Chapter 1 Saffron #2
We could easily ask for two hundred dollars a bottle.
Maybe more at the right auction. Fifteen hundred bottles at two hundred dollars each was three hundred thousand dollars.
Even if we split it fifty-fifty with the Avilas for their grapes and resources, that was a hundred and fifty thousand for us.
What if we could get four hundred dollars a bottle? Six hundred? Even conservatively, split with the Avilas, we might clear enough to at least buy time. Maybe push the foreclosure back. Maybe convince the bank we had a plan.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t guaranteed. But it was something. The only something I had.
My cell phone buzzed. Three nights to showtime. You know the drill. You with me again this year?
The text was from Salazar Avila, who everyone called Snapper. Showtime referred to the bachelor auction, a fundraising event held every year at the Wicked Winemakers’ Ball—a post-harvest celebration that raised millions for the local Children’s Hospital.
“The drill” was an arrangement we’d first made five years ago and every October since.
I’d bid, he’d pay, and Isabel Van Orr, who’d been chasing the second-youngest of the six Avila brothers since high school, would be outbid for the fifth time, saving Snapper from having to outmaneuver her relentless pursuit for another three-hundred-and-sixty-five days.
What did I get for my trouble? A favor. One I’d never collected.
This year, I knew exactly what I needed.
Multiple things, actually. His family’s grapes.
Their winery space. Their equipment. Help finding Concepción’s half of the formula.
And somehow, I had to convince him and his family to partner with me on this without telling my father why.
At least not until we had wine ready to sell.
Three nights later, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, trying to make my hands stop shaking long enough to apply mascara.
The black dress I’d worn to the last four auctions hung perfectly, as it always did.
Classic lines, expensive fabric from back when we could afford such things, the kind of dress that would never go out of style because it had never really been fashionable.
It was appropriate. Respectable. Forgettable.
Perfect for someone who didn’t want to draw attention.
My phone buzzed with a text from my sister, Felicity. Wagner surprised me, and we’re on our way from Napa. See you soon, pumpkin.
Pumpkin. She’d given me the nickname when I was twelve and about as round as the orange winter squash. I hated it as much now as I did then.
Felicity had married Wagner Staglin—whose family owned one of the most successful wineries in the valley—five years ago.
As a wedding gift from his parents, they were given prime vineyard property and the seed money to start releasing their own vintages.
Given the name recognition, their “boutique” operation, which was bigger than ours and our neighbors combined, brought in enough money that my sister could quit her job as a bank teller and become a stay-at-home mom to their son, born exactly nine months after their wedding, and their daughter, who could arrive any minute now.
Including at the ball. I smacked my forehead, wondering what Wagner had been thinking with the surprise.
He could’ve flown her down rather than drive.
My phone buzzed again. Meet you at Sterling in twenty. You ready for this? Don’t forget, I owe you one. –S
For five years, I’d sent back some variation of “ready when you are” or “let’s get it done.” Tonight, though, would be different, and I couldn’t go into it without telling him so.
Forewarning you, I’m collecting this year.
The typing dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Wait, seriously? I mean, GOOD! It’s about time. So, what’s the favor?
Tell you after.
You got it. Whatever you need, Saffron. You know that.
Whatever I needed. But would he feel that way when he learned what I was really asking? When he discovered I needed his family’s grapes, their winery, their expertise, and approximately six weeks of intensive collaboration to make a wine that might not even work?
I grabbed my keys and headed for my truck, the journal safe in my purse. The drive to Sterling Creek Winery took ten minutes through hills covered in autumn colors. Every winery I passed was closed early. The ball was the area’s biggest charity event of the year, and everyone would be there.
Sterling Creek had been magically transformed with thousands of tiny lights creating a canopy of stars over the entrance, and paper lanterns in burgundy and gold lined the pathways. The barrel room, which could hold five hundred people, was already three-quarters full when I arrived.
“Saffron!” My mother stood near the bar, wearing a navy dress and her mother’s pearls, looking every inch the winery matriarch she’d become. Beside her, Dad wore his best suit—the charcoal one he’d had for a decade but kept in perfect condition.
