Page 38 of A Vintage of Regret
He glanced at his watch. Mason was late. No surprise there—between the kids, the job, and Sandy’s knack for finding “one lasterrand,” Mason almost always ran behind on the rare occasion he found a free night for some much-needed male bonding.
The door creaked open behind him, letting in a draft of cooler night air. Bryson turned slightly—and stilled.
Grant Callahan. Wonderful. Bryson wasn’t in the mood for angry banter that teetered on the edge of angsty adolescent behavior. He was still reeling over his encounter with Monica, which included the three texts she’d sent shortly after. One had been begging him to reconsider his attendance at the garden party as her date. She made some ploy about how the optics would be good for both of them. A united front would bring in more money for the charity. Utter bullshit.
The other two texts were regarding Riley, and those had totally churned his stomach. Monica—and her insecurities—was fishing for information, and he wasn’t about to feed her and her self-doubt.
Grant glanced around the bar, and the moment he spotted Bryson, Grant moved through the crowd like a ripple disturbing still water. Broad shoulders, crisp shirt, a face that carried the Boone-Callahan small-town legacy in the hard set of his jaw, as if they were the Hatfields and McCoys. For a heartbeat, they just looked at each other like they used on the football field during practice. Tight, angry, and ready to tackle. Which was funny, since they’d both been quarterbacks.
“Bryson,” Grant said, striding over. His voice was controlled, but tight, like a rope stretched to its limit.
“Grant.” Bryson kept his tone neutral. No point giving him more to work with.
Grant stopped just short of crowding his space. “Have you seen or spoken to Riley?”
“You’re looking for herhere?”
“No, but since I saw you, I’d thought I’d ask. You two seem to be spending a lot of time together. Which shouldn’t surprise me but somehow does.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or a dig.” Bryson took a slow pull from his beer. “Last I saw, she was leaving the tasting room. Said she was headed back to the Stone Bridge Inn to relax.”
Grant’s gaze didn’t move, but something behind it flickered—restlessness, maybe. Unease. It was the same look Grant used to get when he was stuck sitting the bench during games. What transpired after those games was never good. Arguments. Fights, usually involving fists. Followed up by a good lecture from both their parents. “She didn’t stop anywhere on the way?”
“Not that I know of.” Bryson studied Grant. He had dark circles under his eyes, which wasn’t surprising, all things considered. “Something wrong? Did something happen?”
“I just wanted to check in with her.” Grant’s gaze continued to dart around the bar. The man was on edge, only Bryson had no idea about what, and that was never a good sign. “When our mom found out about the autopsy, she went into one of her rants. I’m worried she might have called Riley and said a few things she shouldn’t have.”
“I assume you’ve tried calling,” Bryson said.
“Of course. I’ve been trying to reach her for hours. I figured she was with you.” Grant let out a long breath, looking Bryson up and down. “Did you two get into a fight, because if she took off again because of you, we’re gonna have a problem.”
Of course, everything was Bryson’s fault. Grant had a knack for making Bryson his fall guy. Whether it was on the field or in life, Bryson was the reason something didn’t work out for Grant.
However, Bryson wasn’t going to be the one to tell Grant about the run-in with Monica. That would cause fists to fly,and Bryson hadn’t thrown a punch since he’d been in his early twenties. He’d like to believe he’d… matured.
“When she left, she said she wanted to relax in a nice, long, hot bath. That’s all I know.” He raised his hands like he was waving a white flag. “Swear.”
The door to the bar swung open again, letting in Mason, a gust of cooler air, and the smell of woodsmoke from outside. Mason’s ball cap was turned backward, his cheeks flushed from the night air.
Bryson smiled. He had backup, and Mason was a nice stabilizer. He hadn’t lived in Stone Bridge long. Only since he’d married Sandy, but he’d become a staple in the community. He fit in—better than some people born and raised.
“Sorry I’m late,” Mason said, clapping Bryson on the shoulder. “Had to drop the kids at my mother-in-law’s—Sandy’s heading over to the winery to take another look at the security footage. She said she spoke to you, your father, and Devon about it.”
“She did. My dad’s waiting for her.” Bryson grimaced.
Grant’s head turned sharply. “Wait. Why? Did something else happen at the winery?”
Mason blinked, shifting his gaze between Bryson and Grant. “Not sure. She didn’t say. My wife tries not to bring her job home. While it’s a small town and not much happens—we have a rule—home is family.”
“That’s a good rule to have,” Bryson said. “Impossible for my family. Though, we try not to talk business at the dinner table.”
“I’d like to know if this has anything to do with my dad,” Grant said. “I think I have that right.”
Bryson met Grant’s stare. This was not going to end well. “All I know is that Sandy called asking if she could take another look at our camera footage from that day.”
Grant’s jaw clenched. “Or maybe you’re stirring up trouble where it’s not needed. Putting ideas in someone’s head. You’ve always been good at that.”
Bryson’s fingers tightened around the bottle. “Why would I want the cops poking around my business? That’s not a good look for me.”
