Prologue #3
Devon stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume underneath the whiskey. "Will you still be the smartest, most capable woman I've ever met? Yeah. That part doesn't change."
Something shifted in her expression. The brittle humor faded, replaced by something vulnerable and raw. "Don't look at me like that." She took a few steps backward, into the kitchen.
He followed. "Like what?"
"Like you believe what you're saying."
They stood there in the doorway between her kitchen and bedroom, the space between them charged with possibility. Devon could see the exact moment she made her decision, could see her defenses crumble completely.
"Stay," she whispered.
Every instinct told him to walk away. She was drunk, devastated, and not thinking clearly. But the word hung between them like a plea, and he found himself stepping into the room instead of backing away. "Emery—"
“Don’t get all noble now. I know I'm being pathetic, and this is a terrible idea. But it’s not like we haven’t done this dance before.
” She kicked off her heels and sank onto the edge of the bed.
"I don't want to be alone tonight. I don't want to lie here and think about how I’ve thoroughly destroyed my life. "
Devon closed the door behind him and leaned against it. "You haven't destroyed anything. You've had a setback."
"A setback." She laughed, but there were tears in her eyes now. "My mentor betrayed me, my reputation is ruined, and I have nowhere to go. But sure, let's call it a setback."
He moved to sit beside her on the bed, keeping a careful distance between them. “Stone Bridge is your home.”
“I can’t stay here after what happened. I could move in with my sister. She’s in Portland with her husband and kids. Or go back to Arizona with my parents.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “But no way in hell could I stay here.”
The words hit Devon like a physical blow. He'd never not had a home, never questioned where he belonged or whether there was a place for him in the world. His family's land was in his blood.
“There’s so much opportunity in Stone Bridge," he heard himself say.
Emery looked at him like he'd suggested she sprout wings and fly. "And do what? Pour wine at the local tasting room? Teach high school chemistry?"
"You could work for us."
The words surprised them both. Devon hadn't planned to say them, but now that they were out there, they felt right.
"Work for Stone Bridge Winery? Doing what?"
"I don't know yet. But we're expanding, looking for people who understand wine from different angles. Someone with your background in authentication and provenance..." He trailed off, studying her face. "This isn't pity. This is recognizing talent when I see it."
Emery swayed slightly, exhaustion and alcohol seemingly catching up with her. "I can't think about any of this right now. My brain feels like it's swimming through molasses."
"Then don't think. Just sleep." Devon stood and pulled back the covers on the bed. "Come on."
She looked up at him with glassy eyes. "You're really going to stay?"
"Yes, but you're going to sleep, and I'm going to make sure you don't do anything you'll regret in the morning."
"Like what?"
"Like calling Harold and telling him exactly what you think of him. Or booking a flight to somewhere with no extradition treaties." He helped her stand and guided her toward the bathroom. "Go change. I'll be right here."
When she emerged fifteen minutes later in pajamas, her makeup scrubbed off and her hair in a messy bun, she looked younger and more vulnerable than ever.
Devon had turned down the lights and was sitting in the armchair by the window, having put as much distance between himself and the bed as the room allowed.
"You don't have to sleep in the chair," she said softly, climbing under the covers.
"Yes, I do."
She was quiet for a moment, then, "Devon?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For tonight. For not letting me drink myself into oblivion alone."
"Anyone would have done the same thing."
"No," she said, her voice already thick with approaching sleep. "They really wouldn't have."
Devon watched as her breathing evened out, watched the tension finally leave her face as she drifted off.
Only then did he allow himself to really look at her—the curve of her cheek against the pillow, the way her dark hair spilled across the white sheets, the peaceful expression that replaced the devastation he'd seen earlier.
He settled back in the chair, knowing he wouldn't sleep much. But that was fine. Someone needed to make sure she was okay, and apparently, that someone was him.
When morning came, things would be different. Clearer. But tonight, he'd keep watch over the most intelligent woman he'd ever known and try not to think about how right it felt to be the one she'd asked to stay.
Consciousness crept in slowly, accompanied by the kind of headache that felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to her skull.
Emery kept her eyes closed, afraid that opening them would make the pounding worse, and tried to piece together the previous night through the fog of whiskey and humiliation.
The auction house. Harold's betrayal. The bar afterward, where she'd apparently decided that drowning her sorrows was a viable life strategy. And then...
Her eyes snapped open.
Devon was asleep in the armchair by the window, his long frame folded awkwardly into a space clearly not designed for someone his size. His dark hair was mussed, his button-down shirt wrinkled, and there was something endearingly vulnerable about the way he'd managed to fall asleep sitting up.
What the hell had happened last night?
Emery sat up carefully, but that didn’t stop her head from spinning.
She remembered Devon appearing at the bar like a guardian angel.
Remembered walking back to her Airbnb with his steadying hand on her elbow.
And she definitely remembered asking him to stay.
However, the specifics of that conversation were frustratingly hazy.
