And if Derek Parker thinks he can dangle a job offer in front of the woman I love to save his trust-fund ass, he's about to learn that you don't mess with a man who's got something worth fighting for.
The plane doors close, and the engines roar to life, and I lean back in my seat and think about sapphire eyes and rose perfume, about a woman who once told me the best and most difficult things reward patience.
She was right. They do.
But sometimes in life, the best move a man can make is the boldest one.
Chapter 16
Sunny
Beaumont Crest looks exactly the way I remember it, and the familiarity settles in my chest like an ache.
The morning fog hangs low over the Sonoma hills, turning the vineyard rows into soft gray lines that fade into the mist. I stand at the edge of the courtyard with a cup of coffee and let the cool air settle against my skin, breathing in the scent of damp earth and eucalyptus and the faint mineral tang that I used to think was the most intoxicating smell in the world.
It is beautiful here, with the stone winery building built into the hillside with the old-world elegance that drew me in at twenty-one. I drove up that gravel drive with the trembling certainty that I was about to learn from one of the best winemakers in California. The courtyard is paved in pale stone, bordered by lavender beds that have grown wild since my time here.
When Evan met me at the airport last night, the relief I felt at not seeing Derek's face was so immediate that my knees nearly buckled. Evan had laughed at the expression on my face and told me Derek rarely comes to the winery. It sounded exactly like the Derek I knew—all flash and no substance, with no interest in getting his hands dirty.
The door creaks open, and Evan steps out with his coffee, silver hair catching the faint rays of sunlight beginning to break through the fog. His brown eyes find me and crinkle at the corners.
"There she is." He crosses the courtyard with an easy stride. "I was going to offer to pick you up this morning. Thanks for making the drive out so early." He glances at the sky, still pale at the edges where the fog is beginning to thin. "How was the hotel? Comfortable enough?"
"The Bordeaux House is lovely," I say. "No complaints."
"Good." He stands beside me and wraps both hands around his mug. "The fog this morning is something else."
"I used to love mornings like this. The fog makes everything feel hidden, like the whole valley is keeping a secret."
Evan chuckles. "I remember." He nods toward a stone bench beneath an old oak. "You used to show up before sunrise and sit over there, writing in your notebook. I thought you were studying. Turned out you were writing tasting notes for wines you hadn't made yet."
The memory surfaces with a pang of affection so sharp it catches me off guard. "I was planning my first vintage. I had the whole thing mapped out before I even knew where I'd end up."
"And look where you are now." Evan's voice carries the pride that used to make me stand taller. "The head winemaker at one of the best small operations in Texas, producing wines that have people talking from here to New York."
I take a long sip of coffee and let his words land without deflecting them the way I normally would. Evan earned the right to compliment me. He is one of the few people in the world whose opinion I trust without question.
He tips his head toward the winery door. "Come on. Let me show you what we've done since you left. You're going to want to see the new barrel room."
We spend the rest of the day walking through Beaumont Crest, and Evan explains every change meticulously. The fermentation hall has been expanded, with six new temperature-controlled tanks arranged in a row that gleam under the overhead lights. The barrel room has doubled in size, carved deeper into the hillside, and the air inside is cool and fragrant with oak and aging wine. A new lab occupies what used to be a storage closet, outfitted with equipment I recognize from the catalogs I studied during my first year at Willow Sage, dreaming of upgrades the winery could not afford.
"The new crush pad was finished last fall," Evan says as we step onto a concrete platform overlooking the receiving area. "We can process twice what we used to, and the sorting line runs cleaner than anything I've worked with previously."
I run my hand along the railing and take in the view of the vineyard below, the fog finally retreated to reveal a sky so blue it looks painted. It’s gorgeous. The facilities are extraordinary. Any winemaker in the country would sell a kidney for the chance to work here.
And all I can do is compare it to Willow Sage, where the tanks hum and the barrels do their slow, patient work. This place doesn't stand a chance in that contest.
What really surprises me is how much I miss Charlie. Not in a way I can rationalize or quite put into words, but in the quiet, persistent way of someone who has become a necessary thread in the fabric of my life. I left Texas yesterday, and already the distance feels like a physical thing, a thread pulled taut between here and there that vibrates every time I think of him.
"Let me show you the new section of our cave," Evan says. "We blasted through the hillside last spring and added another hundred feet of aging space."
We walk the space in companionable silence, our footsteps echoing off the rock walls. The barrels are stacked in long rows,each one marked with vintage and varietal, and the cool air carries that particular scent all great caves share, like patience made tangible.
When we emerge into the sunlight, Evan leads me to the bench beneath the old oak and slowly lowers himself onto the stone. I sit beside him, and for a long moment we watch the vineyard in silence.
"I owe you an apology in person," Evan says, his voice rougher. "What happened at your tasting event was wrong. Showing up unannounced like that…" He shakes his head. "The way Derek handled it, ambushing you in front of your colleagues and your guests, was unacceptable. I should have called you first, arranged a proper meeting, given you the respect you deserve. Instead, I let Derek run the show, and I am sorry for that."
"It was his idea," I say. It is not a question.
