Here’s the thing about days that change your life…

When you wake up, you have no idea you’re on the cusp of a life changer.

Your alarm goes off at five a.m. like any other day. You yawn, curse the cold floor waiting to bite your foot as soon as you swing a leg out from under the covers, and start the usual routine.

You chug a glass of water, trudge through the sleeping house to the back door, and run down the list: feed the dogs, water the chickens, move the mobile coops across the still damp grass, milk the cow your younger brother adopted before he moved just far enough away to make it impossible for him to milk Moo-Donna—a rescue cow with a bad attitude and unusually sharp teeth—and slam a fist on the guest house door to get your nephews out of bed because your older brother wants them doing chores while they’re staying with you, even though it would be easier to gather the eggs yourself.

Getting teenagers out of bed is usually akin to hauling large boulders up a mountain against a gale force wind while birds peck out your eyeballs, and this morning is no different.

“Jacob! Blake!” I shout, pounding on the door again. “The eggs need to be sorted for the restaurant orders and the extras on the stand before seven.”

Mumbles and groans seep through the thin door, followed by a plaintive, “Five more minutes. It’s Saturday, Uncle Dylan.”

“Which means people will be out walking the trail behind the house, looking for eggs to take home for breakfast,” I counter. “Up. Now. Go.”

I thump the door three more times for good measure and head back to the house, thinking grumbly thoughts about the list of chores I had as a seventeen-year-old and the way things were done back in my day.

I’m thirty-one, way too young for old-fart belly-aching, but that doesn’t stop me from growling at Rafe as I duck into the kitchen, “I should make the boys milk the cow. Let them get chewed a few times and they’ll be grateful for egg duty.”

Rafe, who’s tying on his work boots for the first time in longer than I can remember, laughs. “You sound like Dad.”

“I don’t sound like Dad.” I scowl harder as I grab the truck keys off the hook. “You going to be around today?”

“Where else would I be? If I’m staying here, I’m working here.” Rafe arches a dark brow as he stands. My half-brother has his Italian mother’s dark hair and olive skin, but people still mistook us for twins when we were kids.

But then, we are only two months apart in age. That kind of thing happens when your father has a habit of spreading the love around.

And around…

And around…

Before a prostate cancer fight finally slowed him down, Dad managed to have four sons by three different women. My mom was the one he didn’t marry, the hippie he met at a music festival in Mendocino, knocked up, and saw a few times a year until she got tired of the single-mother gig, dropped me off at Dad’s, and never came back.

I’ve been here ever since. This land has its claws in me deep, and most days I’m okay with that. Grouchy thoughts aside, I love what I do, especially this time of year, when the hops harvest is in and all I’ve got on my plate is managing the organic egg arm of our operation. Though, I am looking forward to the day when I get to keep the hops for myself, start my own brewery, and make a name for the Hunters with beer the way my great-granddad did with wine.

I’m so close to having our debts paid, my well-oiled growing machine in prime working order, and the reins ready to hand over to Dad.

Or, better yet, a manager I will pay to make sure Dad’s stress levels stay low and my well-oiled machine doesn’t break down. The farm was struggling when I took over three years ago, and I don’t want any backsliding.

“Thanks for taking my ass in,” Rafe continues, crossing the faded brown tile. “I appreciate it.”

I shake my head and scoff at his crazy. “Get out. Your house burned down, man. Like we’re going to let you stay in a hotel for months while you wrestle with the insurance company. Besides, this is your home. You’re always welcome.”

“I know. But I also know you’ve got a lot on your plate,” he says, gaze lifting pointedly toward the ceiling. “He still giving you shit?”

“Daily,” I say dryly. “A fresh load every afternoon, like clockwork.”

Rafe rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, fuck that. You’re killing it, Dylan. This ship was headed for the rocks, and you turned it around. Just let Dad’s bitching go in one ear and out the other.”

I grunt as we swing out of the back door and load into my truck for the drive into town. I know he’s right, but my father’s complaining still gets to me. Pop doesn’t care that growing hops to sell to local breweries and producing sustainably farmed eggs is making us just as much money as growing grapes ever did. He doesn’t care that diseased vines nearly cost us our land, the house, the farm, and everything our family has worked hundreds of years to build. He loves wine as much as he loves women, and I’m the bad guy who took the grapes away from him.

The only way to get him off my back and on board with the path I’ve chosen is to get him what he wants.

Vines.

Vines close enough he can glimpse them out his bedroom window before he goes to sleep at night, the way it used to be when our land was acres of pinot noir as far as the eye could see. And there’s only one way I’m going to be able to deliver that. I need the three acres on the other side of the multi-use trail that runs along the back of our property.

I need that fucking pumpkin patch.

By rights, it should be mine. Farmer Stroker and I are tight. I’ve personally picked at least half the pumpkins on that land for years, for God’s sake. There should be no “considering other offers.”

And there wouldn’t be if she hadn’t shown up.

