“Dad,” I answer, a grin already on my face. “Before you ask, yes, I have a plan for getting us on the map. I’ve already been networking with one of the chefs here.” I twirl Tony Chambers’s business card between my fingertips, one eye on the name of his restaurant. La Saveur. A bit pretentious, sure, but the card is minimalist, and from the reviews I’ve looked up on his place since our brief conversation out in the hallway, he’s already making huge strides toward putting his restaurant on the map. Which is saying something, since it’s in an area that’s really popular for foodies already, and a difficult place to make a new name for yourself, with so many old established restaurants to compete with.

I’m thinking I’ve chosen a winner as our first pairing potential. But the weekend is still young, and I’ll have plenty of other chances to network still.

I will not let Darius Bantham’s presence ruin this weekend for me. Nor will I let him distract me enough to stop me from doing my job—putting Spring Valley Vineyard on the wine map. Possibly an even more difficult map to get noticed on than the foodie one in this valley.

“That’s my girl,” Dad says on the other line, and though I’m sure I can detect a smile in his tone, I also don’t miss the slight groan at the end of his sentence, presumably as he readjusts himself on the couch.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, unable to mask the worry in my own voice.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” my mother calls down the line, which is clearly on speakerphone, I realize now. Par for the course when you’re talking to either one of these two. “He’s just bellyaching again because I’m making him change positions on the couch for once in the entire day.”

“I’m injured!” my father protests.

“You’d heal faster if you did the stretches the doctor recommended,” Mom scolds, and I laugh, interrupting before they can derail this any father.

“While I’m glad to hear Dad’s on the mend,” I say, only to be interrupted in turn by his snort of derision.

“It was barely a flesh wound.”

“Right, that’s why you’ve been laid up here moaning all week,” Mom says.

“I assume you guys did call to talk about the wine?” I add, glancing up into my hotel room mirror to catch my own grin in the reflection.

“We just wanted to check in,” Mom takes over now. “See if registration went all right, ask if you were settling in okay. If this feels like too much, Holly, just remember, you can call us anytime. We’re only a couple hours’ flight away. If you need me to come, I’m happy to abandon your father to his misery here.”

“Well, I’d have been perfectly happy to fly up there in the first place, if you two hadn’t convinced me I needed the healing rest,” Dad rebuts. “They do have wheelchairs at the airport, you know, and I have this walker from the doctor I can use.”

“His stubbornness aside,” Mom puts in, “What we’re trying to say is that we don’t want you to feel like you’ve been thrown in the deep end without a lifeline. I know this is a big event, so…”

“Relax, guys.” I shake my head, eyes rolling a little in disbelief. Even though this is classic my parents—give me a responsibility and then panic that it was too much and spend the next few weeks second-guessing and offering to take it back—it still surprises me that they can be so worried. After all, they’ve been training me my entire life. If they can’t trust me to take over now, when will they be able to? “I’ve got this covered,” I say. “And if I need any tips or anything, I’ll call you both first thing, I promise. But honestly, so far the weekend has been off to a great start.”

“What all have you done so far?” Mom asks, sounding relieved.

“Well, just checked in,” I admit. “But I met this new up-and-coming chef in the lobby, so first connection of the weekend seems solid.” I fill them in on Tony Chambers, and they agree he sounds like a great bet as a restaurateur to team up with for the food and wine pairing competitions. After that, I go over the usual gossip—how Alexander Microff looked when I glimpsed him in the lobby, which of my parents’ friends are here in attendance. Dad’s arranged for me to meet a couple of his best friends from the business for dinner tonight, so I reconfirm the details with him.

Finally, just as I’m about to hang up, I catch Mom coughing pointedly. Dad clears his throat, and my stomach sinks. Suddenly, I know what’s coming.

“Are the Banthams showing their faces this year?” Dad asks, and my fists clench involuntarily at my sides just at the very thought of Darius.

I press my lips together for a moment and cast a sideways glance at the smaller door inside the hallway of my hotel room. It suddenly looks very flimsy and thin. Not much of a barrier at all between me and Darius, son of our worst nemeses.

Then, unbidden, the mental image of him standing in that doorway smirking at me through the door I’d cracked open fills my mind. I can’t stop thinking about the sharp cut of his jawline as he grinned at me, or the way those dark eyes of his slowly drank in my body, lingering all over me like he was memorizing every inch of me.

A shiver runs down my spine, and it’s not entirely unpleasant. Oh, the things I’m sure Darius Bantham could do to me…

Things he already offered, right up front. I’d be happy to cater to any other desires you may have… His deep baritone voice plays on repeat in my head, impossible to forget.

“Holly?” Dad prompts, and I forcibly shake my head to yank myself out of my reverie.

“Oh, just the younger. No Bantham Senior or Mrs. Bantham in sight.”

“Darius is there,” Dad replies for clarification, and if anything, he sounds angrier about this than about Darius’s parents.

“Yeah, but don’t worry, I can handle it,” I say breezily. Wrong take, apparently.