Had she thrown herself at him? Please God, she hoped she hadn't thrown herself at him—again. The last thing she needed was to get tangled up with Devon. He was a nice enough man. Maybe too nice, and that meant trouble. She knew that to be a fact. While she wouldn’t label him a player, he wasn’t the kind of man who had future husband tattooed anywhere on his body.
His reputation for breaking hearts had kept her from pursuing him for the last two years.
That was until last month when she’d found herself strolling past his tasting room and decided to go in for a glass. One turned into two, and the next thing she knew, she’d spent the night at his house down the street.
She looked down at herself—at least she had on pajamas, which was something. But the fact that Devon was still here, that he'd apparently spent the night watching over her...
"Oh God," she whispered, burying her face in her hands. The last time she’d been with Devon hadn’t been under such dire circumstances, but alcohol had been involved.
"You're awake." Devon's voice was rough with sleep, and when she looked up, he was stretching in the chair, obviously working out the kinks caused by his improvised bed.
"Please tell me I didn't make a complete fool of myself last night," she said.
“You were hurting.” He stood, rolling his shoulders. “You needed someone to make sure you were okay. End of story."
She studied his face, looking for any sign that he was lying or sparing her feelings. But Devon had always been direct, even in high school. If she'd done something mortifying, he'd tell her.
"I'm sorry," she said finally. "For putting you in that position. For making you sleep in a chair. For whatever I said that convinced you to babysit a drunk stranger."
“Stranger? We’ve known each other since grade school.” Devon moved to sit on the edge of the bed, seemingly keeping a careful distance between them. "And you don't need to apologize. You had a shit night.”
The memories of yesterday came flooding back—Harold's public humiliation, the whispers of the auction crowd, the devastating realization that her career was over. In the harsh light of morning, with a splitting headache and the taste of lies in her mouth, it all felt even worse.
"God, what am I going to do?" The words slipped out before she could stop them. "I can't stay in Stone Bridge. I can't face my colleagues or anyone who witnessed that disaster.”
“Yeah, well.” He pulled out his cell. “Unfortunately, that disaster has found its way to social media.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Wonderful. I’m an internet joke and I'm apparently unemployable in the only field I have any real passion for and I don’t want to go back to the museum in San Fransico with my tail between my legs.”
“You don’t have to. There are so many options for you in this industry right here in Stone Bridge. Or anywhere in Napa.”
“Who the hell is going to hire someone with that kind of reputation? Especially when…” she snagged his cell. “Jesus. That’s way too many views. I’m so screwed. I’ll never recover from this.”
He leaned forward slightly. "I meant what I said last night about the job opportunity."
Emery stared at him, her pulse rattling in her throat. “I’m pretty fuzzy about the details of that.”
“Good thing I was sober and remember it exactly.”
"I appreciate the gesture, but—"
"It's not a gesture. It's business. And this is an opportunity.” His tone sharpened slightly. “What happened doesn't change your qualifications or your expertise."
"My expertise in spotting forgeries? In authenticating and developing a creation story for a historical vintage? The same expertise that apparently collapsed when I failed to catch massive fraud, and… never mind.”
"Your expertise in wine history, chemical analysis, provenance research, and market evaluation would be assets to our business development team.”
Emery felt something flutter in her chest—hope, maybe, or just the desperate desire to believe that her life wasn't entirely over. "What kind of position are you talking about?"
“I can’t make any promises. It’s not solely up to me.
I need to discuss it with my family—figure out where you’d fit best in our expansion program.
There’d be an application process, interviews, and if hired, the job wouldn’t start right away.
But..." He reached out and covered her hand with his.
"You're talented and smart and capable. One bad day doesn't erase that. "
The touch of his hand sent warmth shooting up her arm, and suddenly she was very aware that they were sitting on a bed together, that he'd spent the night taking care of her, that the morning light was making his dark eyes look almost golden.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked softly.
"Because I believe you’d be an asset to our vineyard.”
"Is that the only reason?"
The question hung between them, loaded with possibility. Devon's thumb traced across her knuckles.
"No," he said quietly. "It's not. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I wanted to kiss you last night, but it wouldn’t have been right. Not to mention you wouldn’t have even remembered it considering how drunk you were.”
The admission shifted something fundamental in the space between them. The careful distance he'd maintained, the professional tone, the protective barriers—all of it crumbled as they looked at each other in the soft morning light.
He leaned closer, his free hand coming up to cup her cheek. “You’re a beautiful woman. The last time, we established that I’ve had a crush on you for years. I’ve followed your career because… You interest me.”
“Not to sound cliché, but you had me at beautiful.”
He kissed her then, soft and careful at first, then deeper when she melted into him. Her hands fisted in his wrinkled shirt, pulling him closer, and he gathered her against him like she was a bottle of wine from the Titanic, and he was afraid to spoil the vintage.
They fell back onto the rumpled sheets together, and this time there was no alcohol clouding her judgment, no desperation driving her actions.
Just Devon's hands gentle on her skin, his mouth trailing heat along her throat, and the overwhelming rightness of being exactly where she was supposed to be.