First Taste

Megan Finch pulled her truck to a stop at the edge of the gravel drive and killed the engine. The vineyard stretched out before her in uneven rows, the vines heavy with fruit but the trellises sagging in places, posts leaning like tired shoulders. Weeds crept along the irrigation lines, and a section of fencing had given way entirely, letting in the possibility of deer or worse. She exhaled through her nose and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. This was the work. This was why they had brought her here.

She stepped out, boots crunching on loose stone, and adjusted the strap of her bag across her chest. The late afternoon sun warmed her shoulders through her denim shirt, and the air carried the sweet-tart scent of ripening grapes mixed with dry earth. She had seen worse properties, but not many that still had a chance at a decent harvest if someone moved fast.

Three men waited near the main house. The tallest stood with arms crossed, his crisp button-down still sharp despite the dust on his boots. The second had broad shoulders and an easy stance, curly hair catching the light. The third leaned against a post, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms marked with dark ink.

"Megan Finch," she said as she approached, offering her hand first to the tall one. "Quentin Sutcliffe. We spoke on the phone."

His grip was firm, gray eyes assessing. "Good to meet you in person. This is Ryan Holcomb and Beckett Pryor. We own the place jointly."

Ryan's smile reached his eyes as he shook her hand. "Glad you're here. We've been patching things together for too long."

Beckett's handshake lingered a beat longer than necessary, his green eyes bright with curiosity. "Hope the drive wasn't too rough. Roads out here like to eat tires."

She gave a small nod. "I've driven worse. Shall we start with the vines?"

Quentin led the way, his posture precise even as he pointed out the failing posts and the sections where the canopy had overgrown. Megan listened, asked questions about last year's yields and the irrigation schedule, and noted how the three men fell into an easy rhythm of finishing each other's thoughts. Ryan offered practical suggestions about soil amendments. Beckett tossed in ideas about experimenting with a new varietal in the back block. Quentin kept them on track, his voice measured.

She felt their eyes on her when she crouched to check a rootstock or ran her fingers along a cluster of grapes. Not invasive, just attentive. She straightened and met Quentin's gaze directly. "We can save most of this if we move on the weak trellises this week. I'll need a crew for the fencing first."

"You'll have it," he said. Something in his tone suggested he liked the way she spoke plainly.

By the time they circled back to the house, the light had softened into gold. Ryan disappeared inside and returned with a bottle and four glasses. "Evening ritual. We taste what we've got before dinner. Helps keep us honest."

They settled on the wide porch. Megan accepted a glass and swirled the wine, noting the legs and the deep ruby color. The first sip spread across her tongue, bright acidity balanced by dark fruit. She swallowed and let the finish linger.

Beckett watched her reaction. "Too much oak?"

"Not for me," she said. "It opens nicely after a minute. The fruit is clean."

Quentin poured a second round from another bottle. His fingers brushed hers when he passed the glass, and the contact stayed with her longer than it should have. She took a slow breath and focused on the wine instead. Ryan sat close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. Beckett's laugh came easy when she made a dry comment about the state of the old press.

Conversation stayed professional at first. They asked about her last property, how she handled difficult harvests, what she thought of their current label. She answered directly, but the awareness in the air thickened with each passing minute. Quentin's steady gaze, Ryan's attentive nods, Beckett's quick smiles, all of them reading her responses as carefully as she read the wines.

She set her empty glass down and stood. "Long day. I'd like to walk the rows again at first light."

Quentin rose with her. "We'll have coffee ready. Room's made up in the guest house. Let us know if you need anything."

Ryan offered a small wave. Beckett simply smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that made her pulse notice.

Megan walked the short path to the guest house, the gravel cool under her boots. Inside, she closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. The day had gone exactly as planned. She had met the owners, assessed the property, and tasted the wine. Yet the quiet thrum under her skin refused to settle. Three men, each distinct, each watching her with something more than professional interest. She pressed her fingers to her wrist and felt the quick beat there.

She turned off the light and lay on the bed without undressing, listening to the night settle over the vineyard. The disrepair outside was fixable. The pull inside her chest felt less certain. She closed her eyes and told herself sleep would come. It did not, not right away.