Spotlight & Giveaway: The Accidental Crush by Mia Heintzelman

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Mia Heintzelman to HJ!

Hi Mia and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, The Accidental Crush!

To start off, can you please tell us a little bit about this book?:

A vacation fling between a beautiful workaholic and a heartbroken player leads to a strictly business workplace romance that has them questioning if mixing business with pleasure is worth the risk for love.
 

Please share your favorite lines or quote(s) from this book:

“I can’t tell if this feels like a silent vigil to honor my fallen love life or a seance to contact it.”

“Did you bring fancy lube out here in the broad daylight?”

“Suddenly, the few feet between us feel like miles, and making it to Sunday feels like a marathon.”

“She’s a good woman, from the best vine, flawless, and overflowing with life.”

“Look, I’m sorry I almost flashed you on our first full day. You’ve already seen everything I’ve got.”

“Yeah, maybe don’t look at me like I’m a piece of meat if we’re going to keep business at the forefront.”

“Right now, it’s fair to say I’m confused, amused, and strangely aroused.”

“Look, controlling myself with you… It’s hard as hell, but please don’t apologize for touching me.”

“You don’t mess with the ancestors when they’re working on love connections. If the winery is rocking, don’t come knocking, am I right? Like, read the room.”

“Obviously, this isn’t a Cinderella story. Tangled, maybe.”

What inspired this book?

So many things! Mostly, I loved the ideas of a family saga built around a black-owned Napa vineyard and winery, and a group of fiercely beautiful, smart, loyal, and loveable black women. There have been lots of vineyard romances recently, but I loved this particular mashup of Succession meets Girls Trip. Plus, wine always pairs well with a good HEA.

How did you ‘get to know’ your main characters? Did they ever surprise you?

Morgan Forster is such a great representation of a lot of goal-oriented women today. She is extremely intelligent and driven. She started her own business consulting firm and has grown it far beyond a small startup. Except, with great success comes endless working hours and electronic devices, leashing her to the workday to keep her company afloat. Thus, the girls trip intervention to wine country that leads her to meet a vineyard owner in plain clothes, who’s also on the brink of a breakdown of a different kind.

Dante Fortemani has learned that his beloved late grandfather’s vineyard will be sold if he doesn’t do something to save it. None of his family think he’s capable or resourceful enough, so he’s intent on exchanging his carefree, player lifestyle for marketing and event planning to grow the vineyard’s patronage…starting with a Galentine’s Brunch.

Two things always surprise me. First, the way these two immediately had palpable chemistry that leaps off the page. The frustrations of they shared made them feel seen as well as provided a comfortable release. Second, the fact that my books are romcoms but there’s so much emotion packed in. There’s mention of grief, loss, and fears tucked between the laughs and swoony moment.

As far as getting to know my characters, like most of my books, it’s through their family and friends. It’s almost like I’ve asked them, who are these people, and their closest loved ones whispering in hushed tones, What happened to her? What’s he after in life? So, what’s the problem? Really, it’s unfettered fictional gossip but I’m always listening with eager ears.

What was your favorite scene to write?

The deep-seated romantic in me will always choose the meet-cute. A handsome, wealthy vineyard owner and a gorgeous workaholic tucked on the edge of a party, working away on her portable, foldable, Bluetooth keyboard? Lol. Check it out.

