Twelve
Sadie
I ’m wiping down the kitchen counter at Beckett’s, trying hard to keep the house as clean as I can. I’ve been working at the tasting room for over a week now, and I wipe down counters there all day. I can’t stop myself. Suddenly, the front door creaks open.
The name hits me like ice, but a second later I hear the steady thump of heavy footfalls down the hall, confident and unhurried. No way that would be Alex. And it’s dumb to think he could have found me. There’s a squeak of rubber soles against the hardwood.
That’s Beckett.
He hasn’t been around much since I started my new job in the tasting room. I wonder if he was out with a woman? It shouldn’t be any of my concern, but that green monster is ready to roar. I grit my teeth and keep wiping, pretending my pulse isn’t doing something weird.
He pushes through the door—hair mussed, shadows dark under his eyes, a hospital badge still clipped to the neckline of his green scrubs. In the three weeks I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen him at home in scrubs.
“I didn’t realize this place came with full-time staff,” he mutters. He leans heavily against the edge of the kitchen counter, like he can’t hold up his own weight. “You’re doing dishes?” he adds, a dry smirk tugging at his mouth.
I don’t flinch, though I do realize this is a distinct change from the way I did things when I first arrived. “I was cleaning up.” I shoot him a pointed look and toss the towel over my shoulder. “But since you’re here, feel free to make yourself useful. Trash needs taking out.”
He lets out a tired snort and shakes his head. “Charming as ever.”
“I aim to please.”
Our eyes meet—his bloodshot and exhausted, mine probably a little sharper than they need to be. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care.
But something in his eyes gives me pause.
It’s not just exhaustion. It’s weight. A pressure bearing down on him, making it hard to breathe.
Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “Did you eat today?”
He blinks like I’ve just spoken a foreign language. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I say, already turning away. “You look like death warmed over. I figure you’ve been running on caffeine and sarcasm since noon.”
“I had a granola bar,” he counters, trailing after me like it’s involuntary.
I glance over my shoulder. “That’s not a meal. That’s a cry for help.”
I open the fridge and pull out what I stashed earlier—a roasted veggie flatbread and half a salad I didn’t touch during lunch. I slide the flatbread onto a cookie sheet and pop it into the oven, ignoring the way his eyes follow every movement.
“I didn’t ask you to feed me.”
“Good,” I snap. “Because I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it because if you pass out and crack your skull, I’ll have to explain it to paramedics. And to Caleb. And frankly, I’ve had enough drama for one week.”
“What did Zach do?” he asks after a moment.
I look across the dark living room. “I haven’t told Tarryn, so keep this between us, please.”
He doesn’t respond and looks at me, waiting for me to continue.
I pour a glass of water and place it in front of him, like I’m not shaking inside. “I’m not a hundred-percent sure, but I put a fifty and a hundred-dollar bill in the till this morning, and after he left, it was gone.”
“Did he take it to accounting for change?”
I shrug. “I never got the change, and my till didn’t balance at the end of my shift.”
“Did you take it, and you’re blaming Zach? I mean, getting him in trouble wouldn’t bother me, but—”
“No!” My voice comes out sharp. My heart’s pounding now, tight with panic. “I actually covered it with my tips this week.” This is exactly what I was afraid of. He doesn’t believe me. “If this turns into a thing,” I say, trying to catch my breath, “it’ll blow back on me. And I really like my job.”
I hate how desperate I sound. But it’s true.
“He was only in the tasting room for maybe fifteen minutes,” I continue. “I noted it on my till sheet, but the whole thing was drama from the second he showed up. I mean, of course, I don’t want to get blamed. I don’t want to lose this. But stealing is not okay. That money belongs to the vineyard.”
Beckett doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me, and then when he speaks, it’s so low I almost miss it. “You used your own money?”
“I just know what’s right. But I’m not explaining how this happened to Tarryn.”
“Why did you replace the money?”
“Because I don’t want there to be a problem. But there’s something going on. I can feel it.”
Beckett snorts. “You could say that.” He glances over at me, and something in his posture shifts.
He’s less guarded, more open. “The land’s been in our family for eight generations,” he says quietly.
“Passed from the firstborn son to the next. Only once did it skip. My great-aunt was the oldest in her generation, but they gave it to her younger brother instead.”
I move to the table and sit. He’s not just talking to fill the air. He’s offering me something.
“My dad fell in love with my mom while she was doing her residency at Paradise General. When she finished her residency, she got a job out on the island.”
