"It was a lovely evening," she says.
"You're not subtle, Gran."
"I wasn't trying to be." She rocks gently, the chair creaking against the wooden boards. "She's guarded, Charles. More than she lets on."
"I noticed."
"Good. That means you're paying attention to the right things." Her gaze is on the dark lane where Sunny's truck disappeared. "She'll say yes, by the way."
"How do you know?"
Gran turns to look at me, the warm light from inside framing her small figure. "Because she came tonight. A woman who wasn't interested wouldn't have walked through that door, no matter how persuasive I am."
She gets up quickly and disappears inside. I stay on the porch a while longer, listening to the crickets and the distant sound of horses settling in the barn. The candles are still burning down in the dining room. The evening is over, and I should go inside.
Instead, I think about the way Sunny's voice changed when she saidI'm not used to this. The walls she maintains and the small, careful ways she let them slip tonight. The smile she gave me at the bottom of the steps, the one that reached her eyes.
Gran's right. Sunny came tonight. And that's not nothing.
Chapter 3
Sunny
The winery is peaceful and quiet at six in the morning.
No tourists pressing their faces to the glass wall like I'm a zoo exhibit. Tabitha isn't hollering for me to come charm someone into buying a case. Nobody is asking me to explain the difference between Sangiovese and Montepulciano for the fortieth time this week. It's just me, the hum of the climate control, and four hundred gallons that need racking before the day swallows me whole.
I hook the transfer hose to the first barrel and check the receiving vessel, running my fingers along the seal. This is the part of the job I enjoy the most, the quiet and the solitude. The wine doesn't talk back and doesn't look at you with a sexy smirk while you're trying to maintain professional distance.
My hand stills on the hose clamp. The ghost of his fingers brushing mine when I handed over the tire iron skims across my knuckles, and my grip tightens before I can stop it.
I amnotdoing this. I have work to do, and I refuse to stand here in my winery thinking about Charlie Hayden's dreamy hazel eyes.
I crank the valve open and watch the wine begin its slow transfer. The sediment stays behind in the old barrel, exactlywhere it belongs. If only thoughts worked the same way. I could leave all the unwanted residue behind and move forward clean and clear, instead of replaying every encounter with that man like my brain has nothing better to do.
Muscle memory carries me to the second barrel, checking the hose connection and cranking the valve. The wine flows, dark and steady, and I settle into the rhythm of it, letting my hands lead.
For about ninety seconds, it works. Then my brain finds the opening and dives straight into the memory.
The brush of his fingers when I finally handed over the tire iron, my arms still shaky after ten minutes of fighting lug nuts. The spark that shot up my wrist and settled low, something I chalked up to the heat and haven’t questioned since, even though it wasn’t that hot and I’ve handled worse.
He leaned against my truck like he had all the time in the world and asked for my name. When I didn’t give it, he just smiled, unbothered, like my refusal was something he respected instead of something to push past.
I kept it to myself because my pulse was loud enough to give me away. The last time a man got under my skin like that, I handed him everything and paid for it on the other side. My jaw tightens at the thought and I shake it off.
The valve on the third barrel sticks, and I have to throw my weight into it. It gives with a groan, and the sudden release sends a tremor up my arms. My shoulders burn with the effort, and the strain feels good, anchoring me in the present instead of on a dusty highway shoulder where a stranger's interested gaze made me forget how to breathe. Except he isn't a stranger anymore.
My mind drifts to last night.
That blue shirt and those shoulders filling the doorway at Twin Oaks as I climbed the porch steps in the yellow sundress. The way his eyes traveled from my sandals to my face,unhurried, and his whole expression went soft in a way that made my stomach flip. And when he asked to see me again, my hands trembled so badly I had to shove them in the pockets of my sundress.
The fourth barrel finishes its transfer just as the first light hits the high windows and turns the limestone walls to gold. The physical completion of the task should settle me the way it usually does, but the restlessness is still there, humming under my skin like a low current.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and carry it to the worktable where my production logs are waiting. Beyond the glass wall, chairs are stacked on tables, and Tabitha will be here soon. With her, will come the questions I've been avoiding since last night.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out and squint at the screen.
Tabitha: How was the dinner party? Did you survive?
