Page 57 of A Vintage of Regret
"Oh, my god. You took dancing lessons for your wedding, didn't you?"
"Guilty as—" he stopped moving as he noticed Sandy, in full uniform, speaking with Grant. "Shit."
Riley spun. “No!” She took two steps. But Bryson pulled her tight to his chest. “She’s here to arrest him.”
“I doubt that. But I have to admit, hauling him down for questioning during a charity fundraiser definitely makes quite a statement.”
“I need to go speak?—”
“Now is not the right time,” Bryson said. “It looks like a conversation. And they’re taking it outside.”
“Well, then I’m going outside.”
“I don’t think that’s a good?—”
“That’s my brother. It’s not up for discussion.”
Bryson scanned the room for his father. Once he found him, he pointed toward the main entrance as he chased after Riley. Whatever this was, and regardless of Grant’s guilt or innocence, Bryson was going to make sure Riley wasn’t collateral damage.
Eleven
Riley's heels struck the tile in a rapid staccato as she raced through the country club's main entrance, the cool night air hitting her face like a slap. She paused just as Grant's black SUV pulled into the circular drive, its headlights cutting through the amber glow of the security lights. Sandy's patrol car sat behind it like a predator waiting to pounce.
Grant stood off to the side, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck, one hand clasped firmly around Kelly's. Even from a distance, Riley could see the tension radiating from his shoulders.
A valet hopped out and handed Grant his keys.
"Grant," she called, breathless, as she approached, her voice carrying across the nearly empty drive.
He turned and attempted a smile, but it was all wrong—too tight, too forced, and the way his brow furrowed told Riley everything she needed to know. Her brother wasn't just worried.
He was terrified.
"What's going on?"
"Go back inside." His voice carried that big-brother authority she remembered from childhood, but underneath it wassomething she'd never heard before—defeat. "It's nothing for you to worry about."
"Don't you dare push me away now. We've come too far for that." She closed the distance between them, her dress rustling against her legs.
Grant glanced at Sandy, who stood beside her patrol car with the practiced patience of someone who'd done this dance before. "Can I have a moment with my family?"
Sandy checked her watch. "A few minutes. But remember what I told you about?—"
"I got it." Grant sucked in a breath that seemed to rattle in his chest. He lifted his gaze over Riley's head toward the country club, where warm light spilled from the windows and the faint sound of conversation drifted on the night air.
"Talk to me," Riley demanded, crossing her arms.
Warm fabric settled around her shoulders, and she jerked back, startled. She touched the cloth—Bryson's jacket, carrying the familiar scent of cedar and something distinctly him. His fingers found hers, lacing their hands together with the easy familiarity of muscle memory. The simple contact sent a surge of strength shooting through her veins.
Walter appeared beside Bryson, looking every inch the distinguished vintner in his perfectly tailored tuxedo. He said nothing, but his mere presence spoke volumes—the Boones standing with the Callahans, just like the distant times of their ancestors.
The sound of heels clicking on concrete echoed from the direction of the club, accompanied by the low hum of voices that made Riley's skin crawl. Half the town was probably pressed against the windows by now.
"Sandy just needs to have a chat with me about some committee business," Grant said, his tone carefully neutral.
"That committee business wouldn't happen to involve what Mason and my dad have been digging into, would it?" Bryson's voice carried an edge that made Riley glance at him sharply.
Grant's jaw worked for a moment. "This isn't the time or place to get into it. We can talk after I get back."
