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waiting for Esteban to call. Her whole career depended on Mr. Morales’s decision.
    â€œYou can’t work twenty-four-seven,” Meri said. “No harm in one glass of wine at the end of the day.”
    â€œLook who’s talking about not working,” Char retorted. “The successful jeweler who’s branching out into—”
    Intent on advising Savvy, Meri interrupted Char’s accolades. “Keep your eyes open. Who knows, you might even meet someone.”
    Savvy rolled her eyes.
    â€œStranger things have happened,” Meri said.
    Had it come to this? Was her baby sister really coaching her on how to pick up men now? She wasn’t dumb. When— if —Savvy ever had time to spare for a man, she could find one herself.
    Down the bar, a familiar cellar master from another winery waved and Savvy smiled back.
    She had to admit, this spot was unique. Tourists considered the Italian restaurant a can’t-miss wine country dining experience. At the same time, the locals knew it as a hangout for everyone from the lowliest picker to the most illustrious winemaker.
    â€œIf I ever become a barfly, this will be my bar of choice,” said Meri. “It’s a Stan-free zone. Here, I feel like I’m either well- known or un known.”
    â€œStan-free?”
    â€œStalker-slash-fan.”
    Savvy jumped a foot when her phone vibrated. She grabbed it from where she’d placed it on the bar, within easy reach.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œThis is Esteban Morales.”
    The classy surroundings filled with satisfied murmurings faded away. All that existed was his voice. She clutched her phone closer to her ear.
    â€œHi! How are you?”
    â€œGood. I have an answer for you.”
    After a week, now Esteban didn’t mince words.
    â€œDo you want to meet somewhere?” she asked.
    â€œWhere are you now?”
    She blinked the restaurant back into focus. “Bodega.”
    â€œSee you in ten.”
    Her pulse leapt. She found herself second-guessing her customary little black dress and worrying about whether her lipstick was smeared from the two sips of wine she’d drunk so far. Char and Meri were conversing with someone at the other end of the bar. She slid off her stool and went to the ladies’ room to spray on a little more Miss Dior before he arrived.
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    Even with their backs to the door, it was a cinch picking out the St. Pierre heiresses, lined up like a row of Easter tulips at the bar: same size and shape, different colors, delicately sipping wine from balloon-shaped glasses. One chestnut-colored twisted knot, one sizzling blond, and a brunette with jelly-bean streaks. Hair color aside, all three were cut from the same mold. Lay a level along the head of the one in the middle and the arc would be perfectly centered.
    What was it about them that had that cluster of men in slim-cut suits without socks jockeying for position? There was no obvious sign of wealth, no come-fuck-me clothes. Maybe it was their tall, slim bodies. That air of confidence without cockiness. Whatever it was, what everyone said was true: those three were God’s gift to Napa. At least, on the outside. He still didn’t trust Savvy’s motives.
    There were no seats left at the bar, yet one glance at Esteban cruising toward the French twist and the competition parted like a dust devil in a cornfield. Size mattered.
    Behind Savvy’s nerdy glasses, her eyes widened with appreciation at his clean jeans and fresh shirt. If he saw her a hundred times, he’d never get used to those specs. To cover up a face like that was just wrong. They were a barrier between him and those liquid brown eyes, that flawless skin. Those plump lips . . .
    â€œHell-o?” she trilled, arching a brow.
    â€œHey.” If he was going to be hanging with a woman like her, he’d better up his conversational game .
    The bartender asked what he was drinking. When he leaned in to be heard