Texas Heat (Cowboys of Wildflower Valley #1)

Chapter 1

Charlie

The parking lot at Willow Sage Winery is packed. Cars fill every marked space, and a few have squeezed onto the gravel shoulder. I pull in and kill the engine, scanning the rows. Sedans, trucks, a couple of luxury SUVs that probably drove over from Austin.

A Wednesday afternoon shouldn't be this busy. Then again, I still don't know enough about tourist traffic in Stone Creek, or much about the wine business for that matter.

The stone building sprawls across the hillside ahead, weathered limestone and neat rows of grapevines bright green in the afternoon sun.

Gran's words from breakfast echo in my head.

"Take your time with the tasting, Charles.

Make sure you understand exactly what you're buying.

" She'd said it while buttering her toast, not even looking at me, like she was discussing the weather instead of orchestrating another of her matchmaking schemes.

I grab my hat from the passenger seat and step into the afternoon heat.

My pulse kicks. Again. Only, Sunny had been in Austin the last time I was here, and I'd driven home with a case of wine and a hollow ache that had no business being there. Before that, I’d sat at the tasting room bar with Rachel and stared at Sunny through the production room glass the way a man dying of thirst watches water.

Third time's gotta be the charm. At least, that's what I'm telling myself as I cross the gravel lot with a paper-thin excuse to see her again. A couple passes me on the way out, flushed and laughing. I pull open the heavy wooden door and step inside.

The noise hits first. Voices layer over each other, mixing with laughter and the clink of glasses. Every stool at the bar is occupied with customers standing alongside and behind. More folks mill around the retail shelves examining bottles, charcuterie, and accessories.

To my left, the wall of glass reveals the massive stainless-steel tanks that dominate the space. I search the gaps between them for a blonde ponytail.

Nothing. The production room sits empty. My stomach drops.

I force myself to turn away and make my way toward the bar. Sunny could be in the back or not even working today. Maybe I drove all the way out here for four bottles of wine and nothing else, which would mean I'd have to manufacture another reason to come back.

Behind the bar, Tabitha moves between customers with impressive efficiency, pouring tastings and ringing up purchases, but her smile grows tighter with each new demand. She spots me through the crowd and waves me over.

"Charlie! Your grandmother's order is ready." She gestures helplessly at the crush of customers around her. "But I'm swamped. Can you give me ten minutes?"

"Take your time."

"Oh, and Sunny looked over the order when she got back from Austin. She swapped out the Tempranillo for a few Italian reds, said they'd pair better with the dinner menu." Tabitha's eyes sparkle with something that goes well beyond professional courtesy. "Those are her specialty, you know."

"So I've heard."

Tabitha glances at the order sheet again and her eyebrows lift. "Oh. Hang on." She's already turning toward the back hallway, raising her voice. "Sunny! I need you!"

"I'm in the middle of something!" The voice from the back is sharp enough to cut through every conversation in the tasting room, and my body goes still. I know that voice. I heard it on a dusty highway shoulder telling me to get lost and that she didn't need my help.

"I've got eight people waiting for tastings and a tour group coming in twenty minutes." Tabitha calls back. "I need help!"

Silence. Then footsteps… Sunny appears in the doorway, and the air leaves my lungs like someone just cinched a girth strap too tight across my midsection.

Her blonde hair is braided this time, with a few loose strands framing her heart-shaped face.

A wine stain marks her left sleeve, and a smudge of something dark runs along her jaw.

That deep blue gaze could cut glass, the same one that assessed me on Highway 290 as if I were a complication she didn't have time for.

Her hands are already gesturing toward the hallway, ready to argue her way out of whatever Tabitha wants. Then she spots me at the bar and freezes.

Her eyes go wide for half a second, the same flash of recognition I caught through the glass wall on my first visit. A sharp breath moves her shoulders, and then the warmth vanishes as her gaze narrows.

But I notice the recognition before her guard slams back into place. And that half-second is all I need. I'm not the only one feeling this.

"You."

The single word carries enough irritation for a full sentence.

"Me," I agree, letting my grin spread the way it wants to. There's no point hiding it. "We keep running into each other, Sunny."