“Another one?” he asks. Except there’s subtext smeared all over the words. All I hear is “want a refill so you’ve got an excuse to keep delaying walking around and actually conversing with the guests?”
“Actually, I’m good, Tone,” I say, tossing back the last of my wine. I set my glass on the bar, and push to my feet, still shy of liquid courage. But I’ve got half a mind to find Marco and explain why my presence isn’t necess—
Movement in my periphery snags my attention.
At the other side of the bar, crouched behind a tall plant- er, is a woman with deep brown skin and wild, dark natural curls. In the glow of the early afternoon sun, she’s undeniably radiant. And by the way she keeps alternating from rapid- fire tapping on her phone to peeking over at the guests dancing, she’s clearly hiding.
But why? And from whom?
I double back to the bar with an unrelenting need to know what this woman is up to, and why she chose today to be here.
Over thirty people are here. Some alone. Others in couples or groups of friends or family. They’re all halfway drunk and singing off-key with the band. But this woman’s glued to her phone, so it feels like my business to know who she is.
Nope, no. She is not part of the plan.
I linger, drumming my fingers over the smooth wooden surface…
But Marco did say the comment cards wouldn’t do. That I needed to talk with the guests. Get a feel for how they’re enjoying the experience. Who better to ask than the single person at the vineyard, evidently not having a great time?
“Actually, Tony…”
He flits a glance between me and the flowerpot woman, quickly connecting the unspoken dots. I’ve given a select few trusted members of my staff a heads-up about the offer Mom mentioned at the meeting last month. With today’s event, I knew there was a chance the potential buyer might show.
“Two Merlots?” He’s already backing away toward the wine, thankfully, on his game.
“I’ll take them at the other end of the bar.”
I take slow, measured strides in the woman’s direction, hoping for a glimpse of what she’s working on. Obviously, not financial documents and such. But maybe, some hint about the soil, terroir, water sources, and layout designs. Bare minimum, her notes on the wine we produce.
Adrenaline surges through me as I approach the last barstool.
From the short distance between us, I watch her, study- ing her tense body language and stolen glances of the crowd. She tucks her lush lower lip between her teeth, deep in concentration.
When I think about the audacity it takes to show up at a vineyard during a celebratory event pretending to be a guest, the thought hits me like icy water.
I’ll bet they lowballed us on the offer, too. And now, they’re here to scope out their potential investment. But is this woman the investor or the representative sent to do the dirty work?
There’s only one way to find out.
Except, as I settle on the barstool closest to her, I’m thrown off by her humming along with the music.
Then, her messy makeshift office.
Instead of blueprints and wine cards, there are yellow Post-its affixed to the backside of the planter. She’s got a mini picnic going on, including a napkin-wrapped croissant, grapes, and a quarter-full glass of our new rosé blend wine. And the real kicker? The hot pink “But First Wine” sticker stuck to a pocket-sized wireless keyboard balanced on the tops of her knees.
Clasping my hands on the bar, I laugh to myself.
Not that I don’t think she could be my underhanded suspect ready to rip my family legacy out from under my feet but somehow, the croissant flakes smudged into her deep red lipstick… Not exactly giving off the vibe.
“That’s some setup you’ve got yourself,” I say.
She looks up, unsure at first who I’m talking to until I tip my chin to her private traveling office.
“Oh, this?” Her rich brown eyes widen before she giggles self-consciously. “You must be wondering what I’m doing back here…”
“The thought had crossed my mind.” I flash her a small smile.
She peeks past the planter again, and she must determine the coast is clear for her to reemerge because she slowly glides her back up the wall. She’s halfway upright but poised to crouch down again if needed…and positioned so that I get a view of how incredibly stunning she is in fitted jeans and a pink T-shirt that’s uh…original, to say the least.
An unexpected chuckle stirs in my stomach.
The woman tilts her head in question, misunderstanding my laughter.
“Nah, it’s…” I give a small head shake. “I’m fully intrigued to hear your story but that’s a great shirt you’ve got on.”
She pinches her fingers around the fabric at her waist, so the full graphic of the tiny hearts, sombrero, and loaded taco, framing the words “Nacho Valentine” stretches across her chest.
