Chapter 9 #2
He moves in half a step. I match him without thinking. Our breath mixes. The world narrows to the space between us. Our lips inch closer together.
A knock breaks it. Not a knock. A heavy thud at the front door like someone dropped a box and walked away. We both turn.
“You expecting deliveries?”
“Not until three.”
We move together. He opens the door while I brace the frame. A small square package sits on the mat, plain brown paper tied with twine. No label. No name. Only a smudge near the knot that looks dark against the paper.
“Back inside.”
“It’s a box.”
“It’s a box without a sender.”
“That’s normal in the valley. Half our neighbors leave jam without notes.”
He carries the box to me. “This is not heavy enough for jam.”
We bring it in and set it on the bar. He checks the corners. I check the paper. It’s not addressed to anyone. The winery name is not there. The twine is tight and clean. I look up and we both know we’ll open it.
“I should call the police,” I say, my voice low as I crouch beside the bundle.
“We look first,” Declan answers, stepping closer.
“Or we don’t,” I argue, glancing up at him.
“We look what was inside.” I slide the twine loose with careful fingers.
“Tarryn.” His tone sharpens, a warning threading through it.
“You’re here. If it’s weird, we deal with it.” I keep my focus on the knot.
“We deal with it by not touching it,” he mutters, shifting his stance like he’s ready to yank me back.
“Then stand over there and judge me.” I flick a look at him.
He exhales. “You’re deciding this no matter what I say.”
“Yes,” I answer, not pretending otherwise.
“Fine.” He plants himself beside me. “I’ll stay and watch your hands. You stop if I say stop.”
“Deal,” I whisper, fingers tightening on the twine.
I lift the lid. Inside, black tissue. My stomach climbs into my throat. I peel back the paper and freeze.
It’s an ornament. Or what is left of one. The shape is a glass grape cluster, our design from last year. Only this one is blackened and cracked. The ribbon is scorched to a brittle curl. The metal tag that should read Paradise Hill is blistered and dark. Someone burned it and boxed it for me.
Declan swears under his breath. “Hands off.”
My fingers twitch but I lock them at my sides. A tremor runs through me, sharp enough that my knees press together to keep steady. I hear the kitchen clock tick. I hear my pulse in my ears.
“Step back.” His tone gentles.
I step back, palms slick.
He pulls out his phone and snaps a photo. He calls the police and keeps his voice even while he explains. He uses calm words that make my teeth ache.
“Is this a threat?” My throat scrapes raw.
“It’s a message. I don’t like it.”
“No one would do this to us.”
“Someone did. We treat it like evidence.”
I look at the charred glass and taste metal at the back of my throat. “We’re not shutting down the tasting.”
“We’re not doing anything until the police clear it.”
“We’re not shutting down.”
“You’re not hearing me.”
“I hear you. I’m telling you my decision. We don’t cancel. We adjust. We move the club check-in to the veranda. We keep the room closed until the police finishes. We run service from the side bar and shift the first flight to the reserve lounge. We can do it.”
“You’re sure the team can pivot that fast?”
“Yes. We do this all the time. Not the creepy box part. The pivot.”
He studies me for a long second. “I wanted to argue. I’m not going to.”
“You changed your mind that fast?”
“You laid out a plan. It’s solid. We can protect people and keep the day on track.”
“Say it again. We can protect people.”
He nods once. “We can.”
The box sits between us like a dare. He texts Sadie and Elise with a quick summary and asks her to meet us on the veranda. I text the events board and the floor manager. I keep it tight. I keep it steady. I don’t let my fingers shake.
“Talk me through your next twenty-four hours.” He looks at me waiting for me to start. It’s all a jumble in my head, so hopefully this will all smooth out.
I point as I speak. “Right now, we close the tasting room doors and prepare the veranda. You’ve already taken photos of the box, so keep your phone ready.
The police will be here within the hour.
Elise and I’ll move the donation bin outside and hang the sign on the veranda railing.
We push the tree back and block this area. We keep staff out of the room.”
I look around, and I appreciate that he’s letting us have the VIP tasting. If he didn’t, that could sink our program, which generates a lot of income for us.
“Tonight after closing,” I continue, “We’ll meet with security and pull entry footage.
We’ll send timestamps to the police and the marshal.
We’ll bring in a night guard for the next week.