Dad’s tone darkens. “Just remember who those people are, Holly. What they’re capable of.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes a little, even though I do agree with him. “I know, Dad. Ever since Great-Granddaddy Spring lost three quarters of his land to Darius’s great-grandfather in that poker game—”

“That rigged poker game,” Dad clarifies. “Everyone in town agreed afterward there was no mathematical way Henry Bantham could have played the hand he did. He had extra cards hidden up his sleeve, played a dirty damn trick to swindle our family out of our inheritance.”

“Ever since then, the Banthams have played dirty, and we’ve gotten the brunt of it. I know, Dad,” I repeat.

“It’s not just some old family grudge,” he answers me, stubbornly, as though he can hear the exasperation in my tone. He probably can. We’ve had this conversation more times than I can count. Normally it gets my blood boiling too, but tonight, after my conversation with Darius—after drooling after him while he shamelessly hit on you, a tiny voice in the back of my mind counters—it just exhausts me instead. I don’t want to be involved in some epic ancient blood feud. I just want to do the job I came here to do. Get more publicity and notice for our wines. Wines that can stand all on their own, and deserve the notice.

“Martin Bantham spent the better part of his adult life ruining this family,” Dad is ranting. “And you won’t believe the latest article I read from him in the Paso Robles Tattler—do you know he’s blaming us for the crop blight on the Merlot vines right now? He claims I imported some foreign bug during my last research trip down to Chile. More than that, he’s claiming I did it on purpose, like I tracked down some invasive species and then let it lose in my own damn backyard just on the off chance it would infect my neighbors’ vines too. The damn nerve of him—”

“Well, if that’s all for the night,” I interrupt with a bright smile, “I’ve got to go get back to that whole networking thing we mentioned. Not to mention get myself ready for this dinner with Mr. Cartwright and Mrs. Kent tonight. Any tips on what to wear, by the way?”

Mom jumps back on, clearly also eager about the change of topic. “I do love that black dress you packed, the ruched one with the cap sleeves,” she says.

Poor Mom. I’m sure she’ll be getting a further earful about Martin Bantham’s crimes as soon as I hang up the phone, because once Dad’s in a ranting mood, he can carry on all night if he takes a mind to it. I feel bad for her, but not bad enough to stick around for long. “Thanks, that sounds about right. Talk to you both later then?”

“Just be careful,” Dad says, still grumpy, I can tell by his tone. “I don’t trust any of those Banthams farther than I can throw them. And that Darius kid is shaping up to be a spitting image of his old man. If he doesn’t try pulling the same kind of dirty stunts Martin does this weekend, I’ll eat my crutches.”

“Don’t eat them yet; I’ve a feeling you’ll need them,” I answer drily.

“Go have fun, sweetie,” Mom says. “I’ll make sure your father doesn’t eat any of his medical appliances.”

“It’s an expression,” I can hear Dad grumping when I hang up the phone.

With a groan, I collapse back onto my bed, staring at my ceiling. Now that their voices have faded from my ear, I feel all too aware of the silence from the room next door. How thin are the walls? I’ve been in my room for a couple of hours, but I haven’t heard anything from next door. Which is for the best. Probably means there’s plenty of insulation.

No way Darius could have overheard that conversation, then. At least, so I hope.

But it also leaves me wondering where he is. Whether he’s in his hotel room right now, just a few feet away from me, and if so, what he’s doing in there. Is he thinking about me too? Is he also aware of how thin the door between our rooms is?

If I walked over to that door and knocked, would he spring up to answer it?

And if I asked him to make good on that promise… I’d be happy to cater to any other desires you may have… What would he do?

Unable to help myself, I picture the rock-hard, muscular body Darius must be sporting underneath that tight-fitted suit of his. Then my brain takes off on its own, imagines those dark eyes of his boring into mine as he runs those strong, warm and calloused hands of his over my skin. I picture him tracing his palm down the expanse of my belly, sliding one hand under the hem of my skirt as his fingers reach for my panties, delve beneath them.

I picture him kissing his way after those fingers. Pushing my skirt up around my waist so he can bury his face between my thighs instead. And suddenly I realize I’m wet all over again, picturing Darius spread-eagling me across this bed and eating me out until I screamed. At least I know these nice thick soundproof walls would hide my voice when I screamed his name…

Dammit, Holly.

I’m supposed to be working. Not fantasizing about my worst enemy. An enemy my own parents just oh-so-pointedly reminded me is probably going to try to sabotage me this weekend.

What if him hitting on me was all part of his game? What if he wants to get into my bed and then… What? Steal trade secrets?

I shake my head, forcing the wild thoughts out. Don’t get carried away. That would be a ridiculous move, even for a Bantham. Besides, it’s not like I have some deep dark trade secrets I’m hiding. The key to our wines’ success is the same thing that’s the key to every other vintner’s success story—good terroir, taking proper care of our vines, and processing the wine the best way we know how. Simpler is better when it comes to wine, my father always says. The flavor complexity doesn’t come from fancy techniques or secret ingredients—it comes from loving your work, and doing it the best you can. You can taste that love in the final product, our wine.

All I need to do is share that love and that wine with the world now. Which will be simple, with the right people on my side.

Head screwed on straight once more, I square my shoulders and roll off the bed, heading to my closet. I’ve got a dinner to prepare for. And an arch-nemesis to forget about in the meantime.