Chapter 2
Charlie
Gran has turned our dining room into a battlefield, and she's winning.
I come through the back door in dusty boots and a sweat-soaked shirt, reeking like I spent the day with a temperamental stallion who decided to challenge me at every step.
The house smells like rosemary and slow-roasted beef tenderloin, which means Chef Delany has been in the kitchen since noon, and I'm already calculating how long until I can eat.
That thought dies the second I spot the dining room.
Oscar directs two staff members between the kitchen and the long table with military precision, one adjusting place settings while the other positions the candlesticks.
Gran's wearing her pearls tonight, which means she considers this a serious occasion.
The table has been set for what looks like a state dinner, with the good china and crystal wine glasses that catch the light from the chandelier.
"Charles." Gran's voice stops me mid-stride. She glances up from the papers she's shuffling and her eyes narrow. "Please tell me you are not planning to greet my guests like that."
"Your guests aren't here yet."
"They will be in ninety minutes, and you look like you've been wrestling livestock." She waves a hand toward the hallway. "Go shower."
I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms. "You know, Gran, around here a dinner party usually means brisket, a few beers, and paper plates."
"I haven't been hosting dinner parties for fifty years to serve barbeque on paper plates, Charles.
" She rises from her chair and moves a place card from one side of the table to the other with deliberate precision, and the strategic placement of every card says she's been plotting seating for days.
"I hope you're planning to wear the blue shirt I recommended. "
"It's a dinner party. Not a cotillion."
"Go." She points toward the stairs without looking up. "And might I suggest the liberal use of soap."
I head for the stairs, passing Oscar, who's returning from the kitchen. He doesn't say a thing, but the faintest twitch crosses his mustache.
"Don't start," I mutter.
"I wouldn't dream of it, Master Charlie."
I take the stairs two at a time and hit the shower, letting the hot water rinse away the grime and the knots in my shoulders. By the time I'm dressed and back downstairs, the wines from Willow Sage are breathing on the sideboard, the bottles arranged perfectly.
Gran calls it a neighborly gathering. The guest list says otherwise.
Rachel and Mason will be here. As well as Charlotte Faulkner, the real estate agent who sold us Twin Oaks.
Beau Hartman from Whispering Oaks. Lila Bennett from the bookshop.
Isabelle and Diego Navarro from the winery.
Those are the names I've heard, anyway. Though the table has one more place setting than the number of guests on that list.
The first headlights sweep up the drive as Gran intercepts me. She gives my shirt a critical once-over and straightens my collar without asking permission.
"That's much better." She pats my chest. "Now, go be charming, dear."
"I'm always charming."
"You're usually adequate. Tonight, I need exceptional." She nudges me toward the front door. "Go."
The Texas dusk settles over Twin Oaks like a warm hand, porch lights already glowing—Oscar handles these things before anyone thinks to ask. The air carries the sweet scent of wildflowers and dry grass.
Beau Hartman's truck rolls up first, with Charlotte Faulkner's sedan right behind, followed by Lila Bennett in a little blue hatchback that looks like it barely survived the driveway. I meet them on the porch, shaking hands and accepting their gifts of wine.
"Charlie, this house is even more gorgeous than when you bought it." Charlotte gives me a hug and steps inside, her eyes sweeping the entry with the professional appreciation of someone who knows exactly what the renovation cost. "Your grandmother has done incredible things with it."
"Don't tell her that. She'll start construction on a guest wing next."
Charlotte laughs and moves toward the dining room where Gran is already holding court.
Beau claps me on the shoulder as he passes. "Smells like your chef knows what he's doing. I might have to steal him."
"Try it and Gran will have you arrested. She guards Chef Delany more zealously than the family silver."
"Can't blame a man for trying." Beau grins and heads for the sideboard where Oscar has set out drinks.
Rachel and Mason pull up a few minutes later. Mason comes around the truck without a word and offers his hand. Rachel takes it, lets him steady her, then immediately rolls her eyes like he’s being ridiculous. By the time they reach the porch, her hand has slid back to his arm like it belongs there.
"If you ask me how I'm feeling, I will hurt you," she growls at me as she reaches the top step.
"Wouldn't dare."
"Good." She kisses my cheek and sweeps past me into the house, where Gran immediately pulls her into a conversation with Lila.
