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We don’t want this out in the open before we get our ducks in a row. The last thing we need is word spreading to our investors. My siblings are the only ones who know about any of this, or so I thought…
“I have it from someone close to Buttercup Hill. More than one person, actually.” His clipped mimics a bored reporter with a hot story, and he just needs a “no comment” in order to go to press. I know how this works.
Or rather, I know anecdotally. In the years since I took the reins on Buttercup’s publicity, my job has mostly entailed courting reporters to write splashy stories in wine magazines or style sections featuring our events. I pepper our social media accounts with images of the vineyards and fun photos of people enjoying our wine. In other words, mostly fluff that makes us look fun and trendy so we sell more wine.
There’s been no tea to spill; therefore, there are no messes to clean up.
Jackson and Archer handle all the investors who ask questions and levy threats about pulling the plug if we’re not profitable enough. They have thick skins and big dicks to swing around.
I’ve made friends who do my job at wineries where there have been scandals—husbands cheating, ex-wives starting wineries to compete with former husbands, business partners falling out and suing for ownership of vineyards. It happens all the time, and in a small town like Napa, news doesn’t stay hidden for long.
I’ve spent evenings listening to how my friends spin these scandals into less important news once a media outlet grabs hold. It takes a professional stance and a magic touch. But I’ve never had to manage another winery owner—let alone a former high school flame—who found out something we didn’t want known.
Until now.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I know it’s the right thing to say, but it won’t hold back the freight train of truth if word has gotten out about our finances. I just can’t understand how it has. No one knows except my siblings.
Right?
I feel the crawl of nervousness across my skin. I don’t want to speak out of turn and jeopardize our winery with a careless remark.
“Sure, right.” Trevor sounds smug and sarcastic, as though now we’re adversaries.
“Anyway, it was good of you to call and check in.”
“Yeah. Of course. And not for nothing, if you everarelooking for an investor, Botticelli’s always interested.”
It irks me that the vineyard he had no part in founding always seems to be flush with cash to buy up land. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of investing in Buttercup if we were down to our last dime.
Just hope my siblings feel the same way. I’m the one with the history with Trevor, but no one in my family likes the Stagwoods very much. Something about how they swept into town and acted like they owned the place.
“I’ll keep it in mind. Say hi to your family.”
The line clicks without a goodbye.
Still sweating, I get up from my desk, walk down the hall in a daze, and hold the wood banister as I make my way downstairs. Our offices are in the main house, set back at the end of a commanding wide driveway that takes visitors from the main road to the reception area. From there, they can take tours of the wine cave, catch a golf cart to one of the restaurants or the inn, or walk to the big brown barn for wine tasting.
It's late in the day, so no guests linger downstairs in the reception area, which has tall bookshelves filled with memorabilia from the early days of Buttercup Hill. Photographs of the winery perch atop shelves lined with older bottles that have the original label design.
It’s an unguided tour from the shelves displaying framed wine reviews to every wine award under the sun. We display magnum bottles, glass vases with sprigs of olive leaves arranged perfectly, and a replica of the original brown barn.
Each shelf is lit by tiny spotlights. And right now, I don’t care about any of it. Plopping into one of the worn leather chairs that flank the stone fireplace, I drop my head into my hands and try to reason through how my day went from bad coffee mojo to an all-out fail.
Then I close my eyes and coax my brain to think quickly. I need to call a meeting and let my siblings know there mightbe local gossip about our finances. It will hopefully die just as quickly as Trevor Stagwood lit his little fire.
Rumors fly all the time in our small community, and most people are smart enough to know there’s nothing to them. Just because Trevor happened to take a lucky guess at what’s really happening at Buttercup Hill doesn’t mean he knows anything. Doesn’t mean anyone else does either.
At least, I hope so.
Otherwise, we’re looking at the tip of an iceberg that could torpedo the whole Titanic.
“We meet again.”
From bad to fail to…what’s worse than an all-out fail? Certainly, it’s the presence of a smug billionaire to kick me when I’m down. And stressed. And not in the mood.
I don’t bother lifting my head. “We don’t have to meet again. I can’t actually see you, so we can pretend it never happened.”
That’s when I hear it. An unfamiliar sound, at least when it comes to this man I barely know. Is he…laughing?
