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“I don’t know, Char. I really don’t. But I do know one thing.” I swallow, mentally crossing my fingers. “I need someone to remind me never to do it again. Never to take the people I love for granted. And I’d really like for that person to be you.”
42
Chari
From the minute Devon dropped me off at the front door of Chateau LeMonte, I’ve been caught up in a whirlwind of confusion. Of course, it makes a whole lot more sense that Enzo, and not Devon, would want to meet me here. To say this is not my brother’s scene is to put things mildly. I knew something was fishy before I showed up, but I hadn’t put two and two together.
Enzo is here.
Devon is not.
I’ve tried all week to harden myself against the possibility Enzo might change his mind (although I was admittedly close to caving when he sent me that check-in text). At the end of the day, Enzo chose Angel. He will always choose Angel.
There just isn’t room for us both in his world.
Or so I thought. The realization that Angel was named afterme. . . that’s something I hadn’t prepared myself for. And honestly, I don’t know what to say.
Thankfully, a knock at the door gives me a stay of execution. Within minutes, the table is set with lunch, reminiscent of the breakfast Enzo ordered for me that morning in Switzerland. Of course, I don’t miss the parallels.
The view.
The notecard.
He’s recreating the date that put me on a collision course with disappointment and heartbreak.
Still, I don’t react to Enzo’s announcement. We talk casually over lunch, as if the bombshell he dropped on me in front of the fireplace never happened. I’m buying time to figure out what to do next. He knows me well enough to realize that, and he’s very politely allowing it.
I want to throw myself in his arms, obviously. But then what? Will it be another three weeks before I see him again? Longer?
“More champagne?”
“It’s not yours,” I tease. Forgetting for a second this isn’t a date. It’s a . . . I don’t know what exactly. “Angel doesn’t have a sparkling wine.”
“Yet.”
He refills my glass as we exchange glances. I hate to be a mood killer, but this has to be said.
“And that’s the reason why, as much as I want to forget dessert and have my way with you, it just can’t happen.”
Enzo hears only one thing in all of that. His chocolate brown eyes darken. As they do, I force myself to look away, only for my traitorous eyes to shift to his bare forearms instead. Throughout the meal, I’ve cursed the fact that I once told him I have a weakness for rolled shirtsleeves. And I’m sure he did it on purpose.
Jeans and a button-down. He knows it’s my favorite of his looks.
“Tell me, precisely,” he says, standing, “why ‘this’ can’t happen?”
So he did hear me.
Oh crap, he’s walking around the table toward me.
“Sparkling wine. Vodka. Gin. Rum.”
I know there are a ton of other liquors, but I can’t seem to name them at the moment. He’s standing so close, I have to look up.
“There will always be another thing to conquer. More markets to expand into. And you’re still in New York. And I’m”—my heart is doing a little dance as Enzo just watches me, his expression intent and serious—“still distracting.”
He leans down, gently pulls the glass from my hand and sets it down. Wrapping his fingers through mine, Enzo pulls me to my feet.
I don’t even consider stopping him. My body and mind are not communicating.