The beautifully shaky smile reappears on her lush lips. “They’re fun, right?” She stares down at her shirt with a soft smile like she’s lost in a moment in another time and place.
“Definitely creative.”
My voice seems to snap her back and she looks up at me, not even bothering to hide her laugh.
“This might surprise you, but it’s not my doing.” She searches the crowd. “I don’t see her, but if you notice a tall Black girl with a Beyoncé blonde ponytail…she’s the one who got them for our whole group.”
“Oh, so there are more of you?”
I swipe my finger at my lip, signaling her about the croissant flakes, and she mirrors me until I nod that they’re gone.
“Thanks, but yeah, five of us. ‘girls’ trip!’”
Ah, how could I have forgotten the marketing genius of the “girl squad.”
She throws up a pair of air quotes and rolls her eyes, laughing.
“Although, Avery—who picked out these babies—was trying to match the vibe of the event. I blame these on whoever’s in charge of the marketing for this thing.”
“Really? Do tell.”
“Oh, yeah!” She packs her office into her purse, polishes off the rest of her red blend, and scans the crowd again. “You’ve got to see this…”
“Say less.” I stretch out my legs in front of me and fold my arms across my chest, settling in for the story. Strangely, I’m reenergized by the prospect that she might not be a secret buyer after all. I’ll never admit to Marco that he was right. That chatting with this vibrant woman is so much better than reading through comment card responses. That, I’m secretly loving how my doomscrolling has come through for me in a huge way…
But then nothing could’ve prepared me for the fortifying surge of giddiness and curiosity swirling inside me as she steps over my legs and nervously slides onto the barstool beside me. She’s clearly out of her comfort zone but she’s doing it anyway, which I’ve got to respect.
So, I swing my legs around, alongside her stool, giving her my undivided attention.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Mm-hmm.”
She’s clearly not but I humor her anyway, tracking her movements as she shoves one hand in her jeans back pocket and fishes out a folded packet before she rests the other hand on my forearm, not-so-awkwardly.
The air buzzes between us.
My skin grows hot.
Suddenly, I’m hyper aware of my pulse and the warm sensation flooding my insides. Her touch is so unexpected. So tender and light, the only thing I can possibly think to do not to hold her hand in mine and tug her between my legs is shake her hand.
Corporate bro style.
In hindsight, it’s a colossal mistake.
As she wraps her slender fingers around mine, my entire body comes to attention, begging for more.
Damn, am I this cliché? This shallow? All a woman has to do is touch me?
“I’m Morgan, by the way.” It’s the slight hint of a suggestive lilt carrying her name. The silent “in case you were wondering and wanted to get to know each other better” that lingers on the cusp of my mind.
Jesus, she isn’t part of the plan.
“Dante,” I manage.
On cue, the way only Tony—my unofficial accomplice/wingman—chooses his moments, he slides the two wineglasses in front of us. Plus the bottle. “If the music is too loud, you’re welcome to enjoy a stroll off the main lawn on the Eugenio Trail.”
I shoot him a pointed stare as I glide my hand over my scalp.
It’s Nono’s trail.
“Or we can wander the grounds,” I say to Morgan, unenthused about Tony’s suggestion.
As if she senses my reservations, she does the sexy as hell lip-biting thing, drawing my attention to her soft mouth, and it’s almost unfair.
Had she happened before the quarterly meeting, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from pulling her farther between my legs. From kissing her and getting her alone in a quiet corner of the vineyard. From letting her know exactly what she’s doing to me.
But that’s what everyone expects, right?
All I’m good for is chasing skirts and lining up nightly bedwarmers, according to Stef. A comment that none of my family refuted, by the way. Even my best friend echoed the sentiment with his “thinking with the right head” comment.
You can resist her.
Painstakingly slow, she brings the wineglass to her lips. And she lets her head fall back, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. Then she replaces the glass on the bar and steps so close I get the faintest hint of a light vanilla scent.
That fiery desire that flickered to life inside me curls down my spine, now. And keeps going lower, and lower.
Down, boy.
“I’d love to see more…” She leaves the rest of her sentence open for me to fill in the blanks.
See more of the vineyard. The ever-loving trail. Me.

