Prologue #2
“Only me. But she thought I was too busy working the harvest to give her the attention she deserved.” Devon took a draw of his whiskey, studying her profile.
Even disheveled and drunk, Emery Tate was strikingly gorgeous, not to mention the most intelligent person in the room.
She'd been that way in high school, too—the smart girl who sat in the back of AP classes and made teachers rethink their lesson plans.
“Everyone noticed Hilary Letchworth. Even I noticed her and big freaking boobies.” Emery waved her drink, her pinky sticking out slightly as a bit of the dark liquid sloshed over the rim.
“And then there’s Callie Callaway.” Emery lowered a shoulder, and then her chin, as if that hid the fact that she was glaring at Callie.
“Her breasts are way too big for her frame—although hers are fake—but I think you’d know a little something about that.
I always thought she was too young for you. ”
“I’m never going to live that one down.” He sighed.
Callie was five years younger, so not a big stretch.
However, when he first dated her, she was nineteen and he was twenty-four.
His father had been furious. Probably less about the age, more about her last name.
The relationship lasted all of four months.
“At least I didn’t marry her like Bryson did with Monica.
” But of course, Devon, being Devon, he’d done what he’d always done, and he and Callie had gone back for round two about a year ago.
No one knew. At least, not while they were—whatever they were doing—because it wasn’t a relationship.
It had lasted for six months, but they hadn’t been exclusive.
Only, Callie had gotten jealous. Really jealous. Threw him for a loop. He’d never expected her to go all Fatal Attraction on him, but she’d come close.
She’d eventually calmed down, and now things were… normal-ish. For them.
“Yeah, that wasn’t the brightest move on your brother’s part.”
“Nope, it wasn’t,” Devon said. “And he’s the smart one, like you.”
She glanced at him sideways. “I don’t know about that.” She gestured vaguely at the bar around them. "Smart enough to spot forgeries but apparently too stupid to realize my mentor was setting me up to take the fall for something I didn’t do, and I have no idea why.”
Something twisted in his chest at the defeat in her voice. “Did you talk to Harold after the auction?
"There wasn’t anything to say. I spent the last two years building cases against suspected forgeries, researching the history of vintage wines, and preparing them for auction.
I was good at my job. I can’t explain what happened, and Harold didn’t give me a chance even to try.
” She shrugged. “Instead… well, you saw what he did—and he had my authentication documents right there in his hands for everyone to see. There’s nothing I can do. ”
“You said he set you up. If you get the paperwork and it shows that something’s off, it’ll exonerate you.”
“My signature. My stamp. His word against mine.” Her shoulders slumped forward. “Those bottles were fakes. I got a good look at them while he was humiliating me. It wasn’t easy to see it, but they were swapped with the originals.”
“What about the authentication paperwork?”
“Didn’t get a good look at that because Harold’s hands were flapping about like a bird learning how to take flight. But it doesn’t matter. They’ll be filed, and it’s cause to fire me on the spot.”
The bartender refilled her glass without being asked, and Devon frowned. "How many of those have you had?"
"Not nearly enough." Emery raised the fresh drink in a mock toast. "Here's to the beginning of a distinguished career going up in flames before it ever really got off the ground.”
"Here's to new beginnings," Devon countered, clinking his glass against hers before she could drink. “The best is yet to come.”
That earned him a genuine smile, the first he'd seen from her all evening. "You always were too nice for your own good."
"Was I? I don't remember us talking much in high school. And you’ve been avoiding me since you spent the night.”
"Maybe, but we both know I’ve always noticed you.
” The admission slipped out with the casual honesty of someone several drinks past her usual filter.
"You were different from the other kids.
Quieter. More..." she waved her hand, searching for the word, ".
..substantial." She leaned closer. “And sexier.”
Devon felt heat creep up his neck. "Did Emery Tate just admit to having a crush on me?"
"Past tense," she said quickly, though her cheeks flushed pink. "Very past tense. Ancient history."
“Ah, yes, a month ago is ancient history," he agreed. "So, what's next for you? Besides drinking the bar out of top-shelf whiskey?"