I’ll call the offices to see if anyone saw a courier, and I’ll email the club list with a note that we added a veranda welcome, so people arrive happy and patient.
Tomorrow morning, we walk the full property at first light.
New locks on the storage shed by noon. Lighting check at dusk.
Repeat each evening until further notice. ”
He takes it in and nods. “You forgot one thing. You get someone with you at all times when you’re on site after dark.”
“I live fifty feet from here. I don’t need a shadow.”
“You do until we know more.”
“Who’s going to give up their Christmas? I don’t need anyone.”
“I’ll be here tonight.”
“I don’t need babysitting.”
“Not babysitting. Backup. There is a difference.”
I open my mouth to argue. I stop. He is right. He is also offering help without trying to take my keys. I feel another click in the gears.
“Fine. Backup.”
“Say it again.” A smile tugs at his mouth.
“Don’t push it.” But I’m smiling too, and it feels strange and good to have a smile here—after the shock, after the burn of adrenaline that still hums beneath my skin.
Declan kneels beside the bar, steady and methodical.
He wraps the box back in the tissue without letting his fingers brush the glass.
His movements are careful, almost reverent.
He pulls a pair of fresh gloves from his pocket—because of course he has those—and slides them on with quiet precision.
The sound of the tape peeling free is sharp in the hush of the room.
He seals the corners with blue painter’s tape, neat lines that look oddly gentle after everything.
He sets the box behind the bar, far from the tree, then straightens. “You okay?”
I swallow hard and nod once. “No. But I’m upright.”
“Wry humor would help right now.”
“You first.”
He tips his head toward the glass tree, the lights still flickering softly across the floor. “If our mystery sender wanted to ruin our day, they could have mailed glitter.”
The image hits before I can stop it. I snort, one hand covering my mouth. “That would be war.”
“See?” he says, grinning, a little relief sneaking through. “Humor heals.”
“Don’t get corny.”
“Never.”
The air shifts again, lighter now, though the unease still coils at the edges. Then footsteps sound in the hall—quick, decisive. Sadie appears in the doorway, pale but steady, and takes one look at our faces.
“Bad,” she says quietly.
“Message in a box,” I answer. My voice is steadier than I feel.
She exhales, squares her shoulders, and holds up her hands. “Tell me where you want me.”
“Veranda with the heat lamps on high,” I say. “We’re moving first pour outside. Sign goes on the railing. We keep this room closed until the police clear it.”
Sadie nods once, all business. “I’ll get the team.”
When she disappears down the hall, Declan looks over at me, one brow raised. “Your plan moves fast.”
“I don’t like standing still.”
“I noticed.” His tone is half teasing, half admiration.
I grab the donation sign and the staple gun from the bar, the weight solid in my hand. He picks up the ladder, balancing it easily on his shoulder.
“What about your cup of mulled wine?” he asks.
“We’ll drink it when the police leave.”
He glances at me, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m holding you to that.”
“Good.”
We step into the corridor. The cooler air hits my face and steadies me, clearing the tightness in my chest. Around us, staff move quickly, their voices low but focused.
Elise claps her hands once, sharp and sure, sending everyone into motion.
Gas heaters hiss to life outside, their flames flickering through the glass doors.
I pause at the threshold of the veranda, watching the team adjust tables and reset glasses. The wind carries the faint scent of cinnamon and cloves from the mulled wine station. Beyond the railing, rows of vines stretch into the gray light, bare but strong, the earth beneath them dark and rich.
Declan stands beside me, silent for once.
This place is my heart. This day is mine to protect. I won’t let a burned ornament—or whoever sent it—take that from me.
Declan sets the ladder by the railing, the metal legs clinking softly against the deck. I lift the sign, my fingers brushing cold steel, and together we hang it—quick and clean, no wasted motion.
Guests start to trickle up the path, couples bundled in bright scarves, friends carrying lists for the charity drive.
Their laughter floats through the cold, a reminder that the world outside this bubble still turns.
I put on my welcome voice, the one that sounds warm even when my chest is tight, and keep my hands moving—adjusting ribbons, straightening the donation bin.
Declan stands close, not looming, just steady, a quiet shadow beside me.
“The police say fifteen minutes,” he murmurs, voice pitched low enough for only me.
“Plenty of time,” I answer, eyes still on the sign. “We can brief them outside.”
“You don’t want him near the tree?”
“I don’t want anyone in there until he says we can.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but he only nods.