“Vancouver Island?” I ask, just to make sure.
He nods. “Yeah. He didn’t want to live without her, so he left the vineyard for a year and moved there. My grandfather was still running it then, but Max—my uncle—started preparing to take over.”
“And then your parents moved back.”
“Right. They missed Black Bear Valley too much. Once they came home, my grandfather passed the vineyard to my dad. And my dad hired Max to stay on. Which, in hindsight, might’ve been a mistake.”
I nod slowly. “I’ve heard bits of this from Tarryn.”
Beckett lets out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, well, Max has always had a chip on his shoulder. When all four of us boys decided we didn’t want the vineyard and Tarryn stepped up to run it instead, Max and Zach didn’t take it well.”
“They were pissed she got named as the heir.” So much makes sense now.
“Understatement of the year,” he mutters.
“My sister’s damn good at what she does.
But Zach—he’s been bitter ever since Dad said he was considering retiring.
Pulling little power plays. Undermining her.
Making her life harder. And when she hired you, that may have pushed him over the edge.
She brought someone into his part of the operation.
He knows full well that Tarryn keeps an eye on the numbers. ”
I feel my stomach twist. “So I was set up.”
He shakes his head. “No. But you were used.”
I hate how much that makes sense. “Do you want me to tell her about the money?”
He nods. “Yeah. First thing tomorrow. She owes you. Covering the till isn’t your job. That’s a good day of tips.”
I nod, because that was going to buy me a new outfit to wear to work.
“He won’t know what to do about the money not being missing. It will drive him crazy when he tells Tarryn about it.”
My shoulders slump. “Everyone’s going to think I stole it and then put it back.”
For a moment, he just watches me. Then something soft flickers across his face. Empathy. It’s quick, but it’s there. “No,” he says. “I don’t think they will.”
The oven dings, cutting through the silence. I pull the flatbread out and place it in front of him, shoving the fork toward him like it’s a dare.
He doesn’t touch it right away. Just studies the plate. Then he lifts his eyes to mine. “This your way of apologizing after the note I left yesterday?” he asks.
I blink. “You mean because you lost your mind over one plate, one fork, and a single glass left in the sink?”
That earns the smallest ghost of a smile.
I roll my eyes and turn back to the counter, feigning interest in tidying something that’s already spotless.
But then—quietly, sincerely—he says, “Thanks.”
And for once, I don’t say anything sarcastic. I just keep my hands moving, pretending it didn’t mean more than it should.
Beckett eats in silence, and I keep pretending to be busy, straightening a stack of napkins that didn’t need fixing, drying the sink. I don’t know why the sound of his chewing feels so loud, or why I keep glancing at him from the corner of my eye like I’m afraid to look directly.
He devours the flatbread like it’s the first real food he’s had in days.
Maybe it is.
After a few minutes, he speaks. “I forgot how quiet it is here at night.”
“That’s because you’re never here to notice.”
He lets out a grunt. Not quite agreement, not quite a laugh. “Didn’t think you’d still be around.”
“I live here.”
“Right.” He nods and takes another sip of water. The glass clinks faintly as he sets it down. “Hard to forget with your stuff everywhere.”
I raise an eyebrow, still turned slightly away. “Is that your way of saying I’m a slob?”
He smirks. “You are a slob.”
“Your house doesn’t need to be as sterile as an operating room.” My hand stills on the counter, fingers curling around the edge of the sink. He’s not wrong. I am a slob. I don’t mean to be.
“I get it,” he says. “You want to be able to pack up fast. Keep everything visible in case you need to bolt.”
His words land hard. Because as soon as he says it, I know that’s the truth.
I turn toward him, bracing. “What made you so smart?”
“I just figured it out.” His voice isn’t harsh. Just tired. Honest.
“I’ll try harder. Keep things clean. Stay out of your way.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I’ve known you most of your life, Sadie. But I don’t really know you.”
I fold my arms across my chest, a defense. “And what? Now you suddenly care?”
He leans back on the stool, shoulders heavy. “I don’t know,” he admits. “ Maybe I do.”
The room goes quiet again. Just the faint hum of the fridge and the whisper of wind against the windows.
He’s looking at me—really looking. Like he’s peeling back every layer I’ve built. And I hate that part of me wants to let him.
I need to shift the weight. “Why medicine?”
His eyes soften. “My mom. I grew up watching her take care of people. I guess I followed the path.”
“And you never wanted the vineyard?”