Fuck.
Every brain cell in my cranium is telling me to prove Marco and Stef wrong. To prove I can walk a few fucking acres with a woman and pick her brain without taking it any further. That this brunch isn’t some deep-seated ploy to get gorgeous, funny, distractingly sexy, single women—who still might be a secret buyer—up here. For all I know, her packet that we conveniently sidelined could be proof.
It’s mixing and mingling. Getting to know a guest. She’s discovering our wine. Walking alone with her doesn’t have to change that.
Pushing to my feet, I scoop up both wineglasses and the bottle. “How about we take these to go then?”

What was the most difficult scene to write?

Since meet-cutes are my jam, it makes so much sense that breakups—or anything that takes us away from the happily ever after I want so bad—are the hardest. The scene in which Morgan is asking Dante how he thinks it went with his family meeting her, nearly breaks them. Check it out.

“Clear one thing up for me,” I say. “How do you think it went today with me meeting your family?”
He shifts on the cushion to face me, visibly relieved that we’re finally talking in more than one-word responses.
“Fine.”
We both laugh because I deserve at least one.
I lift a humor me eyebrow at him.
“Okay, not fine but all in all, it was pretty standard for the Fortemani bunch.”
“No, what I mean is…” I lock my phone screen, abandoning the chat to sit taller. I need to see every line and shadow of his face when I say this. “You didn’t feel like there was something off?”
“Like what?”
“Clearly, by the looks of things, we interrupted them.” I shrug, searching for the right words. “I got the distinct impression your brother isn’t behind you on the proposal.”
“No, he isn’t. But he’s my older brother. If he wasn’t being an ass to me, then I’d be worried.” Dante’s shoulders shake with laughter.
I’m not buying it, though.
These are the moments I wish instant replays were a part of everyday life. I’d reel the scene back to the moment when Dante whisked me across the street to a café to meet his family like it was us against the world. We’d see him proudly introducing me to his unnerved mother. Then I’d zoom in on Stefano when Dante brought up the proposal and the gallery event.
How is your little proposal coming along?
Okay, so he didn’t say “little” but I heard the condescension in his tone. While Stefano downplaying Dante’s and my work might have nothing to do with it, and everything to do with an out-of-hand sibling rivalry, I watched him. I know the difference between polite conversation and talking in code. The question is why.
“So, why didn’t they invite you, and what’s so hush-hush about birthday planning when your mom was sitting right there?” I ask.
“What are you saying?”
“You said it yourself, your mom makes the decisions, but your brother has her ear. What if this is how he uses his ‘strong hands’?” Dante’s eyebrows draw together, so I clarify: “I’m simply asking if we’ve got a real shot here with Stefano downplaying everything we’ve done before he’s seen the proposal?”
“Chiara would never do that to me,” he says.
“I can handle it. I’ve been underestimated more times than I can count. I just need to know what we’re dealing with here. I think I deserve that much.”
Two cushions stand between us, but our bodies are squared to each other. So, it feels like we’re nose to nose, facing off.
“Morgan, I’m sorry. It’s hard to tell Stef’s got any home-training. I make no excuses for him. But I know he’s still pissed at me. Mom put a pin in the vineyard listing. He thinks we’ve been playing around,” Dante explains, like that even remotely covers the rampant red flags at that lunch. “He’s got no idea how amazing our proposal is going to be. This is about him, underestimating me.”
“So, you’re completely confident they’re not patronizing you?” I huff out a laugh through my nose. “You’re convinced they were really party planning, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m not. I pay attention to details like the bold Realtor logo, for instance. Did you see it on the packet in front of your mother before she placed her napkin over it?” I shake my head. “I’m a business consultant trained to sniff out liabilities, not some secretary, arm-candy dating the boss.”
“You’re not a secretary. I know you’re not a secretary. Morgan—”
“What?”
“Exactly, I’m not paying you to jump to conclusions about whether my family is giving us a fair shot.” Dante’s tone takes on a jagged edge. “I hate to point out the obvious, but you are in fact contracted by me to do this job. And we have had sex.”
My chest cinches tight and my eyes blur as I fend off tears.
“Look, I don’t work for you. I’m a business owner too. I choose my clients. I decide my schedule. It was your idea for me to be here for a week. To experience the full picture, when all of this could’ve easily been handled through video chats and emails.”
I’m throwing everything I’ve got at him, and still my argument feels weak. I did this wild, totally out-of-character thing and now it’s coming back to bite me in the ass.
“Seriously, Morgan, I refuse to spend the next two days fighting with you. I said I was sorry about my brother, and I meant it. There’s no conspiracy,” he argues. “Now, that’s the end of it.”
Finality rings in his cold, hard tone.
I know whatever it is we’re doing here, this isn’t some romantic comedy movie where we fall madly in love after a few days together.
Wake up, Morgan.
Everything I wanted to say lodges in my throat. I feel my eyebrows drawing together as I stare at him, fighting the urge to scream and yell at him.
Poking my tongue in my cheek, I exhale a pained laugh, letting my tears roll down my face. “I wish I never came here. I wish I never spent even a second with you at the Galentine’s event.”
“As if you didn’t go down that trail with me, knowing exactly what was going to happen.”
I’m stunned, every inch of me bruised.
My throat constricts. He’s twisting my decision to be wild and free that night and attacking my character. He’s making it seem like casual sex was my rule and not the exception. He’s cheapening everything we’ve shared, and it hurts.
“I’ve never had anyone make me feel as belittled and alone as you made me feel today.”
He snickers. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
It’s all I can take not to run to the guest room and swipe my toiletries and all my belongings into my suitcase to get out of here. He’s on my heels the entire way, his strides long and steady. With no order whatsoever, I ball up my suits and shove them along with my shoes into my bag, leaving out my pajamas. I’m sitting on the hard shell of the luggage, struggling to close the zipper when he leans into the doorframe.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.” I strain, finally dragging the zipper past the giant bulge of my junk. Then I get to my feet and tug Chiara’s dress over my head. After I yank on my pajama shorts and shirt, rapid-fire, I type out a message to my girls before I swipe over to the files in my cloud.
“What, like right now?”
“Yes,” I say, finally meeting his stare. “I’ll email you the proposal. I’m leaving.”
I’m not having fun anymore.
“So that’s it?”
I nod, afraid of losing the battle with my heart.
Dante ducks into the hallway, and I’m frozen for a moment, listening to his footsteps stall near his office. The man he is, he’s not going to let me leave without paying me. He’s probably in there, writing a check for the full balance owed, and I haven’t even finished my final cost analysis to implement the events and changes in marketing plan.
Before he can make his way back, I clutch the handle of my suitcase, sweeping it off the floor as I hurry to the front door. I make my way down the steps and to my car. By the time I fish out my keys from the bottom of my purse, though, I make the most rookie of mistakes.
Fumbling with shaky hands to insert the key in the lock, I drop them in the gravel.
“Dammit, why are you being one of those stupid women in the movies?” I quietly chastise myself. “Why?”
Of course, while I’m bent over, collecting them off the ground, the front door opens.
Dante bounds down the steps until he’s at my side.
I shut my eyes, my heart beating into my ribs.

