Joan crossed her arms. “So if we get a heat wave and the grapes are ready before you’re due back…”
“I’ll get on the first flight out of the country.” He checked his watch. Saw his cushion of two hours before he had to leave for the airport was now down to an hour and a half. And he still had to pack. “Don’t worry,” he told her as he sat on the ATV and turned the key. “I’ll be back before the harvest. You can count on that.”
OVER SIXTY HOURS LATER, Matt stood in his brother’s cramped kitchen trying to make something edible out of eggs approaching their expiration date and half a loaf of slightly stale, presliced white bread.
He was in hell. Or, as everyone else called it, Jewell, Virginia.
Luckily, it was easy to keep his usual good cheer, thanks to the fact that his time in Jewell would be brief—six days, four hours and fifty-three minutes. Give or take a second or two.
Whistling along with the classic Jackson Browne song playing on the radio, he transferred a soggy slice of bread from the egg and milk mixture in a large bowl to the hot skillet. It sizzled in the greased pan, the scent of cinnamon mingling with that of melted butter. He added a second slice to the pan and took a drink of coffee as a movement to his right caught his attention.
Sporting a seriously bad case of bedhead and wearing a pair of flannel pants with characters from Family Guy on them, Brady stood in the open doorway separating the kitchen from the hall.
Matt saluted his brother with his coffee cup. “Morning, Sparky. Nice pj’s.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Brady said in a sleep-roughened voice. His scowl shifted into a thoughtful frown as he sniffed the air. “I’m going to kill you,” he repeated, “right after I’ve had some coffee.”
“Can’t wait.”
Eloquent as usual, Brady grunted and headed toward the coffeemaker, his limp less pronounced than it’d been two months ago when Matt had been home for Christmas.
He flipped the French toast with a fork. “You have any syrup? I didn’t see any in the fridge.” When he didn’t get an answer, he turned to find Brady staring into his coffee cup, his eyes glazed. “If I’m not mistaken—and let’s face it, I’m never mistaken—that’s the look of a man who recently got lucky. And based on the monkey sounds coming from your room when I got here, I’d say it happened…oh…about twenty minutes ago.”
Brady pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “What’s the rule about my sex life?”
“It’s boring and pathetic?”
“It’s not up for discussion.”
“Who’s discussing it? I was making a simple observation. It’s not like I need a play-by-play of whatever it was J.C. did that put that sappy grin on your face.”
Brady gave one of his patented I was a Marine and yes, I will rip your head off and shove that fork down your throat if you say another word looks.
“Fine.” Matt glanced down the hallway to Brady’s closed bedroom door. “Uh…you were with J.C., weren’t you?” Hey, it was a good question considering that at one time, Brady had been engaged to J.C.’s older sister, Liz.
Brady pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why are you here?”
“Aidan left a message on my cell phone yesterday about a top secret Sheppard brother meeting at eight.”
“That’s thirty minutes from now. And you’re never on time anyway. Especially in the morning.”
Matt transferred the cooked French toast to a paper plate and added more to the pan. “It’s ten at night in South Australia.”
“You’re not in Australia.”
No shit. In Australia—and everywhere outside of Jewell—he was a highly respected, highly sought-after vintner.
Here he was the family black sheep.
His fingers tightened around the fork. Too bad his old man hadn’t lived long enough to see his youngest son amount to something despite his predictions. Matt forced his fingers to relax. Good thing he’d long ago stopped caring what his family thought of him.
“I’m not in Australia,” he said, “but my body thinks I am. And since I was up, I figured I might as well come on over. Once I realized you were otherwise occupied, I decided to make myself at home.”
Brady stood and held his hand out. “Give it to me.” Matt handed him the plate but his brother shook his head. “No. Give me the spare key.”
The spare key their mother kept at her house in case she needed to get into the cottage that sat on the Sheppards’ property. The cottage Brady currently occupied.
“You’re moving out after the wedding,” Matt noted, tossing the plate onto the table. “What’s the problem?”
“You let yourself into my house when I was still in bed,” Brady said as if Matt was a few grapes shy of a cluster. “You’re in my kitchen, blaring music—”
“Only so I couldn’t hear all that moaning and groaning coming from your bedroom.”
“—making breakfast—”
“For which you should be grateful, seeing as how I made plenty for all of us. That includes J.C.”
“Where is it?” Brady asked, his tone low and dangerous.
Matt grinned and patted the front pocket of his jeans. “Right where it’s going to stay.”
Turning, he flipped the bread. A vise closed around his neck, choking off his amusement. No, not a vise, he realized as Brady yanked him away from the stove, but his brother’s forearm. Before Matt could escape, Brady pivoted, clasping his hands together to tighten the headlock.
“The key. Now.”
Matt pulled on his brother’s arm but it didn’t budge. “You want it?” he asked, unable to hide the challenge—or the glee—in his voice. “Go ahead and get it.”
Brady squeezed, cutting off the last of Matt’s words along with his breath. “I get the key,” he said, dragging Matt toward the table, “and you get to walk upright once again. And save what’s left of your dignity for getting your ass kicked by a guy with a bum knee.”
“Ass kicked?” Matt muttered, doing his damndest to shake his brother’s hold. “I’m taking it easy so I don’t hurt you.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” Then, in a move reminiscent of when they were kids, Brady gave him a quick, rough noogie.
Bum knee or not, the bastard was going down. Matt grabbed Brady’s hip with his right hand while shifting his body to the left. Pushing him off balance, he reached underneath Brady’s left leg—conscious of the fact it was his bad leg—and lifted it off the ground.
Brady’s arm constricted, cutting into Matt’s windpipe. “If I’m going to hit the floor,” he warned, “I’m taking you with me.”
“Is something burning?”
They froze. J. C. Montgomery padded into the kitchen wearing a pair of pink sweatpants and a long-sleeved brown top stretched to its limit over her pregnant stomach. She wrinkled her nose at what Matt now recognized as the scent of burned French toast, her big brown eyes widening.
“Sorry,” Brady said, hopping to maintain his balance. “Did we wake you?”
“That’s all right,” she said absently, tilting her head to the side to study them. “I hate to ask a stupid question but…is this one of those male bonding things? Because if you two pull out the bongo drums and start chanting, I’ll get my phone so I can record it. I’m