Chapter 2 #3
"Ashley and Hasley ganging up on you is a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone," Bryson agreed. "They're ruthless when they think they're right."
"They’re usually right," Devon pointed out.
"Which makes them even more dangerous—and annoying.” Bryson chuckled.
They stopped outside a heavy wooden door marked with a brass nameplate reading: "Walter Boone, Proprietor.
" Devon knocked once before opening it, revealing an office that was both impressive and welcoming.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two walls, filled with volumes on viticulture, business, and what looked like several decades' worth of wine industry publications.
A large desk dominated the space, but Walter rose from a comfortable seating area by the windows where he'd apparently been reviewing documents.
"There you are," he said, standing to greet them. "I hope you found everything you needed in the guesthouse, Emery."
"It's perfect, thank you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your hospitality."
"Nonsense. You're family now." Walter's smile was warm and genuine. "Now, shall we talk about how we're going to take Stone Bridge Winery to the next level?"
Emery settled into one of the leather chairs arranged around a coffee table, notebook in hand and professional mask firmly in place. This was her chance to prove herself, to show that Devon's faith in her wasn't misplaced.
She just hoped she was ready for whatever Walter had in mind.
The morning sun had climbed higher by the time they left Walter's office, burning off the last wisps of fog that clung to the valley floor.
Emery felt energized despite the information overload from their two-hour planning session.
Walter's vision for Stone Bridge's expansion into premium collectors' markets was ambitious and exciting—exactly the kind of challenge that made her pulse quicken with professional anticipation.
"So," Devon said as they descended the stone steps from the main house. “Honest assessment. How do you think that went?"
"Your father is either a visionary or completely insane."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive in the wine business."
Emery laughed, adjusting her blazer against the warming air.
"I think it went well. The authentication and provenance documentation program he outlined could really set Stone Bridge apart in the premium market.
Building those relationships with high-end collectors and auction houses.
.." She paused, remembering her own painful exit from that world.
"Well, it's exactly the kind of work I used to love doing. "
"Used to?"
"Before Harold made me toxic in those circles." The bitterness crept into her voice despite her best efforts to sound professional. “I worry that my name will make this harder for Stone Bridge Wines—especially with this interview Riley’s set up.”
Devon stopped walking and turned to face her. “You're not toxic. A bad thing happened, and unfortunately, it went viral on social media. But Riley’s plan to introduce you as a member of our team is brilliant.”
"Try telling that to the collectors who won't return my calls." She held up her hand when he opened his mouth in protest. “Before your family offered me this job, I tried to find work. I couldn’t get a single interview.”
“We have established relationships, and you’re working for us.
We’d like to believe that means something.
And we’ll find the right buyers." His conviction was so absolute it almost made her believe it. "That's part of why we hired you—not just for your experience or existing connections, but for your expertise and innovative ideas. This isn’t going to happen overnight. It’s going to take time to get this program off the ground.”
That was if her scandal didn’t destroy everything they wanted to achieve. She really needed to push those kinds of thoughts from her mind. They weren’t constructive. She drew in a deep breath, forcing her attention to the vineyard around them.
They continued down a gravel path that wound between meticulously maintained flower beds toward the heart of the vineyard.
The property stretched out before them in geometric precision—row upon row of vines creating perfect lines that seemed to stretch to the horizon.
The leaves had begun their autumn transformation, shifting from deep green to gold and crimson, creating a patchwork of color that took Emery's breath away.
"This is incredible," she said, stopping to take in the view. "How many acres?"
“One hundred and twenty. However, we only have about seventy-five under vine right now. The rest is environmental balance, along with some olive trees. We’ve done well in the olive oil business, though it’s a very small portion of our overall income.
” Devon pointed toward the hills that rose beyond the vineyard.
"Those hillside blocks get the best sun exposure, so that's where we grow our cabernet, syrah, and pinot.
The valley floor is better for our whites—chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, a little viognier. "
They walked between the rows, and Emery marveled at the meticulous care evident in every detail. The vines were perfectly spaced, the soil tilled to optimal consistency, and the trellising system was so precisely aligned it looked like agricultural art.
"Your family really doesn't do anything halfway, do they?"
"Dad used to say that good enough isn't good enough when you're working with something that takes decades to perfect.
" Devon reached out to touch a cluster of grapes hanging heavy on the vine.
"Every decision we make this year affects not just this harvest, but the next five, ten, twenty years of harvests. "
"That's a lot of pressure."
"It's also a lot of privilege. How many people get to build something that outlasts them?" He plucked a grape from the cluster and held it out to her. "Try this."
Emery accepted the grape, their fingers brushing as she took it from his palm. The contact sent electricity shooting up her arm. From the way his eyes darkened, he'd felt it too.
"It's perfect," she said after tasting it, though she was no longer thinking entirely about the grape.
“Due to weather and other conditions, harvest is incredibly late this year.” Devon's voice had gone slightly husky. "You'll love it—the energy, the urgency, everyone working together toward the same goal."
They were standing close now, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, could smell his cologne mixed with the clean scent of sunshine and growing things. The attraction that had been simmering between them for months suddenly felt impossible to ignore.
His kiss was soft, tentative, giving her every opportunity to pull away. Instead, she found herself melting into him, her hands fisting in his shirt as he deepened the kiss. He tasted like coffee and possibilities, and for a moment, she forgot every reason this was a terrible idea.
Then reality crashed back in.
“We can’t do this.” She pushed against his chest, stepping backward until she hit the wire trellis behind her.
He ran a hand through his hair, looking as shaken as she felt. “That was completely inappropriate—at work.”
"It was."
"This is harder than I thought it would be.
" The admission hung between them, raw and honest. "I know you want to keep things professional, and I'll respect that. I want you to feel safe and comfortable in your role here, and me doing stuff like that doesn’t help. It’s just that there’s this thing between us. "
“There is no us. There can’t be.” Emery's pulse spiked, and something else she refused to name was warring inside her. “What happened between us was because I was in a vulnerable situation. I was drunk and devastated, and you were being kind. That's not anything other than convenience."
“That might explain the night Harold fired you. But what about the time before that?”
“Not the point and you know it.”
“I do, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m zero for two right now.”
She forced herself to hold his gaze, even though every instinct begged her to look away, because she wasn’t sure she could hide how she was really feeling.
Her face always gave her away. "I think you're a good man, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I just can’t risk what I’m trying to rebuild here. "
Devon was quiet for a long moment, studying her face like he was trying to read something written there in a language he didn't quite understand. "All right," he said finally. “I can live with that. I want you to be successful here. I mean that."
"Thank you. That means a lot."
He turned, pressed his hand on the small of her back, and continued down the path.
Her heart hammered, and her solidly constructed walls felt distinctly unstable.
No matter how much she told herself and Devon that she wanted things to remain strictly professional, it was impossible not to notice that Devon was all man, and she wanted him outside of the workplace.
They walked in charged silence through several more vineyard blocks, Devon pointing out different varieties and growing techniques with the detachment she'd requested. But underneath the surface courtesy, the tension hummed between them like a live wire.
The production building rose ahead of them—a long, low structure that had clearly been designed to blend seamlessly with the landscape. Large windows offered glimpses of stainless-steel tanks and oak barrels within.