No one looking at them would guess we were ninety days from disaster.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” Mom said, kissing my cheek.
“Same dress as always,” I said, mentioning it before she could.
“Classic never goes out of style.” Dad’s hand rested on my shoulder, warm and steady. “The auction should be entertaining tonight. I heard half of this year’s bachelors are fresh out of the vineyard.”
I laughed. “With four of Alex’s brothers married, along with an equal number of their best friends, I’m sure she struggled to get volunteers.
” Alex—Alexis—was Snapper’s older sister.
She’d married Maddox Butler, another Central Coast rock star winemaker, a few years ago.
They had two kids now, she ran the business side of Demetria, their winery, and still owned half of a wine bar in downtown Cambria, yet year after year, she executed this event flawlessly as if she had nothing to do but devote all her attention to it.
I made small talk with my parents while the room continued to fill.
I saw the Avila contingent at their usual table near the front—the five oldest siblings plus their spouses, with their mother Lucia presiding like a benevolent queen.
Snapper and his younger brother, Rascon—who everyone called Kick—walked in a few minutes ago but had been waylaid by those seated at every table they passed.
When Snapper looked in my direction, I held up my hand and waved.
Even from across the room, the man drew attention.
Six-foot-three, shoulders that came from years of ranch work and rodeo, an easy smile that made everyone feel included, and the deepest, darkest, most gorgeous eyes I’d ever stared into.
Not that I allowed myself to very often.
Snapper and I were friends. That’s all we’d ever been or would be, regardless of how he took my breath away and made desire course through my body in a way no other man ever had.
“Felicity!” I heard my mother call out. “You made it.”
“When we left the house four hours ago, this sounded like a fabulous idea. Now, I just want a nap.” She rubbed her protruding belly and looked around the room.
“Isabel’s here,” Felicity murmured.
Isabel Van Orr stood near the Avila table, no doubt waiting for Snapper to join his family.
The red gown she wore had to have required a team to get her into.
Her blonde hair fell in waves that belonged in a shampoo commercial, and diamonds dripped from her ears and throat.
She was watching Snapper with the intensity of a cat stalking a bird.
“Same as every year,” I said.
“And like before, you’ll rescue him.” Felicity’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “When are you going to make him actually take you on one of the fabulous date he plans?”
“He plans it knowing he’ll never have to deliver. Plus, we’re friends. He hates dealing with Isabel. I help him out.”
“Right. And he just happens to text you to remind you of your deal.”
Before I could reply, Alex Avila-Butler took the stage. She commanded attention in a silver gown that caught the lights like moonlight on water.
“Hello, everyone, and welcome to the twentieth annual Wicked Winemakers’ Ball.
We’ll begin dinner service in about thirty minutes to give you all time to check out this year’s silent auction.
Every year, our generous donors truly outdo themselves, and we’re so appreciative of them.
Please join me in giving them our thanks. ”
The room erupted in applause, and Alex left the stage.
“The items offered this year are incredible,” my sister’s husband said, joining us at the table and flipping through the glossy catalog each guest had been given when we arrived. “That ten-year vertical of Opus One might go for thirty grand.”
“At least,” my sister agreed as Wagner kissed my mom’s cheek, shook my father’s hand, then waved in my direction before taking his seat.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I heard someone say from behind me at the same moment I felt warm breath against my ear. “You smell amazing,” Snapper whispered. “New perfume?”
I glanced over my shoulder and rolled my eyes. “Same shampoo as always, just like the dress I’m wearing.”
“As pretty as you are, I guarantee no one’s looking at your dress, Saff.”
“Be polite and say hello to my sister’s family,” Felicity scolded.
Like Wagner had, Snapper greeted my parents, then waved in Felicity’s direction.
If my brother-in-law hadn’t stood to shake Snapper’s hand, it’s likely he would’ve ignored him.
Not that Snapper was rude. He was just oblivious at times.
A trait that served me well, since it meant he never picked up on the crush I’d had on him most of my life.
“Ma sent me to check out the auction items. Save me a dance after the bidding’s over?”
“You know it,” I said as he was walking away. He said it every year, and we’d never once danced.