All I know is I was on top of the world, practicing for a big game, and then I was in the hospital ready to be put under for extensive knee surgery.

My career was over and I’d only played eight seasons. My entire life had changed completely, and I was at a loss as to what I should do next.

Archer kept trying to encourage both Gage and me to come to the Napa Valley. And once I was pushed into early retirement, I decided to go on the hunt for an interesting investment and possible distraction.

Within days, I found it—an established winery that had once been the pride of the area and had fallen on hard times when the patriarch died. The winery was in foreclosure. Before it went to a bankruptcy auction, I scooped it up for a song.

And found myself with a handful of employees—including one Miss Bryn James—looking at me as their personal savior.

Turned out the problem hadn’t been the employees or the wine that was produced. It was the squandering of money on the part of the eldest son who’d taken over and spent lavishly on everything and nothing. He’d bled the company and his family’s coffers completely dry—left it to flounder with lackluster marketing, dated labeling, and no projected plan for the next six months, let alone the next five years.

The place had been destined to fail.

So I snapped up the property, slapped my name on it and the DeLuca Winery was born. I’ve worked these past months nonstop, preparing for the grand reopening. The majority of the locals, especially the local vintners, think I’m a joke. That I’m the big, bad, and early retired baseball player Matthew DeLuca coming into town and playing like I know how to own a winery. Like I came here looking for a hobby and the winery is it.

They’re sort of right, not that I’d ever admit it.

I want to prove them wrong. I want to show them I know exactly what the hell I’m doing. I want respect. Unlike my father, who’d held respect in his hands time and again and then crushed it until it disintegrated into dust.

I’m nothing like him. He’s a joke. The public tried to make me out to be a joke too. And they probably will again. I need to prove once and for all that just because I’m Vinnie DeLuca’s son, that doesn’t mean I’m just like him.

That’s why I need to stay far away from Miss James. She’s sweet, but she’s a female who works for me. And that could cause all sorts of trouble.

Trouble I absolutely do not need.

Bryn

I SETTLE IN behind my desk, grabbing the invoice Ivy left and add it to my stack of things I need to do before I leave for the day. Lately I don’t make my escape until past six, but today I have a feeling I’m going to stay even longer.

With the grand reopening happening in little over a week, there’s still so much to do. Plus I guess I need to make some time to go shopping this weekend with Ivy and find a dress. Not that Matt doesn’t pay me well, but I really can’t afford such a splurge, especially on a dress I’ll probably only wear once before I shove it into the back of my closet.

Still, I want to look my very best for Matt—as a representative of the DeLuca Winery of course.

Of course. It doesn’t matter that you think he’s so gorgeous your head spins every time he looks in your direction. Or when he flashes that smile. Or when you spend time in his office, just you and him, working together, his voice a low murmur, his clean masculine scent lingering in the air, driving you wild. The way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. Like maybe he wants to slowly strip your clothes off and run his hands all over your bare skin. Followed up by his mouth.

Sighing, I hang my head, staring at my keyboard before me. Having the hots for my boss is just about the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. And I’ve done plenty of stupid things in the past.

I roll my eyes and start typing. Even my thoughts go round in circles. I make no sense in my head, worrying about the going-nowhere crush on my boss. So how can I ever make sense when I’m talking to Matt? I get around him and my brain literally short circuits. He approaches my desk, and I feel a little dizzy. He smiles at me, and my heart skips about five beats.

What’s worse? I’ve gone down this road before. And not only a crush; I let my former boss chase me around his desk a couple of times, his quick hands grabbing my ass. My br**sts. I’d slapped him away but giggled. Then I’d gone and let him kiss me.

A lot.

Then I found out he had a wife and children and, oh my God, I’d wanted to die. I quit the very next day. I’d been all of nineteen, scared out of my mind and afraid his wife would come after me. And with just cause, since I kissed her husband. How could I do such a terrible thing? What was wrong with me?

You were born with that pretty body and that gorgeous face, my grandma told me long, long ago. It will bring you nothing but trouble girl. Y’all are too pretty for words.

I grimace, my fingers poised over the keyboard in mid-tap. Great. Now my grandma is haunting my thoughts. But those words she said—and what happened with my old boss—are the reason I began downplaying my looks. My face caused me so much trouble.

When I was a little girl, the known pervert who lived in the trailer three spots down tried to drag me into his car. I’d done what my mama always told me to do if someone ever tried to snatch me up—I spit in his face and ran away.

And when I was in high school and three jocks from the football team cornered me in the empty gymnasium, shoved me to my knees and were ready to take turns using my services—by sticking their dicks in my mouth—until their coach found us and told them to get lost. No one ever talked about it again.