Wright Rival (Wright)

Unbeknownst to Quinn, he was already dating Khloe as well. When it all came out, the friendship ended over a guy who three-date-ruled them both and then threw them away. We had to break the lease because they wouldn’t even talk to one another. It was when I decided to get my own place. I’d never do the drama or deal with Hollin Abbey.

“That was a few years ago.”

“You think he’s different? You saw how he was with that Emily girl tonight. If anything, that proves that he’s exactly the same. He’d probably even tell you that he is.”

Blaire sighed. “All right. You win.”

“Good. I like winning.”

“You better win the wine competition.”

I chanced a glance at her. “Was the wine that good?”

“Really fucking good.”

“Ugh!” I was still irritated that Hollin hadn’t let me try it. He’d even called me the enemy. Jerk. “I’d better fucking win.”

“Yeah,” Blaire said with laughter sparkling in her eyes, “or you’re never going to hear the end of it.”

She wasn’t wrong. Hollin would never let me live that down. Not ever.

6

Piper

The good thing about Lubbock was that a person could get to anything they wanted within twenty minutes. Sinclair Cellars was just on the border of that time limit. Built on land the Sinclairs had acquired in the ’60s in the south part of Lubbock, it had acres and acres of vineyards. What had once been a small family operation had bloomed under their careful tutelage and my father’s burgeoning enthusiasm for the property.

Driving onto the land each morning was like coming home. I’d grown up running through the grapevines, had my first kiss on a tractor ride through the fields in the fall, and learned the feeling of a hard day’s work. When I was having a bad day, the first thing I wanted to do was go out and walk through the grapes. I found peace here. I understood how family farmers felt, connected to their entire world in this dirt. It had sustained me for a long time.

So, when I parked my blue Jeep Wrangler at the front of the property Saturday morning, the land was calling to me. I took my coffee out of the center console and trekked out into my fields. The vines were empty of the bountiful fruit that would start growing this summer.

But it settled something inside me.

I’d broken up with Bradley last night. For the last time. I wasn’t sad about it exactly. It felt like a lot of wasted time. It wasn’t, of course. It had shaped me in many ways. I’d dated a bunch of idiots before him, and he’d been good to me for the last couple of years. We just hadn’t had forever stamped on us. As hard as it was to let go, it was the right choice.

I took a sip of my drink and let the early morning rays crash over my golden skin. The mornings were still too cold to go without a jacket. I snuggled into the North Face and let the coffee heat me up.

After a few minutes, a throat cleared behind me. “Thought I’d find you out here.”

I smiled at my dad. “Buenos días, Papa.”

Matthew Medina wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Did it call to you too?”

“Sí.” I dropped my head on his shoulder. “Always.”

We stood there until the sun crested the horizon, bathing our fields in orange and pink. This was what we had in common. This was who we were. Our name might not be on the wine label, but it was our blood, sweat, and tears that created the incredible blends.

“Come, mija. It’s time for work.”

I nodded and followed my father back out of the crops. He veered off to his office, and I went down to the cellar. There was always something to do at this point. We were experimenting with a small batch of natural yeast fermentation wine. It was risky and tricky, as it likely wouldn’t be reproducible. But we were a large enough operation that we could try out ideas, even if they didn’t come to fruition, as long as we hit the quotas. Our product was in stores all across Texas as well as specialty stores across the rest of the southwest.

It was nearly noon before I looked up from my work to find my sister, Peyton, standing with her hands on her hips. “Pipes, did you forget?”

I blinked at her as comprehension dawned on me. “We’re meeting the wedding planner.”

“Yep. Were you going to come? Dad said that you’d be down here.”

“I’m coming,” I told her instantly. I put aside my work and followed her out of the processing center.

Peyton was five years older than me and Peter and a classically trained ballerina. She’d left us at seventeen for the School of American Ballet full-time in New York City. She was a principal for the New York City Ballet until suffering a knee injury. She’d retired last summer and moved back to Lubbock to be with her high school sweetheart, Isaac Donoghue.