Emery's expression darkened. "Honestly? I have no idea. Harold will make sure I'm blacklisted from every major auction house on the West Coast. I’m living in an Airbnb, and my savings account is looking about as promising as my career prospects."
"There are other places to work in wine."
“We both know my reputation is ruined. Word travels fast in this industry. But you already know that.” She took another long sip.
“I left the art history world two years ago and reinvented myself. Now, at thirty-four years old, I’m starting over.
Again. My mother always said I should have been a teacher like my sister. "
"Your mother clearly doesn't know you very well."
“We slept together once, and you think you know me?”
"I know you spent senior year writing a paper on terroir that made our agriculture teacher rethink everything he knew about soil composition.
I know you got into Stanford on a full scholarship and graduated summa cum laude with a degree in art history and chemistry.
And I know you turned down three job offers from major museums to work in wine authentication because you wanted to combine art and science in a way that mattered. "
She stared at him with parted lips and wide eyes. "How do you possibly know all that?"
"Small town. I’ve heard things."
"People talk, or Devon Boone paid attention to something other than ESPN?”
"Maybe both." He met her gaze steadily. "The point is, you're brilliant at what you do. Harold is a snake who threw you under the bus to save his own skin. That doesn't erase everything you've accomplished."
Emery was quiet for a long moment, swirling the liquid in her glass.
"You know what the worst part is? I actually loved that job.
Every morning, I got to touch history. Hold bottles that were crafted by people who died over a hundred years ago.
Authenticate pieces of liquid art." Her voice cracked slightly.
"And now, every time I look at a wine label, all I'll think about is fraud and forgery and failure. "
"That's the alcohol talking."
"No, that's reality tumbling from my lips. The alcohol is just making me honest about it."
Devon watched her drain her glass and signal for another. She was well past tipsy and heading toward genuinely drunk, but underneath the alcohol was real pain. The kind that went deeper than professional embarrassment.
"Come on," he said, standing and dropping money on the bar. "Let's get you some air."
"I'm fine right here."
"You're drunk, it's getting late, and I'm not leaving you alone in a dive bar to make decisions you'll regret tomorrow."
"Who says I'll regret them?"
"The same smart woman who just told me she's lost everything she cared about. That woman deserves better than waking up in a strange place with no memory of how she got there."
Emery looked up at him, and for a moment her defenses dropped completely. She looked young, lost, and scared. "Why do you care what happens to me?"
The question hit him harder than it should have. "Because someone should. And because watching Harold humiliate you in front of that crowd made me want to punch something."
"My hero," she said, but there was warmth in her voice rather than sarcasm.
"Your designated driver," he corrected. “Let’s get you home.”
“This place I’m renting is ridiculous. I thought if I went with expensive, I’d be telling the universe I was successful and that would force everything to fall into place.” She fumbled in her purse for a key. "Last night of luxury before I start shopping for cardboard boxes."
Devon helped her off the barstool, steadying her when she swayed. “Lots of places to rent in this town. Lots of job prospects, too.”
“You really are too chipper.”
The walk to her Airbnb took twenty minutes, with Devon keeping a careful hand on her elbow as she navigated the sidewalk in heels that had clearly been chosen for standing, not walking.
She kept up a steady stream of chatter—about wine, about Harold's terrible toupee, about how she'd always imagined her life turning out differently.
"You know what I thought I'd be doing at thirty-four?” she asked as he took her key. "Married to some respectable museum curator with a house in the suburbs and maybe a kid or two. Very predictable. Very safe."
"Sounds boring."
"Boring sounds pretty good right now." She leaned against the wall. "What about you? What do you want?”
“Exactly what I’m doing.” Devon hit the button for the fifth floor. "Working with my family, making wine, trying not to screw up the legacy."
"The good son."
“That would be Bryson—even when he married what’s her name and then divorced her. I’m the careful son. There's a difference."
Her one-bedroom condo was elegant, with all cream colors, soft lighting, and furniture that cost more than most people's cars.
"Well," Emery said, turning to face him in the doorway. "This is me. Thank you for the escort service and the pep talk. Even if I don't believe a word of it."
"Get some sleep. Things will look different in the morning."
"Will they? Will Harold suddenly not be a lying snake? Will my career magically resurrect itself? Will—"