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Maybe someday, I will.
Our vineyard encompasses more than just acres of grapes and a tasting room. We have a casual café, a five-star restaurant, and a wine cave that stretches half a mile, filled with fermentation tanks. At the eastern corner sits an inn run by our middle sister, Beatrix, who also handles the restaurants. That leaves our youngest brother Dashiell to deal with the people side of the business—hiring, keeping employees happy with perks—and our youngest sister PJ, short for Penelope June, to manage all of our corporate media.
Beatrix is the most normal of all of us, dependable like a four-lane highway with clear signage and regular rest stops. It gives her an advantage because when the familial crazy starts flying, she’s the one who can bring us back to earth. Every family needs a Beatrix.
Glancing in the direction Archer went, I momentarily wish I was into running. I’m on my road bike often enough, touring the neighboring estates, where vineyards roll over verdant hills and clapboard farmhouses dot the landscape like sheep.
It’s research, checking out how our competitors’ signage looks from the road, how inviting the vineyards look, beckoning in the distance. I take voice notes on my phone and photos that end up in bimonthly reports.
We have to be better. We have to be the best.
Most of the time, we are. But we’ve been losing money—a lot of money—and it’s my job to figure out why. At the moment, I can’t. And it’s no use asking my father what the hell is going on. In the advanced stages of his dementia, he doesn’t always give me logical answers.
In the distance, Archer runs between rows of sturdy grapevines, headed around a rather large pond replete with ducks and water lilies that have no business growing in the hot Napa sun.
When visitors tour the property, stay at our inn, dine at our restaurants, and taste different varietals of wine, they’re treated to a suspended moment in time. They enter the gates of Buttercup Hill Vineyards, and worries are replaced by lazy afternoons sipping wine. Seasons become unimportant because flowers are always in bloom. It’s been the mandate since my father took over from his dad, and my four siblings and I need to keep things going exactly as they’ve always been.
Without realizing it, I’ve drained my coffee. The sun has tipped up above the horizon, its searing beam now searching for my eyes as I stare east from the back porch.
And there’s that car again, its wheels grinding in the gravel as though it’s left and arrived for a second time. I suppose it’s possible something’s afoul with our signage in front, so drivers will be heading for the front gates all day long unless I fix it.
The two-story farmhouse shades half of the driveway from the sun, but it’s no delivery truck.
This car is like a ladybug on wheels, candy apple red and sitting in the middle of the sandy gravel, dust still swirling like it backed up fast and hit the brakes hard. The driver’s side window is open, which is why I notice her hair first. Even in the shade, it’s a wild, fierce, copper-colored waterfall.
Walking down the steps to the gravel, I’m nearly knocked back by the equally piercing shade of green in her eyes. Her hair looks casually windswept, like the cover of a historical romance (My sisters are readers. I pay attention), and her eyes speak a language I know well. I’ve glared at my share of morons the same way she’s glaring at me. I haven’t the slightest idea what I’ve done wrong, but I can see I’m about four seconds from finding out.
The door unlatches and swings open with force. One tanned, yoga-sculpted leg kicks out, and a Birkenstock-clad foot hits the ground. The other leg follows, and I find myself looking down on a petite, frustrated woman in white cutoff shorts and an oversized purple top that falls off one shoulder.
She has a tiny purse, which she grips like a weapon. For all I know, she has a gun in there, so I’m not about to make any false moves, not when she parts her pink pillowy lips and lets out a long, frustrated exhale.
This is no delivery driver, at least not one like I’ve ever seen before. I really hope she’s lost because I dislike the next, far-worse scenario that occurs to me—Dashiell has taken it upon himself to hire me a nanny.
ChapterTwo
Ruby
I can’t believe I wasted a shower on this.
People are unreliable. And by ‘people,’ I mean ‘men.’ Kind, well-meaning, often incredibly handsome, and sometimes great in bed. But unreliable all the same.
Take my last boyfriend, who said he supported my career ambitions until it became inconvenient to see me only every other weekend. I didn’t spend a month after our breakup playing Taylor Swift’s “Red” album at top volume, only to be blown off in a different way by a different man now.
That’s my primary thought as I put my car in reverse at Buttercup Hill Vineyards, where I came to interview with the no-show Dashiell Corbett. It’s only my dream job he’s torpedoing. No big deal.
I back up in an arc, put it in drive, and get ready to barrel down the road when I notice a man standing next to my car with his arms crossed.
At first, I think he must be a security guard simply because of his muscular build and irritable expression. Probably ready to yell at me for the noise or harass me for trespassing. I fling open the car door and step out, ready to tell him to back down.
“Sorry, we’re closed.” He flicks a hand like I’m a bug he can dismiss.
Nope. That’s not gonna work for me. Not when I drove an hour.
If he’s not a security guard, maybe he’s Dashiell himself, finally rolling up. But he might as well be the devil incarnate because the stark line of his jaw and the carved chest muscles under his tight tee make me want to do things that will send me straight to hell. With zero apologies.
He’s hotter than the midday sun in Napa Valley, which is saying something. I’ve seen people wilt from heat stroke in less brutal conditions. And this man could induce a fainting spell with the heat of his eyes alone.
Shaking that thought from my brain, I’m glad the mess of my wind-blown hair obscures what is, no doubt, a blush creeping across my cheeks. My pale, red-headed complexion is my nemesis when it comes to hiding emotions.