Would you say this book showcases your writing style or is it a departure for you?

Absolutely. Even more so in this book and this series. I got to really dive into voice and worldbuilding. In addition, it showcases my style of 50/50 “rom” and “com” drenched in emotion.

What do you want people to take away from reading this book?

My biggest takeaway is that there’s always room for love. In between work and life and grief and loss, there’s always loved woven between the lines. It’s a choice to let it in but it’s never about work and pleasure.

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have planned?

I’m working on book three in the Fortemani Family series. It’s holiday focused, and centers around Dante’s sister Chiara and her ex’s best friend. The Accidental Crush releases on February 6th, then it’s full speed ahead with the rest of this series through February 2025.

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Giveaway: Winner will receive one ebook copy of THE ACCIDENTAL CRUSH plus one additional Tule ebook of the winner’s choice.

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the Rafflecopter form and Post a comment to this Q: Do you believe “strictly business” arrangements amplify desire based on their forbidden nature?

 
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Excerpt from The Accidental Crush:

CHAPTER ONE
Dante

“Listen, I’m about to walk into a meeting, uh…” I stutter into the phone as I enter the Fortemani office building, vaguely recalling the name of the woman currently lying in my bed at home. Lara, Farrah… Maybe, Tara?

Shit.

It’s on the tip of my tongue.

“Dante,” she all but purrs as I enter the lobby. “Come back to bed. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Yeah?”

I’m tempted.

These quarterly business meetings with my mother and siblings are an exhaustingly performative protocol. Instead of dressing up—well, they do—driving here, and wasting two hours, this could’ve easily been a conference call. But for my older brother Stefano, boy-genius turned silver-haired savant, it’s the pomp and ceremony he loves. He’s got my two younger siblings, Chiara and Marcello, hanging on his every word, and Mom sides with him on every family decision.

So, yeah, my ideas will be ignored. Any contribution I make will be downplayed in the face of his ego. I tend to relegate these meetings to catching up on emails and sports.

I could still climb back in bed with Maybe Tara…

Running my hand slowly over my scalp, I glance back at the door.

If I don’t show, though, Stefano will blow a gasket, and I’ll have to hear about it from Mom for the next however long…

Damn.

Stef’s been ragging on me for months. Years, really. Get my head in the game. Show some respect for our late father and Nono. What would they think about me traipsing through life without a care in the world for anyone but myself?

Honestly, it’s not worth it.

“Babe,” I reply. “I’d love to come back. You’ve got no idea how much I really want to come back…”

Jesus, what is this woman’s name?

The Suggested Contacts option would be great right about now. Anyway, I’m about to ask Maybe Tara, I think it is, to stay put while I duck out of the meeting early but as I take easy strides through the lobby, I notice someone holding the elevator door for me.

And wow is she holding it…

“Baby, I need you,” Maybe Tara pleads in my ear.

Except, my attention is fully focused in front of me.

“I’ll uh, give you a call sometime soon, yeah?”

I end the call, despite her exaggerated groan, and rush toward the elevator.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I say, taking in the full picture of a stunning young Latina with a pleasant smile and a sleek purple dress molded to her break-neck curves.

By the time the doors open on the third floor in a plume of her sweet flowery perfume, I’ve got a dinner date for the evening with Alina the gymnast. She’s a certified baddie. So much so, that I slip my phone into my jeans pocket and watch approvingly as she saunters her tight little body down the hall.

Even after she’s gone, I’m feeling pumped.

Until I round the corner.

Here’s the thing about the Fortemani Enterprises conference room. It’s housed in a converted bank vault in a downtown Healdsburg office building located near Michelin-starred restaurants, shops, spas, and world-class wineries. It’s the sort of place where, usually, my forty-five-year-old momma’s boy brother gets caught up in the ritz and affluence of the area and skips brainstorming fresh ideas. Instead, he predictably recaps the family’s astronomical wealth and conglomerate of companies.

Today, though, as I enter and settle in my chair beside Mom at the head of the table? Nothing but pin-drop silence.

I flip my wrist to check the time.

How is it that I’m only twenty minutes late and they look like they’ve been settled in for an hour?

“Good morning, everyone,” I say, glancing around the table.

A round of obligatory greetings are tossed at me, but that’s it.

Hmm.

My younger brother Marcello’s expression is giving “you’ve done it this time” vibes. But even if I’m in trouble—and I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t on our older brother’s shit list—Chiara would’ve given me a heads-up.

