Josie
Three
I push open the door to the hospital’s community room. Round tables draped in navy cloth have been arranged in careful rows, and a banner thanking sponsors stretches across the far wall, slightly crooked on one end. Someone has created centerpieces of white carnations in mason jars.
It’s the hospital fundraiser. And there seems to be a pretty good crowd. Conversations overlap in a steady murmur, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. I scan the room and spot Matt immediately.
He’s leaning against the temporary bar set up along the right wall, one elbow resting on the counter. He’s angled toward a woman in pale blue scrubs I don’t recognize. She’s new. Her posture is attentive, shoulders slightly tipped toward him as if whatever he’s saying requires focus.
He smiles at her, just open enough to make someone feel chosen in the moment. She laughs and touches his forearm briefly, testing the boundary. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t lean in either. He knows the correct distance. He’s smooth without being slick. Confident without pressing.
I watch for a second, not because I’m invested but because it’s familiar. This is how Matt moves through a room. He makes people comfortable. He makes them feel seen. It’s part of why he’s good at his job. It’s also part of why women gravitate toward him.
He catches my eye across the crowd and gives me a small nod, a half-smile curving at the corner of his mouth. I lift my brows in return and shake my head. Player.
But he’s a good guy. He doesn’t leave damage behind him. He doesn’t make promises he won’t keep. He just enjoys the attention and gives it back in equal measure.
Yet there’s no flicker in my chest as I watch him turn his attention back to the nurse. No tightening. No curiosity about what he might say next. Whatever possibility hovered between us a year ago never found traction. Two dinners. Easy conversation. No spark.
That chapter is closed, and it never caused any drama. So now we’re both firmly in the friend zone. So I don’t interrupt. I don’t drift closer to reclaim space that isn’t mine. Instead, I adjust the strap of my bag and step farther into the room.
Ryker and my younger sister, Ginny, will be here somewhere, likely near the back where they can see everyone without being seen themselves.
I scan the tables again, moving past clusters of retirees and board members, past a pair of volunteers arguing quietly about raffle tickets.
Matt’s laughter rises briefly above the hum behind me, warm and unbothered.
I don’t look back.
I find my people near the back corner of the room.
Ryker has his hands in his pockets, listening to an older donor explain the hospital’s new imaging equipment as if he hasn’t already heard the same speech three times tonight.
Ginny stands beside him, her posture relaxed, her expression attentive without being overly engaged.
She sees me and her face shifts, softening in a quiet way that feels like home. “You made it,” she says.
I lean in for a hug. “Barely.”
Ryker turns and pulls me into a brief hug, too, solid and uncomplicated. “Everything good at the vineyard?” he asks. “I heard about the frost scramble this morning.”
“It happens this time of year,” I say, easing back with a shrug.
Ryker’s family’s land butts up against ours. They’re our rivals, yet somehow he got my sister to fall in love with him. I don’t get it, but they are good together.
Ginny steps closer. “What do you know about Evie’s first day of trial?”
“Not that much. I didn’t make it over there. Ric said they spent the whole time in the judge’s chambers hashing something out, but he doesn’t know how it landed,” I tell her. “Seems like they’re trying to limit how much evidence Evie’s defense can bring in.”
“Sounds like Evie pulled a stunt today,” Ginny snarks. “The trial never even got started.”
“Whatever she did, her trial is affecting all of us. She doesn’t seem aware of that at all.
” I look at Ryker, because his sister, Tarryn, is likely behind today’s fiasco with Coastal, and sometimes I understand exactly why Evie is the way she is.
The cut-throat competition drives me crazy.
“Did I tell you Costal has restaurants that don’t want to be aligned with Evie, so they took back part of their order?
” I shake my head. “I mean, who can blame them?”
Ryker nods. “Just let the process play out. They’ll be back. Your wine wins awards.”
That almost makes me laugh. We’re here at a hospital fundraiser sponsored by his family’s vineyard. Paradise Hill’s logo is on half the signage in this room. Why is no one worried about how that’s going to look?
“Well, the dispute is hanging over everything,” I say, glancing toward the banner at the front. “Even this.”
Behind the bar, a placard notes that Paradise Hill wines are being served in support of the fundraiser. Their logo sits centered and confident, printed on thick cardstock. Bottles of their pinot noir and chardonnay are arranged neatly beside the sign.