My shoulders tense and my grip tightens on the steering wheel as thoughts of her further the grouch-ification of my morning. It’s almost enough to make me turn right at the first stop sign in town. Almost enough to make me choose bitter drive-in coffee instead of Barn Roasters’ Sonoma County brew.

Almost, but not quite.

Even the risk of running into She Who Will Not Be Named can’t convince me to knock back third-rate coffee-flavored swill. I appreciate coffee the way Pop appreciates wine, and I will not subject my mouth to a caffeinated atrocity when there is hot, steamy, black gold waiting at the end of Main Street.

Besides, last night I promised Rafe one of Sophie’s cinnamon rolls as a “sorry your house and shop burned down” present, and I’m a man who keeps his promises.

At the end of Main, I roll into the rocky parking lot in front of Barn Roasters, which is already filled with mud-splattered pickups, a smattering of shiny rental cars from the wine-tasting tourists who have done their homework, and a gaggle of bicycles leaning against the faded gray planks of the old barn turned coffee house, testimony to the shop’s location just off the scenic bike trail that winds through Mercyville and into the city of Santa Rosa.

Of course, at least half of those city-dwelling cyclists are going to be pissed that they can’t check their email while they’re slugging back a local brew.

Cell reception is shitty in town, and Barn Roasters is rustic all the way—no wifi, no tables, no bells and whistles, just a bar twenty-five feet long where people can pull up a stool and enjoy an extraordinary cup of joe and the view across the hills through the windows.

It’s one of my favorite places on earth. Has been for years. A cup of Sophie’s coffee is my favorite way to start the day, and I’m not going to change that, not even to avoid another unpleasant interaction with the Blonde Terror.

“Think of the devil,” I mutter as Rafe and I open the door, releasing a puff of cinnamon, sugar, and dark-roast scented air and granting me a perfect view of a perky ponytail sidled up to the bar on my left.

Emma Haverford, thorn in my side, salt in my wound, paper cut in my eye, has beaten me to coffee yet again.

She’s wearing overalls today—faded blue-jean overalls with mud stains on the cuffs over a tight red T-shirt—with a crisp red bandana tied in her hair.

“Playing farmer dress-up again, are we?” I ask as I pass behind her on the way to two empty stools at the far end of the bar.

She turns, smiling pleasantly, her big blue eyes wide behind her wire-rimmed glasses.

Damn it, why couldn’t she have taken two minutes to slip in contacts? I hate those glasses. They make her look like a sexy librarian you secretly want to shush you for talking too loud…

“Still supercilious this morning, I see,” she coos in response, lifting her espresso in a one-sided toast.

I scrunch my brow into an exaggerated scowl. “Ease up with the big words, little lady. We’re simple folks around here. We don’t traffic in more than three syllables.”

“Yeah, right,” she says, still grinning. “You don’t fool me Dylan Hunter. You’re smarter than you look. I bet you know at least two synonyms for patronizing.”

My scowl falls away as my under-caffeinated synapses struggle to whip up a snappy comeback. After a few seconds—never leave smartassery unaddressed for more than five, six tops—I shrug and shoot her my “oh-hell, honey” grin, the one that’s been getting me out of trouble and successfully rounding third base since I was sixteen. “All right. Your point this time, Blondie. You’re lucky I haven’t had coffee yet.”

She tips her head smugly, clearly enjoying her victory. “Take your time. I’ll be here tomorrow. Not going anywhere.”

The seemingly innocent words set my teeth on edge again. Because I hear them for what they are—a threat, a promise that she’s not going to sell out like most of the Silicon Valley refugees, people who come seeking romance and adventure in wine country only to go running back to their cushy tech jobs when they realize how much hard work and risk-taking is involved in farming for a living.

Because growing grapes to make wine is, at its heart, farmer’s work. Not billionaire’s work. Not movie star’s work. Not something glamorous you do in your spare time in between sipping chardonnay on your patio. Running a successful vineyard takes stamina and grit combined with intimate knowledge of the land.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Blondie is missing at least two of the three. She’s clearly stubborn as hell, but junior college agriculture classes are only going to take her so far. Sooner or later, she’s going to run into a wall too high for her petite self to climb, and I’ll be there, ready to make the most of her moment of weakness.

“Damn,” Rafe murmurs as we settle onto our stools and I signal Sophie for two coffees. “That the new neighbor? The one who bought the Parker place?”

“Yep.” I fold my arms on top of the bar, keeping my gaze out the window where the morning sun paints the vineyards hazy shades of pink and gold, determined not to give Ms. Haverford another second of my attention. “That’s the one.”

“She doesn’t look like Satan’s little sister,” Rafe observes, clearly amused. “In fact, she’s pretty damned cute. Petite, but curvy, and those eyes…” He hums appreciatively. “I’ve never seen eyes that big and blue in real life. Almost like a cartoon, but sexy. Is that crazy?”