Our business meetings are the last business day of the last month of the quarter. In December, though, she was off on vacation with her boyfriend, Lamar, and I spent time in Vegas. So, we rescheduled. With New Year’s falling on a Saturday, we opted for the first Tuesday.

Thankfully.

By the looks of things, Chiara hasn’t been scolded yet, so travel isn’t the reason.

Racking my brain, I figure it’s got to be about business.

It’s always about business with Stef.

Let’s see, it’s mid-January, so, they’re either discussing year-end numbers, taxes, or new initiatives. Only, we’ve got until April to deal with taxes and Stefano’s Profit and Loss spreadsheets and graphs aren’t on the screen, so…

Reluctantly, I shift my attention from Mom, dressed in her signature bright pink tweed Chanel suit and hair laid smoothly against her warm brown skin, directly across the table to Stef in a crisp black-on-white suit, seated at her side. Very fitting, for her right hand, I think as he catches my gaze and holds it.

“Dante, we’re gearing up to delve into our next order of business, change initiatives. We want to take a strong stance this year to improve performance and achieve organizational objectives.”

Not even the slightest bit interested.

“And we’re certain we want to…” Chiara breaks off, her tone hardened as she glances at me. Then she shoots Stef a pointed look, redirecting. “You really think we should move forward with this?”

Apparently, we’re picking up where they left off before I arrived.

Stef’s expression tightens.

What is going on?

I turn to Mom.

She lifts the packet I’ve only now noticed in front of her. “Page three, darling,” she says sweetly, signaling for me to follow along.

As I oblige though, flipping the cover page of my brother’s Quarterly Business Plan, I’m not really looking at first. Until the bold, corporate-style words pop out at me. “Broader Goals,” “Hard metrics,” “Customer health index,” and “Benchmarking data with competitors.”

Then, I zero in on all the red on the quarterly trends report on page two. Trailing all the other businesses is Fortemani Vineyard & Winery.

“Last I checked, we don’t gamble on the things that matter…” Chiara adds.

There isn’t a self-conscious bone in my sister’s body. Growing up with three brothers, she’s got thick skin. She learned a whole hell of a lot of fighting skills—literally and figuratively. Chiara’s patient, but she levels with us because she knows how to hold her own and demands respect.

Hence, my confusion when she defers to Stef on any decision…

I shoot her a questioning glance.

No movement.

If I were sitting anywhere else in the room, I might’ve missed it but the panic behind her hazel eyes gives me pause. Briefly, I shift my attention back to the packet, now curious and fully invested in this business review if it’s got my tough-as-nails sister shook.

“I’m sorry, what initiative is it that we’re moving forward with?” I look up as Mom and Stefano exchange a loaded glance.

In my periphery, Marcello sighs and winds his finger in circles, signaling for them to wrap up whatever this silent showdown is.

But my focus is on Stefano’s stiff posture as he runs a hand over the salt-and-pepper stubble dusted on his jaw.

I feel my face twist in annoyance.

“Goddammit, Stef, spit it out!”

“Look, it’s not an easy decision but we all agree that it’s the right one,” he says, still being purposely vague. He leans forward, flattening his large palms on the table before he shares another loaded look with Mom.

Stern-faced, she nods, and finally, my brother relents. But not without milking it for his own satisfaction.

“Quarter after quarter, you show up late wearing jeans and Timberlands, and pretend to listen to us discuss the family businesses. Like we don’t know you’re checking emails and Warriors game highlights. Lining up nightly bedwarmers…” Enough with the dramatics, already. “Meanwhile, while you were off galivanting on benders in Vegas and flirting with every skirt that crosses your path, the vineyard’s numbers have steadily dwindled right under your nose.”

A wave of guilt washes over me when I consider Maybe Tara, possibly lying in my bed, and my date tonight with the gymnast…Alyssa? Alana?

Hell.

“The vineyard is fine,” I say, flopping back on my chair, visibly relieved. “It’ll bounce back. Always does.”

“Except it hasn’t.” Stef fixes his intense gaze on me. His tone takes on an impatient lilt as he scratches his temple. “Dante, you live on the family estate. Smack dab in the middle of acres of the best soils and vines in Napa County. Yet you can’t bring yourself to go out to the fields anymore…”

A fresh bout of annoyance stirs in my belly.

“Wow, good to know you’re concerned about my well-being.”

“That’s not fair.” Stefano releases a heavy sigh.

Of all people, he knows I can’t go out there.

The same way he secured this office space because he “couldn’t work” from the estate after we lost Dad, I can’t work in the fields. While Stef, at twelve, was hanging around Dad’s office with a briefcase and tie, pretending to run numbers, I was half his age, out there in the fields with Nono. Always, by his side, working the soil and roots, learning the tradition of winemaking. The traditions of generations of our family.

