Page 10 of Love, Lies, and Celtic Knots

“Morning.” I call to my friends, hoping they can’t see the guilty look on my face. They have a way of seeing straight through me, and I have a feeling one look will tell them everything I did after they left last night.

“Good morning,” they say in unison.

“He’s here.” Brennen says in a panic, his face draining of color. “I’ll go greet him.”

“That’s my cue to leave.” Sophie waves to us as she leaves through the fermentation room door.

“Wait…” I frown up at Brennen. “Shouldn’t Sophie be here for this? She is the winemaker after all.”

Brennen scoffs. “No. Sophia refuses to be part of this because she didn’t make the wine. I think her exact words were that she wouldn’t serve this swill to pigs.”

I roll my eyes – that sounds exactly like Sophie. The girl is great and all, but she is the epitome of an elitist wine snob. But that is why we hired her.

As the actual winery owner, Brennen has taken the reins of our family business and spent years trying to fix what our father did to our family name, not to mention creating a rift with my other brother with me playing referee.

As the attorney for both, I’m able to keep one business separate from the other — Brennen’s winery and Ryan’s conglomerate. If Brennen ever found out that I was working for Ryan too, he’d disown me just like he has Ryan. Fortunately, he doesn’t know. Thank god for client confidentiality laws.

“He’s been crazy all morning,” Isabella says under her breath.

We can hear as Brennen and the critic enter the front doors, “Here we go.” I say out loud.

I stand beside Brennen, offering a professional smile as the critic approaches. But the moment Mr. Dawson looks up, his eyes meet mine, and the color drains from my face.

No. It can’t be.

No.

No.

No.

His mouth opens in shock, too, his gaze flicking over me as if trying to process what he’s seeing. My heart stutters in my chest, my pulse thundering in my ears.

It’s him.

The man from last night. The one I left sleeping in that hotel room this morning. The man whose name I never got because we agreed there was no reason for names. But I know every inch of his body. And he knows mine.

Mr. Dawson—the world-renowned wine critic Miles Dawson—is my one-night stand.

Brennen doesn’t seem to notice the awkward tension immediately crackling between us. “And this is my sister, Emma,” he says proudly, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m praying for the ground to swallow me whole. “She’s our legal counsel.”

Dawson recovers quickly, his expression morphing into something polite but cold. He shakes Brennen’s hand firmly, hisgaze briefly flicking back to me before he speaks. “Thank you for having me. I’m looking forward to the tasting.” He gives me a coy look, the double entendre obvious.

Brennen turns to me, clearly still nervous as his hands keep fidgeting. “Emma, would you mind helping with the tasting notes? You’re better at this kind of thing than I am.”

I nod mutely, unable to form a coherent sentence as I lock eyes with Miles again. His expression gives nothing else away, but the weight of what happened between us hangs in the air. This can’t be happening. Of all the people to show up at Celtic Knot today, it had to be him.

Brennen, blissfully unaware of the silent storm brewing between us, leads the way to the tasting room. I follow in a daze, my mind racing as I try to figure out what to do, what to say. Do I acknowledge last night? Pretend it never happened? How am I supposed to maintain any semblance of professionalism with him standing there, knowing what we did?

Oh my god… the things we did.

The three of us step into the tasting room, and Brennen arranges the wines for Miles to sample. Isabella has abandoned me.

I stand awkwardly beside the table, my heart pounding in my chest as Miles methodically goes through each glass, swirling, sniffing, and tasting with the same laser focus he had last night at the bar… and in bed. I notice that Brennen didn’t offer our newest wine up for review, the one he’s been working on for so long, and internally I shake my head. I think my brother is trying to perfect something that’s already perfect and may cost the winery in the end.

For a few excruciating minutes, there’s nothing but the sound of glass clinking and Brennen rambling nervously about the winery’s history. But I can’t focus. My eyes keep darting toMiles, searching for any acknowledgment of what we did last night, but he remains infuriatingly composed.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Miles sets down the last glass and turns to Brennen. “Your wines have potential,” he says carefully. “But they’re not quite there yet. The tannins need more time to develop here, and the acidity is still a bit harsh in this one.” He points to two of the glasses.

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