Page 11 of The Bratva’s Stalked Pregnant Bride

“Welcome to Canyon Vines,” a young woman in a cow-print vest sang as I had to nudge Laurel through.

There wasn’t a hint of recognition on the receptionist’s face as she smiled and hurried around her desk to greet us. “You must be Mr. Fokin,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Mik,” I said, glancing down at Laurel. “Everyone calls me Mik.”

Laurel was still pale, and her hands were clasped together in front of her like she was about to pray, her teeth firmly embedded in her bottom lip. I had to keep myself from reaching for her to get her to stop before she drew blood.

“Unfortunately, our owner isn’t available today. He normally likes to meet everyone on their first visit, but we made sure you’ll get the full experience without him.”

I had made it abundantly clear I was there to buy for a restaurant, so I wasn’t surprised that they were rolling out the red carpet. When I looked down at Laurel again, some of the color had returned to her face, and she made a little joke about not sampling the wines on an empty stomach.

Right, she skipped breakfast. It was clear this employee had never seen her before, and by now she looked almost normal, if still a little unsteady on her feet. She excused herself to go to the restroom, not automatically heading in the right direction, but waiting for the receptionist to point out the way.

Maybe I found the wrong Laurel Harris on that defunct web page, and this was a complete waste of time, because when she returned from the ladies’ room, she was perfectly fine. Back to normal.

“You’ll experience the flavors better if you go from mildest to strongest,” she said when a massive cheese tray was laid out before us, along with a row of wine glasses the server was waiting to fill.

I raised my eyebrow at her and purposely picked the stinkiest cheese on the board, cutting a wedge and placing it on a piece of crusty bread. Popped it in my mouth and savored it while her eyes narrowed at me.

“What’s the word for a cheese specialist?” I asked, since she obviously believed I didn’t know anything at all. “Is that a hidden expertise of yours that you kept off your resumé?”

Along with anything else?

She sniffed, but smiled sweetly at me, as if she wasn’t about to pass out ten minutes ago. “I was only trying to make sure you got the best experience.”

Ah, she was going back to being politely professional. I’d see about that. “What’s the tour like?” I asked, still not convinced and trying to trip her up.

She looked beyond the shady courtyard where we were being served at the vast rows of grapevines surrounding us, then tipped her head up to the blue sky and lone, fluffy white cloud above us.

“I’m sure it’s wonderful. Do we have time to take it?”

Throwing my own reasons for not going to any other vineyards right back at me, and if she’d been on the tour before, she wasn’t letting on. “Do you want to?” I asked. “Or all business today?”

Even her shrug was so damn sexy I wanted to reach across the table and drag her to me for a kiss that would knock the blasé attitude off that pretty face.

“You’re the boss,” she said.

“Oh, you’ve finally noticed?”

Her cheeks flared red, and it was nice to see her lose it a little. Then she knocked me off kilter with a smile. A real one, not that tight, professional one. “How can I not when you tend to rub it in?” she asked.

I laughed, and things seemed chill for all of ten minutes, when they brought out the first wines to sample. The first one was brilliant, crisp, perfectly chilled, and went down smooth.

“We’ve got to get that,” I told Laurel.

“Too dry,” she said, then asked the vineyard employee if they had it in a different year. “You’ll notice the difference right away,” she told me, then turned to mutter under her breath, “At least I hope so.”

The infuriating little know-it-all was back to normal, all right.

Chapter 7 - Laurel

I didn’t know how I made it to the welcome center. I locked eyes on the cow skull that some of the cheeky employees stuck hats on, but I couldn’t have told anyone if it wore a hat today if my life depended on it. I was just moving forward, a shaky step at a time, inwardly counting down to my demise.

Would there be a scene the moment Rand saw me? Or would he find a way to separate me from Mik to let me have it? The only thing that kept me from sinking into a heap on the cobbled path was the almost certainty that Mik wouldn’t allow that.

Wishful thinking, I was sure. I was always imagining someone would swoop in and take me away from my parents’ constant fights. By the time I ended up in a similar hell of my own making with Rand, I knew that no one was coming to save me.

But I saved myself, didn’t I? Rand didn’t own me, no matter what he thought. Let him embarrass himself by making a scene.