I still feel them out there.

“Look, I’ll level with you. We know you’re hurting. We all are. Have been for the three years we’ve been without them.” He clears his throat, having, in that one sentence, filled his vulnerability quota for the year. “You’ve got to start moving on in a real way—a healthy way. If you can stop bedding every twenty-something woman you meet long enough to focus on the business—”

“Great advice, you really dug down deep for that one.” Sarcasm drips from my tone.

“And no more avoiding your feelings.” He ignores me, staying the course of concerned older brother who, somehow, I only hear from when he’s confirming my attendance at these quarterly meetings. “You can’t focus on the rearview and embrace the future.”

That’s rich.

The thing about Stefano, he’s got a half-dozen years on me, so he thinks he knows me. Sure, over the years, he begrudgingly dragged me along to a few parties and had my back on the playground. But he’s also the same guy who broke my toys and stole my girlfriend. Twice. So, would anyone messing with him have to deal with me? Absolutely. Do I also, on a quarterly basis, want to pull him into a headlock for being a stubborn ass who always thinks he knows best? That’d be a hard yes.

“So, what are you saying, you’re getting rid of the vineyard?” I bark out a laugh, up to here with my brother’s superiority complex.

The humor seems to escape everyone else, though.

“Mom?”

We stare at each other for a beat, and I look away first. Back to the packet. Back to…

Page three.

As I flip the page, zeroing in on the words restructure and sell, Mom presses a hand to her heart.

“Darling, we received an offer on the vineyard, and we’re strongly considering it.” Her tone is soft, careful. Evidently, for my sake.

Panic surges through me as I scrutinize their faces. That’s what this whole production’s been about. Breaking the news to me.

“You all can’t be fucking serious.” I laugh but Mom reaches out and rests her hand on mine.

The comforting gesture should anchor me, but the room spins. The walls close in on me, and I’m dizzy. In a matter of seconds, all the air in my chest vacuums out of me. I feel nothing and everything. Numb, betrayed, shocked. Above all, I’m fighting mad.

I slap my hands on the desk, needing the cool wood to steady me.

God, I want to throat-punch Stef.

He’s older, but I can take him.

“Tell me again, how concerned you are about the future of the family business, Stef. Because I’m listening. I’m sure Dad and Nono are, too.”

He scoffs, resorting to his usual cocky smile and steepled hands on the table. Heaven forbid Perfect Stefano Fortemani break a sweat or humor me when it comes to staking a fucking “For Sale” sign on our goddamned legacy.

“Chiara, you’re on board with this, too? Marcello?”

Heat creeps up from my neck to my cheeks.

I’m met with more silence.

“Got it.” I nod, fuming. “The entire family is A-okay with tossing out our legacy.”

How did we get this far removed from the roots of our businesses? We’ve got a family-owned two-hundred-plus-year-old vineyard that’s spawned a successful conglomerate of restaurants, delis, and a winery. At its core, Fortemani Enterprises is about generations who labored for our legacy and so people could celebrate with great wine. Yet, my brother, and apparently everyone else at this table, is fixed on quarterly trends.

It always comes down to the almighty dollar, right Stef?

I’m halfway off my chair when I remember something my buddy Marco said, trying to convince me to wear a suit a couple meetings ago. Stef needs to know you mean business. Nine-to-five guys like him can’t comprehend anything beyond the desk.

That tracks.

No matter how pissed I am at them, I can’t walk away.

As the firstborn, Stefano has always been the overachieving leader of the pack. First to college, marriage, homeownership. After we lost Dad, he’d already learned the ropes of the vineyard’s ownership and management, so naturally, he stepped up to help our grandfather. Then, Nono passed, too. Stefano became the self-appointed “man of the family”—a role which, somehow, Marcello and I must’ve missed in the memos attached to the obituaries.

I get it, though.

He’s reliable, structured, and cautious. He’s also tunnel-visioned in his approach to business.

His idea of success centers around money, prestige, and lofty outlooks.

I don’t need tailored sports coats and slacks to dig my hands in the soil or work the vines. Even if lately I’ve only been overseeing the fields and not in them. Everything I stand for is about our family, our roots. That’s our legacy.

If we’re gambling with our history, might as well go all in.

“What if I come up with a proposal to revitalize the vineyard? Get the place back in the black…”

Under the table, Chiara knocks her knee into mine.

Solidarity.

It’s watered down, since she left me in the hot seat to battle Stef, but as the two middle children, we’ve had to constantly lobby to be heard.

