Thanks to Friday night traffic, it’s well after midnight when I roll to a stop, exhaustion pinching the space between my shoulder blades. I just f*****g want to sleep. Okay, and drink. I could use a bottle of Scotch. Or bourbon. Or anything strong enough to make me pass out and forget the f*****g mess I’ve made of my life. I cut the engine and gaze skyward. Declan scored big with this place, the air is clear and crisp, and even with the light pollution from Napa and Sonoma, and the city to the south, you can still see the stars. I didn’t bother to ask him if it was planted, but you’d have to work hard to produce a shitty bottle of wine in conditions like this. The farmhouse, destroyed by fires a year ago, stands lonely and forlorn in the moonlight, lending a gothic feel to the place. To my
