double checked, but only Slade’s daughters were in the jail cell. “Abby?”
“She’s my dog,” the little would-be sheriff said. A small, mostly black Australian shepherd barked from beneath a bench inside the cell.
“I think I’ll pass, Sheriff Truman.” She made her escape before the boy came up with a reason to lock her up, taking the creaky stairs to the second floor.
Upstairs was a studio apartment—kitchen counter, appliances, small bathroom. A small table and chairs rested haphazardly on top of a small bed in one corner.
Flynn knelt in front of the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink, poking his hammer inside as if trying to bust through a wall. A man she didn’t know was next to him, ripping out floorboards with a crowbar. But it was her boss that Christine couldn’t pull her eyes from. A sharply dressed man on his knees, wielding a big tool. Couldn’t fulfill a woman’s fantasies any better unless he brandished a vacuum.
Slade introduced her to Nate, the sheriff-in-waiting. No one spared more than a glance her way.
“Ma’am.” Nate’s nod was executed with military precision that didn’t disturb the flow of his work. He had gentle eyes and a slow smile.
“Don’t get up.” Christine’s gaze slid to the exposed framework beneath the floor. In one spot she could see through to the linoleum on the first floor below. Definitely not safe enough to cross and politely shake the new sheriff’s hand. “I just stopped by to say hello en route to work.”
“Nice shirt.” Slade pried off another board without so much as looking twice at her navy Wilted Red Roses T-shirt.
“Nice tie,” she shot back, smiling to take out the sting, because it was a truly excellent tie—complex geometric patterns amid bold greens with a silky smooth texture she could see from ten feet away. The man wasn’t buying ties at a bargain store. “Just so you know, the T-shirt thing is a family tradition. My father, uncle, brother, and I all work in the wine industry. We get together at the end of harvest and count how many T-shirts we demolished during the year. I’m talking cracked designs, faded fabric, stains, rips, and tears. There’s also a prize for the tackiest collection of T-shirts, although we made a rule a few years ago—T-shirts with nudity or that are politically incorrect don’t count. My uncle favors political T-shirts. My dad and brother are sports fans. I tend to stick to rock bands and cartoon animals.”
There. She’d explained her casual attire. Maybe now she wouldn’t feel so intimidated by his ties. Her confession didn’t get much of a rise from the men. In fact, they were ignoring her the way men did when they wanted to finish up a physically demanding project.
“I’m going to call around to see about hiring my support team.” Since she was doing double duty as a vineyard manager, she’d need help in all aspects of wine growing and wine making.
“I won’t be around the winery today.” Slade wiped his arm across his forehead.
Christine hadn’t known what she’d expected when she stopped by—an offer to chat over coffee, some last-minute instructions before Slade turned her loose in the vineyards and on his budget. What she got was nothing.
It was like being a kid again, when she’d been advanced into the fourth grade and still been ahead of her peers academically. To make friends in spite of her overachieving academic success among her classmates, she’d perfected her smile. A smile no one noticed today. “Well, the vines are calling.”
The men mumbled goodbyes.
Truman was locked in the cell when she descended. The girls stuck their faces through the bars at him, making the little boy giggle. The children barely stopped playing to acknowledge her leaving.
She’d wanted to get away from Napa, someplace where people didn’t schmooze her for favors, someplace where people didn’t judge her by the price of her car. She’d landed someplace where people cared more about the jobs she was going to create than the job she was going to do in the vineyard.
Maybe she’d gone too far.
* * *
“WHERE’S WILL?” SLADE asked sometime after Christine stopped by. He and Flynn were downstairs sitting on the bench in the jail cell. As soon as Will arrived, Slade planned to have a frank discussion about money and the winery.
“You’ll be happy.” Flynn settled his baseball cap more firmly on his head. His grandfather had worn that hat the last week of his life. Flynn treated it as if it was made of solid gold. “Will started programming our new app. He said he’d work on some of the basics this morning and let me have at it this afternoon.”
The perk of interest Slade had felt this morning over their Good Samaritan to-do list was nothing like the burst of excitement he felt at Flynn’s news. “When do you think it’ll be available for launch?”
Flynn gave Slade his best don’t-rush-me look.
Slade held up his hands. “I’m just saying, I can’t do a thing until we create a launch timeline.”
Lately, he’d been worried his partners would never go back to designing. Will had fallen in love with his sister’s best friend, Emma. Flynn had fallen in love and married his grandfather’s caregiver, Becca. They’d made enough money that, if managed well by Slade, they’d never have to work again. Not that they planned to retire. The money gave them freedom. With this new app, they weren’t bothering to ask for venture capital.
Slade flexed his fingers against damp palms. No investors to manage. And the winery situation a continuing drag on their bank accounts. How much longer would Slade be a vital part of the partnership? If he were Flynn and Will, he’d be preparing to give Slade the boot.
“I wanted to wait until the three of us were together to talk about the winery.” Slade fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt. “Unfortunately—”
“There is earthquake damage.” Flynn slapped a palm on his knee. “I knew it. How bad is it?”
“There’s no damage,” Slade said.
Flynn did a double take. “Is Mayor Larry causing more grief?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“We didn’t build a wine cave,” Slade blurted.
“A wine...a wine what?” Flynn stared at Slade as if he’d morphed into a puppy and misunderstood a command.
Slade wiped his damp forehead and proceeded to explain their need for climate-controlled storage and Christine’s options. He ended with an apology.
“You’re sorry?” Flynn resettled the ball cap on his head. “I should be apologizing to you. No one I asked about building ever mentioned a wine what’s-it.”
“Wine cave,” Slade supplied. “Since your friend’s friend works in Monterey, where the temperature never goes above seventy-five, they probably don’t need wine caves.”
“Oh, man. It sucks that we need to spend more money. We should get in touch with an architect right away.”
“No.” That came out more forcefully
