Page 8

Sam

It’s early. Despite the restless sleep last night, I managed to get myself here before Old Man Morris. And unlike the recent poor night’s rest due to careless decision-making with alcohol and loose women, last night was worse.

My behavior at the restaurant was even more reckless. Getting into it with Alexis was never going to end well. Both due to the regret I’ve continued to suffer at my mistreatment of her, and the knowledge that she’s right.

We haven’t been friends for a very long time. And it is entirely my fault. Hell, I’m thirty-six. It feels like a lifetime ago that we were inseparable on this very land. Twenty years to be exact. It stings, realizing what I’ve lost. But she was never going to be mine anyway. And so I took the coward’s way out.

I drag myself across the room, my legs feeling like they’re encased in lead, and sink into my grandfather’s worn leather chair. The heavy scent of impending ruin hangs thick in the air, causing me to feel claustrophobic under its weight.

I press my palms over my face until silver spots dance behind my eyelids. Yet when I open them, the reality on my desk hasn’t changed one bit. Red ink. Overdue notices. Final warnings from lenders I can’t afford to pay. Picturing Moses standing on the mountainside, I stare up at the ceiling as if the good Lord himself will impart some devout wisdom. Yet all I’m met with is a silence loud enough to ring in my ears.

I start pulling open the desk drawers, the wooden runners groaning in protest. I dig through every file folder, flipping through yellowed receipts, bank statements, and tax documents as if I haven’t done this exact same frantic search a dozen times over the last few weeks. My hands shake slightly as I toss aside another useless folder. I’m looking for a miracle: a forgotten account, a misfiled trust, almost anything, while knowing deep down that there isn’t one. The well is bone dry, and I’m suffocating at the bottom of it.

The heavy oak door swings open, shattering the quiet. I snap my head up as Shep walks in, his father, Hank, right on his heels. Both of them are wearing expressions so grim they look like someone just died.

“What’s wrong?” I blurt, my stomach dropping into my boots. Jeez, I’m not sure how much more I can take.

“Looks like some deer must have gotten into the grapes along the wild border,” Shep says, his voice flat.

I grimace, but my shoulders relax a bit as I lean back in my chair. “Near the tree line? Well, that sucks.” Hell, I need every single grape I can get my hands on this season if I want even a fraction of a chance at rehabbing this place. “How many did they eat?”

“It wasn’t too bad. We’ve had worse.” Shep glances sideways at his father, his brows pinched tight, and I instantly know there’s more.

A cold prickle of dread crawls up my spine. “What?” I demand, standing up so fast the chair legs scrape hard against the floorboards.

“While we were checking the fence line, we noticed a white film on a few of the clusters. On closer inspection… it looks like mildew,” Hank grumbles. His voice is low, gravelly, and sounds almost as utterly defeated as I feel.

Fuck. The hits just keep rolling.

“How many?” Any vineyard owner knows that fungus can cause serious destruction to the grapes if not addressed quickly and thoroughly.

“It’s contained to a small area for now,” Shep reassures, trying to soften the blow. “But we need to cut back that whole section if we have a chance at salvaging it.”

“Like, yesterday.” I exhale in frustration.

Shep glances at me somberly. “Hopefully, between washing the spores off the surrounding grapes with a high volume of water and surfactant, we can kill the spores and stop it from growing.”

I run my hand through my hair. “Was it powdery or downy?”

“Powdery,” the elder Morris says. “I’m hoping the deer brought us to it early enough. We might still have a couple of days to save that section, but we need to get on it today before we risk losing any more.” A deep V develops between his graying brows as he glares across the desk at me. “But we need all hands on deck.”

Given that I’ve had to lay off nearly seventy percent of our vineyard workers over the last month just to keep the lights on, we both know he’s referring to me.

“And after we get this section contained,” Hank continues, his tone leaving no room for argument, “we’ll need to take the time to examine the entire vineyard. Prune wherever is needed, improve airflow and sun exposure everywhere before we risk losing the whole damn harvest.”

My face falls, the last lingering thread of energy draining straight out of me. He’s right. It’s going to be a brutal, backbreaking week out in the sun. I guess searching for a needle in a haystack within this office will have to wait.

Even if I could find some miracle in these files to keep this vineyard afloat, it feels like it’s already too little, too late.

It’s late afternoon, and I’m pouring myself two fingers of bourbon at my kitchen island just as I look up to see Sebastian stepping into the entryway. Given this estate has always been a big part of our childhood, I’d never ask him to knock. Hell, it’s not like he’d be interrupting anything anyway.

Moving into Pop’s estate after he passed away was the only easy decision I’ve made in years. The home manages to strike that rare balance between timeless grandeur and genuine warmth. Unlike the sterile, modern luxury of my parents’ mansion, Pop’s house was built with soul, showcasing true Craftsman artistry.

The house is sprawling and grand, but unlike my parents’ ostentatious, over-the-top palace with its cold marble and formal art gallery pieces, this house actually feels welcoming. Lived in. It’s full of worn, rich leather armchairs that still faintly smell of pipe tobacco, and the deep red velvet drapes my grandmother hand-sewed herself decades ago.

The kitchen has all the high-end essentials you’d expect from a grand winery estate, but it completely lacks pretense. It was built for nourishing a family and hosting harvest dinners, not for show, as it did in my parents’ home. Hell, I doubt they even knew how to turn on the stove. The heart of the kitchen is a dark butcher-block island made from reclaimed local timber, its surface smoothed by years of prep work, bread-kneading, and late-night wine tasting.

Oak paneling runs along the lower walls, wrapped in thick, handcrafted crown molding stained in a dark amber. Built-in bookcases frame the immense stone fireplace, and a large custom chandelier forged from dark iron hangs above.