Charlie has been extraordinary. Monday morning, he worked beside me, pulling samples and adjusting the lineup without once steering the conversation toward Derek. Yesterday he stayed late to walk through the event timeline with Tabitha. When I finally locked up last night, he was leaning against my truck with takeout from the barbecue place on Main Street because he knew I'd forgotten to eat.
He hasn’t asked me to talk about it, never pushes. He just keeps showing up and doing the next thing that needs doing, and that steadies me more than any conversation ever could.
Finally, guests start arriving and the tasting begins, and I find my rhythm faster than I expect. The first group gathers at my station, and I pour with the ease that comes from years of knowing exactly what I'm serving and why. I walk them through the whites first, keeping my language tailored for buyers who care more about what sells than how it's made. A chain store rep from San Antonio asks about case pricing, and I defer to Isabelle, who appears at my elbow with the numbers before the question is fully formed.
Charlie works the room from the other side, and I catch glimpses of him between pours. He's in his element, moving through with a charm that never tips into salesmanship,asking questions about their businesses, listening with the same focused attention he brings to everything. A restaurant owner from Austin laughs at something Charlie says, and I watch the man's posture shift from polite to engaged in the span of thirty seconds.
By the one-hour mark, Isabelle has collected twelve signed letters of intent, and the energy in the room has shifted from cautious interest to genuine enthusiasm. Diego brings in a second case of the red blend I held for the back half of the tasting, and when I pour it for a buyer from Fredericksburg, the woman closes her eyes on the first sip and opens them with an expression I recognize. I've seen it on every person who tastes something extraordinary and knows it.
"How soon can you deliver?" she asks, and the question is the sweetest sound I've heard all week.
Tabitha refreshes the stations and circulates with appetizers, and the flow of the event settles into a relaxed hum that tells me we've cleared the largest hurdle. The wine is doing its job. And the people are doing exactly what Charlie predicted they would, which is recognizing value when it's standing right in front of them.
I'm pouring for a group of three hotel buyers when the front door opens and Derek strides through like he owns the place. My hand jerks, and wine splashes the edge of the glass. I set the bottle down with a loud clink before the tremor in my fingers gives me away.
He's wearing a slate gray suit you'd spot in the high-end shops on Rodeo Drive, every seam tailored to sit exactly where he wants it. His dark blond hair is styled to within an inch of its life, his nails are buffed, and his cufflinks catch the light when he adjusts his sleeves, which he does twice before he's three steps into the room. Derek has always spent more time on himself than on anyone else.
His eyes sweep the room with the lazy confidence of a man who's never been told no, and when his gaze lands on me, the smile he produces is the same one I remember from college. Slick and predatory, the kind that used to make me melt before I understood what it really meant. Now it just makes my skin crawl.
Behind him, another man steps through the door, and my heart lurches sideways.
Evan Reynolds looks exactly the way I remember him, only older. His silver hair is cropped close, and his deep brown eyes carry a warmth that Derek's never could. The lines on his face have deepened since I last saw him, but the smile that crosses his face when he spots me hasn't changed. It's the same one he gave me on my first day at Beaumont Crest, when I showed up twenty minutes early with a notebook full of questions and hands that shook so badly I nearly dropped the first sample he poured me.
"Sunny." Derek's voice booms across the room, cutting through the ambient conversation with his practiced projection. "I told you I'd be in touch."
For a full three seconds, I forget that there are forty-two people in this room. All I can hear is my own breathing, and watch as Derek closes the distance between the door and my table like he has every right to be here.
"Derek." I keep my voice level. "This is a private event."
A hand settles against the small of my back, and I don't have to look to know it's Charlie. He's right there, his chest lined up behind my shoulders, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through my blouse. I nearly shudder with relief and lean into him.
"I'm aware." Derek stops a couple feet away and adjusts his cufflinks. His gaze flicks to Charlie, then back to my face, and the flash of irritation is so quick that someone who didn't knowDerek wouldn't catch it. "Evan wanted to see the winery, and I wanted to see you. You haven't returned my calls."
"I blocked your number. That's generally a clear message." This time I don't temper my tone.
"You can't ignore me forever, Sunny." His smile doesn't falter. "Especially now that I'm about to close on Beaumont Crest."
Evan steps forward, and the warmth in his expression pushes Derek's smugness into the background. He opens his arms, and I step into the hug before I can think about it. He smells the same, like sandalwood and spice, and the ache that hits me is so sudden I have to blink hard to keep my composure.
"Look at this place, Sunny." Evan's voice is rougher than I remember, lower, but the cadence is the same. "I've been following your work since you left California. The reviews, the awards, that white blend you developed last year." He shakes his head slowly, his eyes bright. "You should be proud of what you've built here. Your wines are outstanding."
My eyes sting. Evan Reynolds doesn't give compliments he doesn't mean. I learned that during my very first week at Beaumont Crest, when he told me my barrel selection was lazy and made me redo it three times. The fact that he's standing in my tasting room, praising my work, matters in a way that goes deeper than professional validation.
"Thank you, Evan." My voice catches, and I clear my throat. "That means more than you know."
"It should." He glances around the room with the appraising eye of a man who has spent his life evaluating wineries. "This winery is doing something special. The terroir here is remarkable, and you've learned to let it speak." He pauses, and his expression shifts into something more serious. "Which is why I wanted to talk to you in person."
"Evan, we’re in the middle of an event." I keep my voice gentle because this is Evan, not Derek, but the timing is impossible. "This isn't the time."
Derek shoulders his way back into the conversation. "Evan is retiring at the end of the year. He's been looking for the right person to take over as head winemaker at Beaumont Crest, and he chose you, Sunny."
The words hang in the air between us, and for a brief, disoriented moment, I can't process them. Evan wantsmeto take over?
I don’t miss the flash of irritation on Evan’s face. "Like Sunny said, this isn’t the time or place."
Derek brushes aside the admonition. "We're prepared to make a significant offer." He pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket and sets it on my table. "This lists the salary, equity stake, and full creative control over the winemaking program. Evan insisted on those terms, and I agreed." When I don't move, he slides the envelope toward me. "Take a look. You'll see that it's more than generous and much more than a piddly little place like this can give you."
I catch a few gasps at Derek's blatant insult, and I refuse to even acknowledge him.