I shake my head, determined to shut this down before it goes any further. “Yes. It’s crazy. Don’t even start with her. She’s the enemy. Stroker had all but signed over the deed to that property. Then she swooped in, offered ten grand over the asking price, and now suddenly he’s got to think things over.”

Rafe shrugs. “Ten grand is a lot of money.”

“I’ve been helping him bring in his harvest every October since I was twelve years old. I’m like a grandson to him—his words—and that’s not how you’re supposed to treat family.” I let out a long breath and drop my volume, making sure my next words are for Rafe’s ears only. “And she doesn’t date, anyway. Word through the grapevine is she’s turned down every guy who’s asked her out. Prefers staying home alone with a book.”

A book she probably looks really hot reading in those sexy glasses…

“That may be so,” Rafe says, a wicked grin curving his lips. “But she hasn’t had a Hunter man ask her out, has she?” His smile widens. “Or is that really why you can’t stand her, bro? Did you ask and she said no?”

I make a just-drank-lemon-juice-straight face that I hope expresses how much offense I take to his suggestion. “Hell, no. All I want from that woman is for her to stop interfering with this deal, stop complaining when I rip out blackberry bushes along the shared property line, stop riding her bicycle through town and slowing down traffic, and quit taking up a stool at my coffee shop and ruining my favorite half hour of the day.”

“Two coffees, extra cream and just a little sugar,” Sophie says, setting down two heavy white mugs on the scarred bar. “What else can I get you? Biscuit? Cinnamon roll? I’ve also got oatmeal with almonds and honey this morning.”

Rafe orders a cinnamon roll, and I opt for the oatmeal. Sophie shouts the order to the two younger women working the kitchen and then turns back to Rafe with a warm smile. “What’re you doing in town so early, doll? When was the last time you were in for morning coffee? A year ago, maybe two?”

From there, the conversation turns to the fire that consumed Rafe’s shop/apartment in downtown Santa Rosa, as well as a trendy restaurant, a tattoo parlor, and several other shops. Sophie—who has always had a soft spot for Rafe—clucks and fusses over him, repeating what everyone in our family’s said at least a dozen times since we got the call from him yesterday letting us know he was safe.

“Well, at least you’re okay. You’re the only thing that can’t be replaced.” She lays a freckled hand on his forearm and gives it a squeeze. “And it’s good to have you back in town. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“I won’t,” Rafe promises, nodding my way. “This one has to have the good stuff every morning, so I expect I’m going to be a regular.”

Sophie nods seriously, setting the red-and-gray bun atop her head bobbing. “Good. Life’s too short to drink shitty coffee. Dylan gets it. Learn from him. He’s a smart kid.”

Rafe laughs. “Smarter than he looks, anyway.”

I narrow my eyes, but that only makes the bastard laugh harder. He’s in excellent spirits for a man who just lost half a million dollars in vintage Harleys and parts. But they were insured, and Rafe has never been the kind to sweat the small stuff.

Or the big stuff. He doesn’t sweat much, in fact. He just jumps on his chopper and heads for the hills when things get hairy.

If anyone’s going to be learning lessons around here, it should be me. Rafe would never have let himself get so tangled up in a web of obligation that it’s going to require surgical extraction to get my life back on a track of my own choosing.

But I’ll manage. This is my year.

Mine. And no one, certainly not a perky blonde from the city who has no idea what it’s like to work her ass off to cultivate every acre under her care, is going to get in my way.

I shift my glare in Emma’s direction, but she’s already gone.

Which is good. I’ve been doing my best to keep the ribbing between us light. I don’t want her to realize how much she truly gets to me, or how many hours I lie awake at night trying to figure out how to convince Stroker to choose me without my having to go deeper into debt. I could get an extra ten or fifteen grand, but it would cost me more precious months of freedom to earn it back.

And I’m afraid if I don’t start making my aspirations reality soon, I never will. And then that brewery with my name on it will be just another dream I put aside to do what was best for the Hunter clan.

I love my family and our farm, but it’s time my life belonged to me.

By the time Rafe and I have finished turning the hops in the drying kiln late in the afternoon—passing back and forth from the kiln to the barn at least a dozen times, taking in the view of the orange-speckled pumpkin patch below—my mind is made up. I’ll talk to Stroker tomorrow and convince him we should put our heads together until we come up with an acceptable counteroffer that doesn’t include more cash up front. I can promise him the twins as harvest slaves for this year—my older brother, Deacon, is deployed with his unit until spring, so the boys are at my mercy until then—and maybe let Stroker stay on at his farmhouse after the sale. The man is eighty-five years old and probably not thrilled about moving at his age.

Yes. This is going to work. I can feel it. Optimism fizzes in my bloodstream, promising that things are starting to look up.

And then it happens.

That life-changing thing.

It wrenches me out of bed in the dead of night and sets me on a collision course with destiny.

Destiny that comes in an unexpected perky blond package…