Her mouth tightens, and it might be the fact that I know her name now, or the teasing way I said it. "Tabitha, I have four barrels to rack this afternoon. I don't have time for this."

"Please." Tabitha is juggling three wine bottles in one arm and a bottle opener in the other. "His grandmother called twice about this. She wants the winemaker's opinion on the pairings before she finalizes the dinner menu."

Sunny's gaze cuts back to me. "She called twice?"

I try to keep my expression neutral, but my face won't cooperate. Gran's meddling has never been subtle, and Sunny strikes me as a woman who can spot a setup from three counties away.

"That's what the order says." Tabitha waves the piece of paper between them like a white flag. "Personal tasting, administered by the winemaker, before pickup is authorized."

Sunny's jaw works, and for a moment I think she might actually refuse. Then she exhales through her nose, long and deliberate, the response of a woman who knows she's been outmaneuvered, and snatches the paper from Tabitha's hand, scanning it.

"Fine." She directs me toward a smaller bar across the room where it's quieter and steps behind it, putting the solid wood between us like a border between warring nations.

When she finally glances at me, her gaze hardens, then softens.

She shakes her head as if clearing it. "Italian reds and a Viognier for a dinner party.

" She bends to pull four bottles from beneath the counter, and when she straightens and lines them up with precise movements, her hands are steady. "Your grandmother has good taste."

"I'll tell her you said so."

"I'm sure you will." Her tone is dry as Hill Country in August. She uncorks the first bottle without making eye contact, but she angles her body toward me despite herself, her elbow staying close to the bar instead of pulling back.

"Sangiovese. It's the lightest of the three reds.

" She pours and slides the glass across the polished wood.

I swirl it once and taste. Bright cherry flavors hit first, followed by something earthier. The finish is dry, almost dusty. "Cherry. Leather on the back end."

Her brows rise, a small, involuntary lift that she schools back to neutral half a second too late. "You know wine."

"I've sat through enough business dinners to bumble my way around a wine list. Plus, I pay attention when something matters."

Her lips press together against something she doesn't want to let through, but I catch the flicker before she locks it down. "Most people just say 'it tastes like wine' and leave it at that."

"I'm not most people, Sunny."

"The jury's still out on that." She pours the second wine, and this time when she sets the glass down, her fingers linger on the base a beat longer than necessary. "Montepulciano. Darker fruit, more structure."

I taste it. "Heavier. Plum, maybe. There's a grip to it that the Sangiovese didn't have."

"The tannins give it weight." She leans one hip against the back counter, and the shift is subtle but unmistakable.

She isn't bracing against the bar anymore.

"Most people don't notice the difference, but it matters for food pairing.

If you serve this with something delicate, it'll steamroll the dish. "

"What would you pair it with?"

"Red meat. Something with enough fat to stand up to the tannins." She picks up the third bottle, and her fingers wrap around the neck with an easy authority that comes from doing this thousands of times. "This one's my favorite. Nebbiolo."

She pours and watches me taste it. I sense the weight of her attention, the way her gaze tracks from my hand to my mouth to my eyes, waiting.

Layers unfold on my tongue. Roses, tar, something almost medicinal that I wouldn't expect to work but does. "This has about five different things happening at once."

"Most people hate it on first taste." She's leaning forward now, one forearm resting on the bar, and the distance between us has halved without either of us making an obvious move.

"It’s too acidic and tannic. They try it once and push it aside.

" She pauses, and something shifts behind her eyes, some guard she's forgotten to keep up while she's talking about what she loves.

"But if you give it time, let it breathe a little, it becomes something extraordinary. "

"Is it worth the wait?"

The question sits between us. The pulse at the base of her throat quickens, a tiny flutter she doesn’t realize I can see. "Usually," she answers, quieter now.

That single word hits harder than it should. Everything in me says lean closer, ask her what she means by usually, why she held back instead of saying always. But pushing right now would break whatever this is, and I'm not willing to risk it.

Instead, I hold her gaze and let the silence hanging between us do the work. She doesn't look away. For three full seconds, the noise of the tasting room fades to nothing, and it's just those sapphire eyes locked on mine, my held breath, and the scent of wine and rose caught in her hair.