"I'm fashionably late." Her eyes crinkle with the smile she's trying not to give me. "Or I changed my outfit three times and will deny that under oath."
"I won't tell a soul."
She climbs the porch steps and holds out the wine bottle. "This is from Isabelle's private reserve. She said your grandmother would like it."
I take the bottle, and our fingers brush against the glass. The contact is brief, but the warmth of it lingers past my wrist. "She'll appreciate it even more knowing you brought it."
"Your grandmother is a very hard woman to say no to." Sunny stands on the top step, close enough that I catch a hint of her perfume, something light, maybe rose, and she studies me with those blue eyes that never seem to miss a detail. "She called the winery three times to make sure I was coming. By the third call, Isabelle just handed me the phone and said, 'Deal with her yourself.'"
I snort. "That sounds about right. For what it's worth, she didn't tell me you were on the guest list."
"Is that so?" One side of her mouth curves upward. "And here I thought you were posted at the door like a sentry just for me."
"It was purely coincidental."
"Mm-hmm." Her gaze travels from my boots to my collar, and the slow assessment sends heat up the back of my neck. "You clean up well, Hayden. That blue is a good color on you."
I blink several times. "Was that a compliment?"
"It was only an observation. Don't let it go to your head." She steps past me through the doorway, and I catch the full version of that smile before she turns toward the sound of voices.
Gran spots Sunny before I can make introductions that nobody needs. My grandmother rises from her chair and crosses the room with a speed that contradicts her eighty-two years, arms already open.
"You must be Sunny. I was beginning to worry you'd changed your mind." Gran takes both of Sunny's hands in hers, beaming as if she'd been waiting all evening for this particular guest. "I'm Eleanor Hayden, Charles's grandmother. He speaks so highly of you."
Sunny looks briefly startled by the warmth of the greeting. Her gaze flicks to mine over Gran's shoulder, one eyebrow raised. I shrug and try to look innocent.
"It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Mrs. Hayden," Sunny says, recovering with practiced grace. "Thank you for the invitation."
"Call me Gran, please. Mrs. Hayden was my mother-in-law, and she was dreadful." Gran tucks Sunny's arm through hers and steers her toward the sideboard. "Now come, I want your professional opinion on whether Oscar has the wines breathing properly. He insists he knows what he's doing, but I'd feel better with an expert's eye."
"I'm sure Oscar has it perfectly under control," Sunny says, and from across the room, Oscar inclines his head in a gesture of gratitude.
Rachel waves Sunny over with that easy warmth of hers, Charlotte pulls her into something about a fundraiser, and Lila stakes a claim about a wine-and-books pairing event before Sunny can draw a full breath. She handles it all with quiet composure. But when Lila circles back to the pairing event, Sunny's voice warms and her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.
The real entertainment starts at the sideboard.
Beau sets his empty glass on the bar just as Isabelle steps in beside him. They both reach for the bottle at the same time. Neither one moves.
"Hartman." Isabelle’s smile is polished and dangerous.
"Navarro." Beau’s is easy, like he’s been hoping for this all night. "I almost didn’t recognize you without a clipboard in your hand."
"I like to keep people guessing." She tightens her grip on the bottle. "You should try it sometime."
He doesn’t let go. "I do. Usually right before I fix things."
"Oh, is that what you call it?" She lifts a brow. "Because your fence on the north ridge is still leaning into our vineyard."
"That fence is made of stone and has been there forty years."
"And it’s been losing that fight for most of them." She finally pulls the bottle free, smooth as anything, and pours her wine. "At this point, I’m starting to think it’s trying to relocate."
Lila, watching from a nearby chair, takes a slow sip of her wine and settles in like she just found her favorite show.
Beau leans a hip against the sideboard, unfazed. "Funny. I was thinking the same about your vines. They’ve been inching over the line all season."
"That’s called ambition." Isabelle lifts her glass. "You wouldn’t know anything about that."