Of course they brought the pinot.
A server with both wines stops and offers. I step forward and hold out my glass. “Pinot noir, please.”
I thank her and move a few steps away from the table before lifting the glass to my nose. The room hums around me, but I let it recede long enough to focus.
Red fruit on the front. A hint of oak. Clean structure. I take a small sip and let it sit on my tongue before swallowing. It’s good. Balanced. Approachable.
But it isn’t fully there.
The tannins are still a touch forward. The finish fades a fraction sooner than I’d like. It feels ready for the market, but not patient. It’s not layered in the way a pinot can be when it’s allowed to deepen.
I take another measured sip, confirming my first impression. This will sell well. But it won’t challenge anyone.
Ours has more depth. More time. More restraint.
That thought isn’t sharp or defensive. It’s just truth. We earned that medal. We earned the reputation that followed it.
Ginny reaches for my hand and squeezes. “She’ll be cleared,” she says quietly.
“I hope so,” I reply. Although I know it’s not likely. Evie offered a lot of evidence that she sabotaged Paradise Hill in her own press conference.
Ginny exhales. “We’re going to Tokyo.”
I blink. “You’re what?”
“In December. Beckett and Sadie are planning a trip, and we decided to join them.”
Beckett Paradise is one of Ryker’s brothers, and Sadie is his wife.
Ryker gives a faint smile. “Apparently I’m excited.”
“You are,” Ginny says, amused.
Tokyo. “Is this a Rosie’s bucket-list trip?”
“Yes. We can’t wait.”
Rosie was a close friend to Sadie, and she needed a heart transplant.
So while she was waiting in the hospital, they passed the time dreaming of places they were going to go once she got a new heart.
In the end, Rosie didn’t make it, and Sadie took over the list, promising to do all the things they’d talked about.
Now that Sadie and Beckett are together, they’re exploring the world when their schedules allow it.
“What about your baby?” I ask.
Ginny shrugs. “Ryker’s parents have offered to take care of the baby.”
For a moment, getting away from Paradise feels dangerously tempting. Far from the lawsuits, vineyard drama, distributor pressure, and endless scrutiny about everything my family does—that would be a luxury. “I wouldn’t mind disappearing for a week.”
“You should come,” Ginny offers.
I shake my head. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“We’re going in December when it’s slow.” She raises her brows.
“The four of you and me. I would be a fifth wheel.”
“You could talk Matt into going with you.” Ryker nudges my shoulder.
That makes me laugh. “Matt is a great friend, but you may have noticed, he’s over there talking to the new nurse. And that’s completely fine with me.”
Ginny laughs. “That man…”
At the front of the room, the microphone squeals as someone adjusts it. Conversations begin to taper off. Ginny squeezes my hand.
Max Paradise steps toward the stage, and the room turns its attention forward. Max is Ryker’s uncle, and my family believes he’s the one behind all the problems at his family vineyard—not my grandmother. But we’re in the minority here in Paradise.
I make my way to the table of appetizers, ignoring Max so I don’t suddenly yell out that he’s an asshole and make a fool of myself.
The spread is practical and predictable.
Baby carrots arranged in a neat ring around a bowl of ranch dressing.
Celery sticks and broccoli cut into tidy florets.
Cubes of cheddar and marble cheese skewered with toothpicks.
Crackers stacked in uneven piles beside a tray of sliced baguette.
It’s not elegant, but it’s earnest and hearty, and that feels consistent with the room.
I pick up a small white plate and start assembling something that resembles a meal. A handful of vegetables. A few cubes of cheese. Enough crackers to justify the cheese.
Max steps up to the microphone. He adjusts it, glancing across the room as if taking inventory of who showed up. The overhead lights catch the polished calm in his expression.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” he begins. “Paradise Hill has always believed in giving back to the community that has supported us for generations.”
A few people nod. Someone near the front offers a polite murmur of agreement.
As I study my carrots, he talks about generosity as if it’s a personal discipline.
About the hospital wing his family helped fund, the stewardship, and the legacy they’re expected to uphold.
He implies that the Paradise name grows stronger with each generation and gestures toward the sponsor banner as if this evening exists because of him.
I take a slow sip of wine and meet his gaze from where I stand near the side wall.