Diego and Isabelle arrive together, and I recognize Diego's easy stride as he comes up the walk. Isabelle is a few steps ahead of her brother, dark-haired and sharp-eyed. She shakes my hand with a grip that would put most ranchers to shame.
"Thank you for having us," Isabelle says. "Your grandmother is very persuasive."
I chuckle. "That's one word for it."
"Diego's word was 'terrifying.'" Isabelle smiles, and the sharpness in her expression softens just enough to reveal a warmth she keeps well guarded. "But in the most delightful way."
"She's had a lifetime of practice. I'm still not immune."
Diego nods as he shakes my hand. "Your grandmother speaks highly of what you're building out here."
"She's our biggest champion," I say. "Has been since day one."
Diego grins, and he and Isabelle head inside to join the others. The living room is filling up now, conversations layering over each other. Oscar circulates with glasses of wine, and Gran presides from her chair like a woman who engineered every detail.
I figure that's everyone and I'm about to head inside when another set of headlights sweeps across the front windows. A familiar old truck rolls to a stop behind Mason's rig. The driver's door opens, and Sunny Reese steps out in a yellow sundress that stops me where I stand.
It's not fancy and probably something that took her only thirty seconds to decide on.
But it's a far cry from the wine-stained t-shirt and khakis I'm used to. The fabric catches the light from the porch lamps, and for a moment I forget why I’m standing here.
Her hair is down tonight, falling past her shoulders in loose waves and she's carrying a bottle of wine in one hand like a shield.
Now I know why Gran guarded the guest list like classified information. If I'd seen Sunny's name on it, I would have told Gran to back off and let me handle my own love life, and she knew it. That extra place setting makes a whole lot more sense now too.
Sunny spots me on the porch and stops mid-stride. For a beat, neither of us moves.
"You look like you've been standing there waiting for someone," she finally says.
"I've been greeting guests. You happen to be the last one."
"I'm fashionably late." Her eyes crinkle with the smile she's trying not to give me. "Or I changed my outfit three times and will deny that under oath."
"I won't tell a soul."
She climbs the porch steps and holds out the wine bottle. "This is from Isabelle's private reserve. She said your grandmother would like it."
I take the bottle, and our fingers brush against the glass. The contact is brief, but the warmth of it lingers past my wrist. "She'll appreciate it even more knowing you brought it."
"Your grandmother is a very hard woman to say no to.
" Sunny stands on the top step, close enough that I catch a hint of her perfume, something light, maybe rose, and she studies me with those blue eyes that never seem to miss a detail.
"She called the winery three times to make sure I was coming.
By the third call, Isabelle just handed me the phone and said, 'Deal with her yourself. '"
I snort. "That sounds about right. For what it's worth, she didn't tell me you were on the guest list."
"Is that so?" One side of her mouth curves upward. "And here I thought you were posted at the door like a sentry just for me."
"It was purely coincidental."
"Mm-hmm." Her gaze travels from my boots to my collar, and the slow assessment sends heat up the back of my neck. "You clean up well, Hayden. That blue is a good color on you."
I blink several times. "Was that a compliment?"
"It was only an observation. Don't let it go to your head." She steps past me through the doorway, and I catch the full version of that smile before she turns toward the sound of voices.
Gran spots Sunny before I can make introductions that nobody needs. My grandmother rises from her chair and crosses the room with a speed that contradicts her eighty-two years, arms already open.
"You must be Sunny. I was beginning to worry you'd changed your mind." Gran takes both of Sunny's hands in hers, beaming as if she'd been waiting all evening for this particular guest. "I'm Eleanor Hayden, Charles's grandmother. He speaks so highly of you."
Sunny looks briefly startled by the warmth of the greeting. Her gaze flicks to mine over Gran's shoulder, one eyebrow raised. I shrug and try to look innocent.
"It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Mrs. Hayden," Sunny says, recovering with practiced grace. "Thank you for the invitation."
"Call me Gran, please. Mrs. Hayden was my mother-in-law, and she was dreadful.
" Gran tucks Sunny's arm through hers and steers her toward the sideboard.
"Now come, I want your professional opinion on whether Oscar has the wines breathing properly.
He insists he knows what he's doing, but I'd feel better with an expert's eye. "