Chapter 2 #2
“Ah.” I lift my brows at Beckett. “So when’s the big day?”
“Just before the crush,” Mom says, stepping into the kitchen from the hallway like she’s been waiting to chime in. “We were going over the timing this morning, and I believe they’ve settled on August twenty-fourth.” She looks to Sadie for confirmation, and she nods, taking Beckett’s hand.
It’s perfect, that window of calm that’s not really calm at all.
The vineyard pulses in the heat, lush and beautiful, the vines heavy with fruit that won’t be picked for a few weeks.
Tourists flood the valley, soaking up sun and wine, but it’s that sliver of time—hot, heady, and on edge—when everything looks peaceful, even as it’s all waiting to explode.
There’s something about it. Charged. Romantic, even.
Damn, I’m still thinking about Ginny. I clear my throat. “That’s the best time of year out here. The vineyard looks like a painting. You picked a good date, Sadie.”
“Thanks,” she says. She and Beckett exchange a look, and he hugs her close.
Then Beckett grabs an apple off the counter and tosses it in the air. “You up for drinks after basketball tonight?”
“Always.” I grin. “Assuming you don’t pull a hammy, trying to keep up.”
He snorts. “Dream on.”
I head for the coffee and pour myself a full mug from the percolator.
The espresso machine looms in the corner like a spaceship, all gleaming chrome and blinking lights.
Fancy as hell. But this? This pot on the stove is where the good stuff comes from.
Strong, rich, and just the right amount of bite.
Mom eyes me as I take the last of it. “You always finish the pot.”
Dad walks in just in time to hear her. “That’s because he’s the only one around here with real taste.”
I raise the mug in salute. “Finally. Someone gets me.”
Dad claps me on the shoulder as he passes. “You ready for the recap meeting?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
He gestures for us to follow, and we all trail him out the door and over to the administrative offices for the vineyard.
The boardroom in the barn next door smells faintly like oak and old wine, and the air has a buzz to it—a little tension. It’s the kind of atmosphere where one wrong word will light a fuse.
Tarryn’s already inside, standing near the head of the table, a tablet in one hand, notes in the other. She looks sharp—crisp button-down, tailored slacks, and low heels instead of her usual scuffed boots. It’s not flashy, but it’s a signal. She’s not here to be overlooked.
I sink into one of the chairs near the end of the table, far enough to watch the whole scene but close enough to jump in if Max tries anything slick. Beckett slides into the seat beside me.
I look over at Tarryn again. I’m so damn grateful she loves this place because the rest of us bailed.
Me, Greyson, Beckett, Kingston, we all found our calling in medicine, like Mom.
Pediatrics, trauma, cardiology, and orthopedics.
Not exactly helpful when it comes to running a multimillion-dollar wine operation.
But Tarryn looks at those vines and sees her future.
And she’s made it work. More than that, she’s made it thrive.
That’s always been a bitter pill for Uncle Max.
He’s never said it outright, but we all know he blames Dad.
For leaving. For chasing Mom out to Vancouver Island for a year before they were married.
For coming back and still getting to be the one to inherit the family business.
Max believes this should’ve been his after that. And maybe it should’ve been.
But now that Dad and Max are close to retiring, Tarryn is stepping up. And she’s earned the right to handle every inch of this ground. She’s got plans. Big ones. Dad just keeps putting off stepping down because Max still hasn’t retired like he was supposed to—last month, actually.
A low whir-whir-whir outside breaks through my thoughts.
I don’t even have to look. Kingston, arriving by helicopter, as he likes to do.
He lives about nine miles away as the crow flies, across the lake on five hundred acres of prime grape-growing Paradise real estate.
The drive takes over an hour, so he usually flies.
He built a mansion big enough to host a world summit.
Said it was for his wife, but she left before they even poured the foundation.
These days, he lives alone in that palace and shows up here when he feels like it.
He has a “friend” in Vancouver he’s been visiting more and more lately.
My guess? It’s only a matter of time before he trades the lake house for the city. He’s an orthopedist, but he developed some minimally invasive joint-replacement techniques and made billions, so he’s wealthy in his own right.
Beckett snorts. “Right on cue. Kingston had to take his helo in for a checkup today.”
The helicopter blades grow louder before cutting off abruptly. Five seconds later, Kingston walks in, all tall, moody energy in a black wool coat with his sunglasses still on, even though we’re inside.
