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A quick media search tells me he made some bold statements that have investors believing AstroTech won’t be able to send a human to the red planet anytime soon. And somehow, through the public relations mess, someone gave him the advice to get out of Dodge and hide.
Wouldn’t be my advice, but he didn’t ask me.
Archer isn’t exactly the chatty type, and my work rarely requires me to know what scientists are doing. Colin Hathaway has never been on my radar, which explains why I didn’t recognize him.
It also explains his aloof smugness and, I suppose, his ability to play chess.
Astrophysicist, for heaven’s sake.
He could have cut me a break when I made the comment about his coffee order not being astrophysics. But no, Colin Hathaway is apparently just the kind of smug, hot billionaire who plays his cards—and his chess pieces—close to the vest.
No harm, no foul. It’s not like I’ll need to cross paths with him again. He’s my brother’s problem now, and I have enough to do without giving him another thought.
I spend most of my day on the phone with reporters from local and national media outlets, making sure they’ll all attend our next industry event. It’s a big fundraiser in two weeks, and all the who’s who of Napa Valley will be in attendance. That includes small vintners and the largest estate owners who’ve been making wine here for generations. The donations will gotoward building a new theater at the high school. Alotof money will be raised.
It’s not until the end of the day that I get a phone call that changes my mood from average to pure crap.
“Hey, it’s Trevor Stagwood,” he says when I stab at the speakerphone button on my cell. I’m expecting Molly Stratton, the style editor for the Times, who always calls from a blocked number. I assume she’s calling about our upcoming event.
With the way my dad’s health has deteriorated, my siblings could use some good news, and I intend to provide it. A little love and good press will lead to better brand awareness for Buttercup Hill, and the wine sales will follow. I’m good at my job, even if my siblings call me the “social media maven,” as though all I do is post selfies.
“Oh. Hey there,” I say, half thinking he’ll tell me he misdialed and meant to call someone else. We’ve known each other for half our lives, ever since his family moved to Napa Valley and took over Botticelli Vineyards, which was in bankruptcy. People accused his family of being vultures, but as a seventh grader, all I knew was that Trevor had soft brown eyes and cute dimples when he smiled. Financial details didn’t matter to me at all.
He was a flirt, and for several years, we were friends. He sought my advice about whichever cheerleader caught his interest while I did my best to get him interested in me.
He never was until the day I turned my attention to someone else in our class. Then he pursued me like a leopard on the hunt. We dated for two months during our senior year until he cheated on me with, yes, a freshman cheerleader.
We’ve been frenemies ever since. Friendly because our families work in the same industry in a small town. Enemies because I’ll never trust him.
You know what they say about leopards.
Trevor Stagwood doesn’t ever call me unless he’s upset that Botticelli Vineyards didn’t get enough press attention at one of our events. And I always tell him that I don’t control which photos the media features in their splashy montages and who they choose to photograph in the first place.
But I do.
In reality, I control every last camera angle and list of who’s who and the people Molly Stratton sends to our industry tastings. It’s no accident that our profits go up each time someone from the Times comes to an event at Buttercup Hill. And it’s no accident that Botticelli somehow always ends up left in the dust.
I don’t hold our high school past against Trevor—that would be petty.
I hold our present against him, one in which he’s proven to be even more of a vulture than his father, always looking for an angle. Loyal to no one but himself.
Trevor’s voice makes me exhale a sigh of relief, certain now that he’s only calling to gripe about something. I’ll feign apologies, tell him once again that I don’t control the media, and get on with my day. He likes to blow smoke, and I’m betting he’ll feel better once he rips me a new one.
“What’s new?”
“Oh, the usual. So listen, I’m hearing some things about Buttercup, and I wanted to go to the source.” He’s all business, and for the first time, I start to worry that heisn’tcalling to tear into me even though I hate when he does. My heart starts thudding in my chest, and a wave of nausea hits me.
“Okay…happy to help.” Politeness and a light, even tone will set the stage here. No panic.
“Yeah. I heard that Buttercup Hill is in financial trouble. Big debts on next quarter’s balance sheet, big losses. True, PJ?”
“Really? Who said that?” I know he won’t tell me, but it buys me a second to gather my wits.
What he’s referring to is not public knowledge—but he isn’t wrong. We recently discovered that our dad spent half a billion dollars, and Jackson can’t account for where the money went. He’s been following breadcrumbs to figure out who received it, but all he knows is that there’s some link to a tiny winery down the road called Duck Feather.
Our dad made a vague reference to Hayden Lanes, and Jackson searched everywhere for a business or a person with that name, only to find that Hayden Lanes is painted on a street sign at Duck Feather. We’ve been trying to get a meeting with the owner, but he never returns our calls.
Meanwhile, to keep our investors from noticing the big hole in our balance sheet, my siblings and I borrowed money against our share of the vineyard to shore it up. It’s only a temporary solution because if we can’t repay the loans with real money from Buttercup Hill, we’ll lose the vineyard.
