Beth Andrews - The Prodigal Son

Then he gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek.

As he eased back, Brady growled. It made Matt want to kiss J.C. again.

“Uh…good morning to you, too.” She peeked around his shoulder at Brady. “You never told me your family was so…affectionate in the morning.”

“He just did that to piss me off,” Brady said.

“Not true,” Matt claimed. “Though that’s a nice side benefit. But the truth is,” he continued, lowering his voice and leaning closer to J.C., “I’m weak. I have a hard time resisting a beautiful woman.”

She blushed and attempted to smooth her wildly curling mane of dark hair. Damn, but she was a sweetheart. Brady had somehow hit the jackpot. That is, if you considered being tied to one woman for the rest of your life winning big.

Brady cleared his throat. “If you’re done flirting with my fiancée, you might want to check your breakfast. It’s on fire.”

With a wink at J.C., Matt went back to the stove. There weren’t any flames, just a lot of thick smoke. Matt flipped the burner to low while Brady opened the small window over the sink.

After he dumped the burned food into the garbage can, Matt unwound several paper towels from the roll, balled them up and wiped out the pan before setting it back on the burner. “How about some French toast?” he asked J.C., adding fresh butter to the pan.

She looked up from pouring herself a large glass of orange juice. “You don’t have to cook for me. I can fix some—”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“He’s got that right,” Brady muttered.

“Well,” J.C. said as she picked the fork Matt had dropped earlier off the floor, “if you really don’t mind…”

“Honey, I never mind cooking breakfast for a woman.”

She smiled. “In that case, I’d love some.”

In less than ten minutes, Matt made what he considered enough French toast to feed a family of five. Or at least two grown men and one pregnant lady. By the time the food was ready, Brady had donned a shirt and he and J.C. had paper plates, forks, an unopened container of syrup and a stick of butter still in its wrapper on the table.

They’d started eating when Aidan came into the kitchen, his blond hair neatly trimmed, his dark slacks crisply pleated. “Morning,” he said to the room at large as he went to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. He took a sip, his eyes on Matt. “I didn’t think you’d bother showing up until at least eight-thirty.”

Giving himself time to hide a quick burst of irritation, Matt swallowed the food in his mouth. Just like their father, Aidan always thought the worst of him. “Hey, you know I’m happy to obey your orders.”

“Why, what time is it?” J.C. asked, sounding panicked. Before any of them could reply, she grabbed Matt’s hand and twisted it so she could read his watch. “Crap. I’m late.” Leaping to her feet, she drained her juice glass. “I’m supposed to meet Mrs. Wertz in ten minutes for my last dress fitting.”

“Don’t you have the day off?” Brady asked.

“Yes, but she doesn’t, and I asked her to squeeze me in before she goes to work. Thanks for breakfast,” she called before rushing out of the room. A moment later, the front door banged shut.

Matt scratched his cheek. “Does she realize it’s barely thirty degrees out and she’s not wearing any shoes or a coat?”

Brady held his forefinger up. Five seconds later, the front door opened and J.C. sped past them. When she came back through a minute later, her sweatpants were tucked into a pair of boots and she was zipping up a bulky, shapeless coat, her purse hanging off her elbow.

And once again, the door slammed shut.

“One thing’s for sure,” Matt said as he snagged the last piece of French toast. “Your life isn’t going to be boring.”

Aidan sat in the seat J.C. had vacated. “Since we’re all here, let’s get right to it.”

Matt snorted as he doused his toast with syrup. Right. Wouldn’t want to waste time with small talk even if he hadn’t spoken to either of his brothers for over two months. His mother being the only family he’d seen since he’d been back this time. “If this is about Brady’s stag party,” he said, “I’ve already hired the strippers.”

“We want to talk to you about the Diamond Dust,” Aidan said, sliding the remnants of J.C.’s breakfast aside before setting his cup down. He wrapped his hands around the mug. “We want you with us.”

“I’m right here, aren’t I?”

“We want you working with us at the winery. We want you to be our partner.”

Matt stilled, his fork halfway to his mouth. His throat constricted. Partners? With his brothers? “Why would I want to do that?”

“Told you,” Brady said, leaning back in his chair, his hands linked on his stomach.

Aidan kept his hooded eyes on Matt. “Why wouldn’t you?”

He slowly lowered his fork back to his plate. “I already have a career.”

A damned good one, too, not that his brothers ever bothered to mention it. His reputation as a winemaker and consultant was growing and, after he led Queen’s Valley to success, so would the number of wineries who wanted to hire him. He’d have his pick of jobs all over the world. And his brothers thought he’d give that up to stay in tiny Jewell to take over his father’s business?

“Instead of making wine for other people,” Aidan said, “you’d be making it for your own company. Your own label. And you’d have a chance to put down roots.”

Put down roots? The back of his neck broke out in a cold sweat. “Thanks but when I do decide to settle in one place—” if he ever decided to settle in one place—“I’d rather it be Italy or France or Napa Valley.”

“Dad’s dream was to pass the Diamond Dust down to his sons,” Aidan said quietly. “All three of us.”

Matt tipped his chair back until it balanced on two legs. His father had hated when he did that. “Dad’s gone. And like you said, that was his dream. Not mine. And as far as I can remember, it wasn’t either one of your dreams, either.”

“Things change.”

True. But Matt hadn’t changed. He’d never wanted to be stuck in Jewell working at the Diamond Dust. Working for his overly critical, rigid father. And while Tom Sheppard might be gone, the worst parts of his personality lived on in his eldest son. The tight leash his dad had tried to keep him on when he was growing up had almost choked Matt to death. He wasn’t about to put on another one.

“Sorry,” he said as he stood, “but I’m not interested.”

“Tell him,” Brady murmured to Aidan.

His scalp tingled. His pulse pounded in his ears. “Tell me what?”

Jaw tight, Aidan slowly got to his feet. “You have to partner with us—move back to Jewell and help run the winery. If you don’t, Mom’s going to sell the Diamond Dust to someone else.”

IT WAS A JOKE. SOME SORT of elaborate prank. It had to be.

Matt hunched his shoulders against the cold morning breeze and closed the front door of his mom’s house. The Diamond Dust meant too much to his mother for her to just toss it aside like it was an old sweater that didn’t fit her anymore.

Besides, he’d been home almost two days and she hadn’t once mentioned anything about selling the winery to him.

How could she not have told him before?

Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, he headed down the winding road hoping to catch her on the way back from her daily walk—and to give himself time to work off some of his building irritation. He didn’t want to face her until he’d gotten this surge of unreasonable panic under control.

He passed between a large block of Cabernet Franc vines and some Nortons—plants he and Brady had helped their father put in over fifteen years ago. The sun rose above the hills to his right, splashing light on the bare trees, illuminating the frost on the ground. Ten minutes later, his nose freezing, his ears stinging with cold, he reached the farmhouse which had been extensively renovated to house the Diamond Dust’s gift shop and tasting room. Just beyond it was the actual winery, a building designed to match the weathered exterior of the farmhouse but with a large cellar for making and storing the wine.