan Reynolds, was my mentor." Her voice catches on the name, and she clears her throat before continuing. "Evan taught me everything I couldn't learn from a textbook. He's the reason I understand blending the way I do, why I trust my instincts, and why Isabelle took a chance on a twenty-four-year-old with no real professional track record. I owe my entire career to that man and that winery."
I wait, letting her tell the story at her own pace.
"Derek's not buying Beaumont Crest because he cares about wine or because he sees a good investment." Her tone hardens, and her words have an edge that could draw blood. "He's doing it because he's a self-serving pig and knowing what it means to me is probably icing on the cake to him. He knows Evan is the closest thing to a father figure I've ever had." She runs a hand down her face. "Everything Derek touches turns to garbage, Charlie. He'll run that winery into the ground and strip the bones like every other place he's bought, and Evan will be collateral damage."
The anger in her voice cracks at the end, and the vulnerability of it makes my jaw clench. I pull her close and press my lips to her temple, letting the contact say what words can't fix.
"He called to get a reaction out of you," I comment. "The best thing you can do is not give him one."