But he’s here. And I’ll take it.
Kingston nods at Tarryn, and then takes a seat at the opposite end of the table, keeping his coat on like he’s not planning to stay long. “Let’s get this over with,” he mutters.
Tarryn raises her chin. “Glad you could make it.”
With that, she steps up to the front of the boardroom like she owns the place. She kind of does. The screen behind her lights up with the first slide of her PowerPoint—clean, sharp, and branded with the vineyard’s updated logo, and in moments, she’s in full CEO mode.
“Let’s start with last year’s numbers,” she says.
I lean back in my chair, arms crossed, watching the room. Watching them. Max is pretending not to care, but he’s already tapping his pen like a fuse is burning. Zach looks bored.
Tarryn dives into the cost-cutting initiatives first—refinancing the warehouse expansion, renegotiating supplier contracts, shifting some distribution to a leaner model. She’s not just cutting fat, she’s building muscle. Efficient. Scalable.
She clicks to a new slide and gestures toward the bar chart. “Despite setbacks from the fire and frost over the past few years, we’ve pushed through. And now, we’re nearly out of the red. Thanks to some aggressive recovery, we’re tracking toward one of the strongest years on record.”
That gets a few raised brows.
“And yields?” she continues. “Despite the downturn in pinot, it was exceptional. We’ve adapted well to the newer vines, and Elise believes this may be one of our best vintages.”
Max shifts in his chair. “And the screw tops?” he grumbles. “Those make us look cheap.”
Before I can roll my eyes, Greyson speaks up from across the table. “Actually, all of the top winners at the International Wine Festival last year used screw tops. It’s a preservation decision, not a prestige one.”
Tarryn doesn’t even acknowledge Max’s comment.
They’ve had that argument before. “Elise and I are heading back to Paris in three weeks. This year we’re competing with the Chardonnay, the Merlot, and a red blend Elise developed with her father.
Interest has already been pouring in. Elise has been approached by competitors in both France and California.
They’re trying to steal her,” she adds with a grin.
“Maybe she should go,” Zach says, tapping the table. He leans forward, smirking. “We don’t need a vintner anyway.”
Tarryn takes a deep breath. “We don’t just grow grapes, Zach.
We make wine. And if we want to grow beyond selling bottles out of the tasting room and government liquor stores, we need someone whose job is wine.
Not farming, not tradition—craft. That’s what a vintner brings. Control, consistency, and vision.”
He scoffs. “What a waste. And now, we’re running a restaurant and a wine club? What’s next? More fridge magnets in the gift shop?”
Tarryn smiles. A dangerous smile. “Great segue, Zach,” she says. “Let’s talk about how those fridge magnets are keeping this vineyard afloat.”
She clicks to the next slide. “The Paradise Grill now carries a typical three-week waiting list for dinner reservations. A week out for lunch. We’ve been contacted by Michelin. We may be in the running for the first Michelin Star in Black Bear Valley.”
Mom makes a quiet sound of delight. She pushed hardest for the grill. I glance over, and she’s glowing.
“And the tasting room? The gift shop?” Tarryn continues. “Sadie’s helped grow our Barrel Society to almost four thousand members in less than six months. That’s four thousand VIPs who’ve prepaid for wine, special events, and exclusive tastings.”
Tarryn’s locking in future sales now. That kind of foresight? Dad never had it. Max sure as hell doesn’t. And Zach’s blinking like he just found out she’s smarter than he is. That is a surprise to no one else.
She moves to another chart. “So yes, wine sales are strong. But these so-called distractions? They’re now nearly equal to wine revenue. That’s not a side hustle. That’s a second revenue stream.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Dad stands, slow but proud. And starts clapping.
One by one, we join him. Me, Beckett, Kingston, Greyson. Even Sadie, off to the side, lights up with pride. Eventually, Max and Zach rise too, grudgingly, but they do it.
Whatever they came here to derail? Tarryn just steamrolled it.
I wonder if Ginny would’ve smirked, called it badass, and kissed me for backing the right team. She’s the kind of woman who respects a strong play. She would’ve called it a power move, smirked at Zach’s dumb face, and then whispered something wicked in my ear just to watch me squirm.
But she’s not here. I don’t see how she ever could be. And it doesn’t matter anyway because who knows if I’ll see her anywhere again. I wonder if she ever thinks about that night. If she’s just as wrecked and pretending otherwise.