“Hi.” Christine stepped inside and rested her laptop bag on the floor.
The little boy turned, clutching the key to the door behind his back. “Who’re you?”
She introduced herself, adding that she worked at the winery. “I’m looking for Slade.”
“I’m Truman.” He came forward to shake her hand, his expression suddenly too serious. “Uncle Slade and Uncle Flynn are upstairs with the sheriff. Do you want to be locked up with Grace and Faith and Abby?”
Christine double checked, but only Slade’s daughters were in the jail cell. “Abby?”
“She’s my dog,” the little would-be sheriff said. A small, mostly black Australian shepherd barked from beneath a bench inside the cell.
“I think I’ll pass, Sheriff Truman.” She made her escape before the boy came up with a reason to lock her up, taking the creaky stairs to the second floor.
Upstairs was a studio apartment—kitchen counter, appliances, small bathroom. A small table and chairs rested haphazardly on top of a small bed in one corner.
Flynn knelt in front of the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink, poking his hammer inside as if trying to bust through a wall. A man she didn’t know was next to him, ripping out floorboards with a crowbar. But it was her boss that Christine couldn’t pull her eyes from. A sharply dressed man on his knees, wielding a big tool. Couldn’t fulfill a woman’s fantasies any better unless he brandished a vacuum.
Slade introduced her to Nate, the sheriff-in-waiting. No one spared more than a glance her way.
“Ma’am.” Nate’s nod was executed with military precision that didn’t disturb the flow of his work. He had gentle eyes and a slow smile.
“Don’t get up.” Christine’s gaze slid to the exposed framework beneath the floor. In one spot she could see through to the linoleum on the first floor below. Definitely not safe enough to cross and politely shake the new sheriff’s hand. “I just stopped by to say hello en route to work.”
“Nice shirt.” Slade pried off another board without so much as looking twice at her navy Wilted Red Roses T-shirt.
“Nice tie,” she shot back, smiling to take out the sting, because it was a truly excellent tie—complex geometric patterns amid bold greens with a silky smooth texture she could see from ten feet away. The man wasn’t buying ties at a bargain store. “Just so you know, the T-shirt thing is a family tradition. My father, uncle, brother, and I all work in the wine industry. We get together at the end of harvest and count how many T-shirts we demolished during the year. I’m talking cracked designs, faded fabric, stains, rips, and tears. There’s also a prize for the tackiest collection of T-shirts, although we made a rule a few years ago—T-shirts with nudity or that are politically incorrect don’t count. My uncle favors political T-shirts. My dad and brother are sports fans. I tend to stick to rock bands and cartoon animals.”
There. She’d explained her casual attire. Maybe now she wouldn’t feel so intimidated by his ties. Her confession didn’t get much of a rise from the men. In fact, they were ignoring her the way men did when they wanted to finish up a physically demanding project.
“I’m going to call around to see about hiring my support team.” Since she was doing double duty as a vineyard manager, she’d need help in all aspects of wine growing and wine making.
“I won’t be around the winery today.” Slade wiped his arm across his forehead.