“Dante, it’s not that—”

“Then what is it?” I search his eyes. “Because it’s not high on your priority list, you want to see hundreds of years of work go down the drain? You can’t bear to transfer money from one bank account to another? I’ll do it. I’m the one who lives on the land, making sure it’s here for the next generation.”

He winces, and I know it’s not about money or me moving past Nono.

My chest rises and falls but I bite my tongue. Stefano and his wife Carina have been trying for years to get pregnant. There may not be another generation to pass the vineyard to…

The thought locks me in a vice grip, my heart racing as I scrutinize his graying curls. The hardened jaw. His pursed lips.

Is that what this is about?

“Look, Stef… If you’re worried about the future of the vin—”

“I’m not worried,” he bites out.

“All right, now let’s all calm down before we say something we can’t take back,” Mom reasons.

But I don’t care.

If we—and I say we because there are five of us at this table—sit here and say nothing while we lose this vineyard that represents everything our family is down to its core, there’ll be nothing left to say.

Then Mom centers her gaze on me.

“What did you expect?” Her tone is low and sympathetic, which makes her words sting that much more. “Darling, we’ve got nine other profitable businesses. Are we supposed to let this one bleed us dry for sentimental value? It simply doesn’t make good business sense.”

“Right, business is all it ever was to you.”

As soon as I say the words, I wish I could take them back. Mom deserves better. My mother, a Black woman who married into an Italian family and upcycled a small vineyard into a conglomerate of thriving companies. To date, we’re in the best position, financially, that we’ve ever been. Even through the loss of both Nono three years ago, and seven years ago the love of her life, her best friend, she keeps the family name alive.

It’s unfair to discount any of that.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m just confused. You’ll put time, effort, and money into the other businesses but not the one that started it all? We’ve got to give it a fighting chance.”

“Darling, it’s going to take more than small fix-ups to make the vineyard what it was. Even more than that to save it. You asked for this project. You own this project”—project—“What have you done with it?”

“I hear what you’re saying, and I’m telling you—”

Mom rifles through the packet, flipping pages, and shaking her head. “What is it that you’re asking for, so once and for all we can get this off the table?”

“Mother…” The muscles at the sides of Stefano’s jaw jut out as we watch her stop on a page halfway down the stack and slowly drag her finger over a bold section. “It’s already been decided. We confirmed the listing appointment with the Realtor.”

My phone trembles over the table, and four sets of eyes snap to it before they eye me expectantly.

It’s probably a call from Maybe Tara or the gymnast, or some other woman I’d usually be texting during these meetings. But how can I focus on going back to bed after this or dinner tonight when this moment feels like it’s all that matters?

Pressing the side button to silence the vibration, I meet Mom’s stare again.

She lifts her chin.

“I’m not asking for much.” I sidestep my brother’s comment, hanging on to this tiny seed of hope. “A hundred and fifty thousand, a hundred—”

“Fifty,” she says. “You’ve got until the next quarterly meeting to present us with your proposal. Then, we’ll take another vote.”

And that’s it.

Victoria Fortemani has spoken.

I’m bolstered, though only slightly vindicated. I’ve got two and a half months and limited funds to find a way to reintroduce Fortemani Vineyard & Winery to the world, and I’ve got no clue how I’m going to do it.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

Dante Fortemani’s family never takes his ideas seriously during business meetings, so he zones out. That is, until the agenda includes selling his late grandfather’s struggling vineyard. Desperate, he appeals to his mother and siblings, and buys himself two months to protect their legacy.

Business consultant Morgan Forster is constantly connected to anything with a digital pulse. Her friends believe she’s a stressed-out workaholic in need of an intervention: a Galentine’s Day getaway in wine country, an electronic detox, and hopefully, Mr. Right feeding her grapes.

The Fortemani Vineyard Galentine’s brunch is a smashing success for Dante. Except for the woman hiding in a corner with her phone…who’s convinced he’s an escort hired by her helpful Sister Circle. Soon, laughter, undeniable chemistry, and an unforgettable night, lead Dante to hire Morgan to help save the vineyard. She accepts under one condition: it’s strictly business.

As they tread through an inconvenient attraction to create a proposal before the next meeting, though, their focus yields to blossoming feelings. Is it a mistake for them to mix business with pleasure? Or is a chance at love worth the risk?

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Meet the Author:

Mia Heintzelman is a polka-dot-wearing, horror movie lover, who always has a book and a to-do list in her purse. When she isn’t busy writing fictional happily-ever-afters, she is likely reading, or playing board games and eating sweets with her husband and two children. She writes fun, unforgettable, more than just laughs romcoms about strong women and men with enough heart to fall for them.
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