Chapter 13
Sunny
Tabitha has outdone herself with the tasting room.
She's transformed the space from its usual rustic charm into something polished and professional, with linen-draped tables arranged in a wide arc around the bar, and printed menus describing the wines.
Additional bar tables decorated with votive candles fill in the back, and the afternoon light through the tall windows makes the whole room glow.
Isabelle is at the bar with her clipboard in one hand and phone in the other.
Her dark hair is swept into a low chignon that makes her look every inch the sharp businesswoman she is.
She's been checking the guest list against RSVPs since noon, and the smile she's been fighting all morning finally breaks through as I pass by her.
"We have forty-two confirmed," she says. "Charlie’s attorney, god bless him, came through with twenty-five of those. If even a handful of them sign distribution agreements, we'll replace what Hill Country dropped and then some."
"They'll sign," I tell her, and the confidence in my voice surprises me. Four days ago, the thought of standing in front of a room full of buyers made my palms sweat. I've never been the one who works the room. I belong in the production room with my hands on the barrels.
But the tasting lineup I built is the best work I've done at Willow Sage, and today I plan to prove it. Every selection on that menu was chosen to tell a story about this land and what it can produce, and I've rehearsed the pairings until I could recite them in my sleep.
Tabitha catches my eye and gives me a thumbs-up, her earrings swinging as she arranges the last row of glasses. Charlie and Diego are outside on the terrace, helping a pair of staff members set up overflow seating.
Charlie strolls in, and my mouth goes dry.
The man could stop traffic and not even notice.
He's dressed in dark jeans and a blue polo emblazoned with the winery logo, his boots polished, his dark brown hair combed back from his forehead.
He scans the room, finds me by the bar, and flashes that mega-watt grin, kicking my pulse up a notch.
He crosses over and leans close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. "You look like a woman who's about to conquer a room."
"I look like a woman who's been polishing glasses since seven this morning and forgot to eat lunch." I straighten the last menu card on the station. "But thank you."
"I brought you a granola bar." He produces one from his pocket, and I take it with a laugh.
"You think of everything, Hayden."
"I think of you, Sunshine. The rest follows." He says it easily, and the simplicity of it means more than any grand gesture. "Let’s go into town for dinner after this."
"You mean I don’t have to cook? You’re on, Hayden."
His grin widens. "It’s a plan then." He brushes his knuckles against the back of my hand, light enough that no one else would notice, and heads for the terrace. I watch him go with the granola bar still unopened in my grip.
My smile fades faster than it should, because the moment he's out of sight, Derek's voice from Sunday night replays in my head.
The knot in my chest hasn't loosened since that call.
I still catch myself reaching for my phone to call Evan, then stop myself because I don't know what I'd say.
Evan deserves better than Derek's manipulation, and Derek knows exactly what buying Beaumont Crest does to me. I suspect that's the whole point.
Charlie has been extraordinary. Monday morning, he worked beside me, pulling samples and adjusting the lineup without once steering the conversation toward Derek.
Yesterday he stayed late to walk through the event timeline with Tabitha.
When I finally locked up last night, he was leaning against my truck with takeout from the barbecue place on Main Street because he knew I'd forgotten to eat.
He hasn’t asked me to talk about it, never pushes. He just keeps showing up and doing the next thing that needs doing, and that steadies me more than any conversation ever could.
Finally, guests start arriving and the tasting begins, and I find my rhythm faster than I expect.
The first group gathers at my station, and I pour with the ease that comes from years of knowing exactly what I'm serving and why.
I walk them through the whites first, keeping my language tailored for buyers who care more about what sells than how it's made.
A chain store rep from San Antonio asks about case pricing, and I defer to Isabelle, who appears at my elbow with the numbers before the question is fully formed.
Charlie works the room from the other side, and I catch glimpses of him between pours.
He's in his element, moving through with a charm that never tips into salesmanship, asking questions about their businesses, listening with the same focused attention he brings to everything.
