Chapter 1 #3
"I make beautiful spreadsheets," Devon protested.
"I'm sure they're works of art," Emery said, and he caught the hint of humor in her voice that had been missing during her interviews but he knew was part of who she was from the time they’d spent together in private.
Bryson pushed off from Riley's chair and offered his hand to help her up. "We should head out, too. I keep trying to convince this one to move in with me, but she's stubborn."
"I'm not stubborn, I'm cautious," Riley replied, accepting his hand but rolling her eyes. "We're not there yet."
"When will we be there? I'm thinking of making a timeline, maybe some charts..." Bryson glanced toward the sky.
"Charts will definitely change my mind," Riley said, laughing as she swatted his arm. "Come on, walk me home before you start planning our entire future."
“Oh, he’s got a plan,” Devon said with a devilish smile. “One that I’m sure doesn’t include coming home tonight.”
“Not sure he’s slept in his own bed all week.” His mother laughed. “I really wish that the two of you would sometimes stay here.”
“I believe it’s those comments that keep my girlfriend from wanting to move in with me,” Bryson said.
“Or maybe it’s because you haven’t popped the question.” Devon’s father swirled his wine. “You really should make an honest—”
“Enough of that.” Bryson waved his hand over his head.
They said their goodnights, disappearing toward the road, heading into town, their voices fading as they walked. Ashley and Hasley followed suit, offering quick hugs to Emery and promises to get to know each other better tomorrow.
"We'll leave you to get settled," Walter said. "We’re thrilled to have you as part of the family business. I think you're going to love it here."
"Thank you, Mr. Boone. I'm looking forward to getting started."
Devon’s mom enveloped Emery in one of her trademark hugs—the kind that had been known to crack ribs and had definitely cracked emotional barriers. "None of this Mr. and Mrs. business. We're Walter and Brea, and you're family, now."
Devon watched Emery's careful composure slip just slightly. The vulnerability lasted only a moment before she pulled herself together, but it was enough to remind him why he'd been so determined to give her this chance.
"Thank you," Emery said softly. "That means more than you know."
His parents disappeared into the house, leaving Devon and Emery alone by the dying fire. The silence stretched between them, filled with three months of phone calls, carefully neutral emails about job details, and the weight of everything they weren't saying.
"So," Emery said finally, adjusting the strap of her laptop bag. "The guesthouse?"
"Right. Yes." Devon shook himself out of his reverie and gestured toward a path that wound around the side of the main house. "It's just through here."
They walked in silence, their footsteps crunching softly on the gravel path as he pulled her suitcase across the stones.
Solar lights illuminated the way, casting a warm glow over the meticulously maintained landscaping his mother spent hours perfecting.
The guesthouse sat about fifty yards from the main house, nestled among oak trees and connected by a stone walkway that his father had laid himself twenty years ago.
"This is beautiful," Emery said as they approached the small but elegant building. "Your parents really didn't have to—"
"They wanted to. Besides, it makes practical sense. You'll be working side by side with all of us, and this keeps you close enough to be part of things but far enough away to have privacy."
Devon unlocked the front door and flicked on the lights, revealing the space his mother had spent the last month preparing.
The main room combined a living area and kitchen in an open-concept design, with exposed beams, a stone fireplace, and French doors leading to a private patio.
His mother had outdone herself with the decorating—soft blues and greens that echoed the vineyard beyond, comfortable furniture that invited relaxation, and fresh flowers on the dining table.
"Bedroom and bathroom are through there," Devon said, pointing to a hallway. "There's a small office space off the bedroom if you need somewhere quiet to work. Internet is fast, kitchen is fully stocked, and Mom left you a bottle of our best pinot noir as a welcome gift."
Emery set down her bags and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. "This is incredible. I was expecting something more like a studio apartment, not a house that's nicer than anywhere I've ever lived."
"My parents don't do anything halfway."
"Apparently not." She moved to the French doors and peered out at the patio, where string lights created a canopy of stars above the outdoor furniture. "I don't know how I'll ever repay this kindness."
“Just be your brilliant self.”
That earned him a smile—a big one too. “Sometimes you can be sweet.”
The moment felt charged, reminiscent of their night together three months ago. Devon found himself stepping closer, drawn by the way the soft lighting caught the gold flecks in her brown eyes, by the subtle scent of her perfume, by the memory of how she'd felt in his arms.
"Devon." Emery's voice was quiet but firm, and he saw her walls go back up in real time. "We should probably talk about expectations."
"Expectations?"
"Boundaries." She moved away from the doors, putting the kitchen island between them.
"This job means everything to me. It's my chance to rebuild my career and reputation. I spent the last three months at my parents’ house examining my life.
My career. My plan moving forward. I can't afford to complicate things, especially in this town.”
Devon felt something cold settle in his chest. "And being with me would complicate things?”
"Being with anyone would do that. But especially being with my boss.
With someone whose family I'll be working with every day.
" She wrapped her arms around herself, a gesture he recognized as protective.
"I know what we agreed to a month ago when I accepted the position, but I wanted to make sure we're still on the same page. "
They'd had this conversation before, over the phone, when she'd finally agreed to take the job.
She'd been clear then about needing to keep things professional, and he'd agreed because he'd wanted her to feel safe taking the risk.
But hearing it again now, in person, with her standing in the house his parents had prepared for her, like she was already part of the family.
.. and the domesticity of it—her surrounded by his parents' warmth—made every vow he'd made about keeping things professional feel impossible.
They couldn't let it happen again. He knew that.
But God, seeing her like this made him want to forget every reason why.
"Right," he said, keeping his voice neutral.
"It's not that I don't—" She stopped herself, shaking her head. "This is just too important to mess up."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because the way you were looking at me just now..."
"How was I looking at you?"
Emery's cheeks flushed pink. "Like you were remembering things we agreed not to remember."
The way she looked at him when she said it—honest, unflinching—nearly broke him. Because she was right—he had been remembering. The taste of her mouth, the sound of her laugh when he'd made her forget her troubles, the way she'd fit against him like she'd been made for his arms.
"Maybe I was," he admitted. "But you're right. The job has to come first."
"Thank you."
Devon nodded, though understanding and liking it were two very different things. "I should let you get settled. Tomorrow's going to be busy—orientation, meeting with other key players, getting you set up with everything you'll need."
"I'm looking forward to it."
He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. "Emery?"
"Yeah?"
"For what it's worth, I think you're going to be amazing at this. And whatever happened with Pemberton... it doesn't define you."
She was quiet for a moment. "Thank you. For believing in me."
"Everyone deserves a second chance."
"Do they? Because sometimes I wonder if I'm just running from one disaster to the next."
The vulnerability in her voice made him want to cross the room and pull her into his arms, professional boundaries be damned. Instead, he stayed where he was and offered her the only thing he could.
"You're not running," he said quietly. "You're starting over. There's a difference."
Emery's smile was small but real. "I hope you're right."
"I'm always right. Ask anyone in my family—they'll tell you how insufferably correct I am about everything."
That earned him a laugh, and the sound eased some of the tension that had been building between them.
"Goodnight, Devon."
"Goodnight, Emery. Welcome home."
He stepped out into the cool evening air and pulled the door closed behind him then stood for a moment listening to the sounds of her moving around inside. Professional boundaries. He could set professional boundaries.
He just wasn't sure he wanted to.