Chapter 4 #3
"That's our Viognier." Tabitha's pride is unmistakable as she nods toward a wall I hadn't noticed, cluttered with award medals and framed certificates.
"Sunny's been refining that varietal for years, and it's really hitting its stride.
The limestone in our soil gives it that mineral backbone you're tasting. "
Sunny's varietal. Of course it is.
My gaze betrays me again, sliding back to the glass wall where she's moved on to the next tank.
I force my attention to the second pour, a rosé with more complexity than I expect, but it doesn't last. Every time Tabitha starts explaining a new wine, my eyes find their way back to the production room like they're on a compass and she's magnetic north.
She works the way I've seen the best horsemen work, with no wasted motion or hesitation.
When she reaches for a tool on the upper shelf, her hand finds it without looking.
When she shifts between tanks, each step has purpose.
Everything about the way she moves says she could do this blindfolded and still not miss a beat.
She knows I'm watching. I'm not exactly being subtle about it, and the frown she fires through the glass every few minutes confirms she's keeping track. But here's the thing that keeps pulling my attention back—every time she catches me looking, that scowl deepens, but she never turns away first.
"You mentioned a tour?" Rachel asks, already looking toward the windows that face the vineyards. "Mason and I have been here several times, but we've never seen the operation."
"Absolutely." Tabitha glances at the empty tasting room. "It's quiet right now, so the timing is perfect. Let me show you around."
Tabitha leads us outside and across the courtyard, the afternoon heat settling over us like a warm blanket as we step between the first rows of grapevines. The vines stretch in precise lines up the hillside, their leaves rustling in a breeze that carries the faint sweetness of ripening fruit.
"These are our Viognier grapes," Tabitha says, brushing her fingers along a cluster of pale green fruit. "They're temperamental. They need full sun, perfect drainage, and just the right amount of neglect. Too much attention and they get lazy. Not enough and they give up on you entirely."
"Sounds like a few horses I know," I reply, and Tabitha laughs.
Further up the slope, the vines change with darker leaves, thicker stems, and a different kind of structure entirely.
"These are our experimental varietals," Tabitha explains when she catches me looking.
"Sunny's always testing what the land can handle.
She's got this theory that the microclimate shifts just enough between the upper and lower slopes to support grapes nobody's tried in this region before. "
There's admiration in her voice, the kind that comes from watching someone take risks that actually pay off. "Come on, let me show you where all of this ends up."
The barrel room swallows us in cool, still air, and the scent hits me immediately—oak and tannin and something earthier underneath, the patient smell of wine taking its time.
Rows of barrels stretch toward the back wall, stacked three high, each one marked with dates and varietal codes in neat handwriting.
Tabitha leads us through a heavy door into the production room, and the space opens up around the towering steel tanks I'd been staring through from the tasting room.
She walks us through the process from harvest to bottle, fielding Rachel's steady stream of questions with the ease of someone who genuinely loves what she does.
I'm only half listening. My eyes are already moving through the room, scanning the spaces between the tanks, the far corners, the workstation where I last saw her.
But the room is empty. Sunny is gone.
My gut drops, and I sweep the space one more time as if she might materialize from behind a fermentation tank if I just look hard enough.
"Charlie." Rachel's voice cuts through my fog, sharp enough to make me blink. Both women are staring at me. Tabitha with polite patience, my sister with the smirk of someone filing away ammunition for later.
"What?"
"Tabitha asked you a question." Rachel's eyes dance with barely contained amusement. "About wine. You know, the thing you're supposed to be tasting right now."
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. "Sorry. What was the question?"
"What’s your favorite wine?" Tabitha repeats, and the slight curve of her lips tells me she has a pretty good idea what had me so distracted.
"Anything Italian. Red or white."
Tabitha's whole demeanor brightens, her posture straightening with genuine interest. "Then you're going to love this.
We truck in Montepulciano and Sangiovese grapes from the vineyards in the panhandle for our Italian wines.
" She lifts a hand toward the far tanks.
"Italians are actually Sunny's specialty.
I'm sure you noticed during the tasting. "
I nod like a man who definitely noticed, and not like someone who spent the entire flight watching the winemaker instead of tasting her work. Rachel's smirk widens. She's going to be insufferable on the drive home.
When we return to the tasting room, Tabitha pours one final glass, a red blend she calls their signature reserve.
This time I make myself focus, letting the wine sit on my palate before I swallow.
There’s dark fruit layered with something smoky and warm, and a finish that lingers long after the glass is empty.
"That's impressive," I say, and I mean it. "You've got something special here."
"We like to think so." Tabitha leans against the bar, satisfaction settling into her expression.
"The Navarro family has owned this for well over a hundred years, and Isabela and Sunny have spent the last five years perfecting what you're tasting.
Every bottle that leaves this property has both their fingerprints on it. "
"Well, they've succeeded," Rachel agrees. "This place is beautiful, and the wine is outstanding."
I pay for a bottle of the Italian red and the Viognier, and Tabitha wraps them with the careful hands of someone who treats every bottle like it matters. She slides the bag across the bar, and as I reach for it, my gaze betrays me one last time, drifting to the glass wall.
Sunny is standing motionless between the tanks, her eyes locked on mine.
I wait for the scowl, for that sharp turn of her head that shuts me out. It doesn't come. She holds my gaze through the glass, steady and unguarded, and something shifts in her expression that I can't quite read. My pulse kicks hard, and my hand tightens around the wine bag.
"Thanks for stopping by," Tabitha says, her voice carrying just enough warmth to suggest she saw the whole thing. "I hope to see you both again soon."
"You can count on that," I promise, and for once, I'm not just being polite.
Back in the truck, Rachel makes it halfway down the drive before the silence gets the better of her. She turns in her seat to face me, that knowing smile already firmly in place. "So."
"So what?"
"Sunny Reese." She says the name like she's presenting evidence. "You couldn't keep your eyes off her. I'd swear you didn't taste a single drop of that wine."
I keep my gaze on the road, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. "She was all right."
"All right." Rachel's laugh fills the cab. "Charlie, you looked at her like she was the only thing in that building. Tabitha could have poured you motor oil and you would've called it excellent."
My jaw works, but I can't argue with that. I barely remember anything past the Viognier.
"I've met her before," I admit, and the words come out easier than I expect. "On the road, when I was hauling the last load of horses. She had a flat tire."
Rachel goes quiet for exactly one beat. "You're kidding."
"I changed it for her. She wouldn't tell me her name, said we'd probably see each other around Stone Creek." I glance at her. "She was right."
My sister's grin could power every light in the valley. "Oh, this is perfect. No wonder you were useless in there." She settles back against the seat, looking deeply satisfied with herself. "Sunny's single, by the way. In case you were wondering."
I don't rise to the bait, but I don't deny it either.
I can picture that scowl she leveled at me through the glass, the deliberate way she kept her back turned, and then that moment when she wasn't turning away at all.
I can still picture the way she moved between those tanks like the room belonged to her, because it did.
When I pull up beside Rachel's truck, she climbs out and pauses with her hand on the door, looking back at me with the expression of someone who's already planning her next move. "This is going to be fun," she announces, and shuts the door before I can respond.