A restaurant owner from Austin laughs at something Charlie says, and I watch the man's posture shift from polite to engaged in the span of thirty seconds.
By the one-hour mark, Isabelle has collected twelve signed letters of intent, and the energy in the room has shifted from cautious interest to genuine enthusiasm.
Diego brings in a second case of the red blend I held for the back half of the tasting, and when I pour it for a buyer from Fredericksburg, the woman closes her eyes on the first sip and opens them with an expression I recognize.
I've seen it on every person who tastes something extraordinary and knows it.
"How soon can you deliver?" she asks, and the question is the sweetest sound I've heard all week.
Tabitha refreshes the stations and circulates with appetizers, and the flow of the event settles into a relaxed hum that tells me we've cleared the largest hurdle.
The wine is doing its job. And the people are doing exactly what Charlie predicted they would, which is recognizing value when it's standing right in front of them.
I'm pouring for a group of three hotel buyers when the front door opens and Derek strides through like he owns the place. My hand jerks, and wine splashes the edge of the glass. I set the bottle down with a loud clink before the tremor in my fingers gives me away.
He's wearing a slate gray suit you'd spot in the high-end shops on Rodeo Drive, every seam tailored to sit exactly where he wants it.
His dark blond hair is styled to within an inch of its life, his nails are buffed, and his cufflinks catch the light when he adjusts his sleeves, which he does twice before he's three steps into the room.
Derek has always spent more time on himself than on anyone else.
His eyes sweep the room with the lazy confidence of a man who's never been told no, and when his gaze lands on me, the smile he produces is the same one I remember from college.
Slick and predatory, the kind that used to make me melt before I understood what it really meant. Now it just makes my skin crawl.
Behind him, another man steps through the door, and my heart lurches sideways.
Evan Reynolds looks exactly the way I remember him, only older.
His silver hair is cropped close, and his deep brown eyes carry a warmth that Derek's never could.
The lines on his face have deepened since I last saw him, but the smile that crosses his face when he spots me hasn't changed.
It's the same one he gave me on my first day at Beaumont Crest, when I showed up twenty minutes early with a notebook full of questions and hands that shook so badly I nearly dropped the first sample he poured me.
"Sunny." Derek's voice booms across the room, cutting through the ambient conversation with his practiced projection. "I told you I'd be in touch."
For a full three seconds, I forget that there are forty-two people in this room. All I can hear is my own breathing, and watch as Derek closes the distance between the door and my table like he has every right to be here.
"Derek." I keep my voice level. "This is a private event."
A hand settles against the small of my back, and I don't have to look to know it's Charlie. He's right there, his chest lined up behind my shoulders, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through my blouse. I nearly shudder with relief and lean into him.
"I'm aware." Derek stops a couple feet away and adjusts his cufflinks.
His gaze flicks to Charlie, then back to my face, and the flash of irritation is so quick that someone who didn't know Derek wouldn't catch it.
"Evan wanted to see the winery, and I wanted to see you. You haven't returned my calls."
"I blocked your number. That's generally a clear message." This time I don't temper my tone.
"You can't ignore me forever, Sunny." His smile doesn't falter. "Especially now that I'm about to close on Beaumont Crest."
Evan steps forward, and the warmth in his expression pushes Derek's smugness into the background. He opens his arms, and I step into the hug before I can think about it. He smells the same, like sandalwood and spice, and the ache that hits me is so sudden I have to blink hard to keep my composure.
"Look at this place, Sunny." Evan's voice is rougher than I remember, lower, but the cadence is the same.
"I've been following your work since you left California.
The reviews, the awards, that white blend you developed last year.
" He shakes his head slowly, his eyes bright.
"You should be proud of what you've built here. Your wines are outstanding."
My eyes sting. Evan Reynolds doesn't give compliments he doesn't mean.
I learned that during my very first week at Beaumont Crest, when he told me my barrel selection was lazy and made me redo it three times.
The fact that he's standing in my tasting room, praising my work, matters in a way that goes deeper than professional validation.