Unforgettable

by Ann Christopher

  “What is this?”

  “A couple things I thought you might be interested in.”

  “Well, I’m not.” Sudden agitation made her sharper than she’d meant to be. And it wasn’t her intention to thrust the papers back at him like that, but her hands were shaking and she didn’t have good motor control. Another essential element she didn’t currently possess. “I already told you I’m perfectly fine with the way my life is now. Music is no big deal to me. And I don’t even have a cello.”

  “Rent one.”

  “I can’t just rent one. My last cello was an Italian masterpiece. Nearly two hundred years old. Do you get that? It was an amazing gift to me from my father. I can’t afford another one, and anything I could afford would sound like some stupid toy they make for five-year-olds to play with. And I thought we were here to have a pleasant dinner and get to know each other again.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Zoya.” Despite the harshness of his words, his voice had an undertone of kindness that told her he understood exactly how big a deal this issue was to her. “What’s the real issue?”

  “Why can’t you let this go?”

  “What’s the real issue?”

  She snorted out a disbelieving laugh. And to think she’d missed this infuriating man when he was gone.

  “The real issue is that I lost my music when I lost you, and I’m not that big on taking chances anymore. There. Happy?”

  He kept his gaze shuttered as he sipped his wine, but there was no mistaking the surge of satisfaction that surrounded him like an aura.

  She, meanwhile, fought the feeling that she’d just submitted to a body cavity search onstage at Lincoln Center.

  “Thanks for telling me that,” he said quietly, lowering his glass.

  “Oh, whatever.”

  “But we’re taking a chance now.”

  True, and she’d never felt more vulnerable in her life.

  “Yeah, well, I’m pacing myself. So can we talk about something else now?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank God.” She breathed a huge sigh of relief and reached for the menu. “I hear this place has great spaghetti—”

  “I just want you to be as happy as you can possibly be. And I think you need music for that.”

  She dropped the menu, exasperated. “If you want me to be happy, then don’t walk out on me again. How’s that?”

  “I don’t plan to.” He stared at her, as dispassionate and immoveable as one of the faces on Mt. Rushmore. “And you can get as snippy with me as you want to, but the truth is the truth, Zoya. And we both know it.”

  They faced off over the table for a long few seconds. If she’d been in her right mind, she’d have rethought the idea of glaring at a man who only had her best interests at heart, but this whole date night experience had left her far too off balance for that.

  “My father voluntarily gave me the financials I’ve been asking for last night,” he said lightly, unnerving her with the topic change. “Actually, that’s a lie. My mother probably strong-armed him into it. But he did it.”

  “That’s awesome!” she said with equal parts relief to be off the hot seat and delight for him. “Now you can really get started making your changes.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “What do you want to work on first?”

  “The tasting room needs a serious overhaul. And we need to do it ASAP, because I want to promote our tours and gift shop merchandising, and we can’t do that if our tasting room is decrepit.”

  “Sounds awesome. And expensive. Does the vineyard have the money for that?”

  “Probably not.” He scowled. “Which is why I plan to invest some of my own money in it.”

  “Your own money? Is your father giving you a share of the vineyard, or...?”

  “That would be part of the deal, yeah. I want an ownership stake.”

  “Won’t he just leave it to you and your brothers one day?”

  “Yeah, but I want an equity stake now. I’ve earned the money and I’m bringing the experience to the table. And if I’m a part owner, I’m hoping he’ll take me more seriously. Not sure he’ll see it that way. We’ll see.”

  “I’m so excited for you. Have you met all your employees? I’m betting you’re a great leader.”

  He cocked his head, arrested. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you have a clear vision and you’re interested in helping people develop to their full potential. Look how you were just carrying on about me and the cello.”

  “That was you.”

  “Still. I can’t wait to see what you do with the vineyard.”

  His indecipherable gaze latched onto her face and didn’t let go.

  “What?” she asked, bemused.

  “Thanks. For, ah, having faith in me.”

  Zoya sat there being surprised for a couple of beats. He looked so turbulent now, so fiercely grateful, that it made something inside her heart ache.

  “Don’t look so astonished,” she said. “Of course I have faith in you.”

  “My father doesn’t have any faith in me.”

  “Do I look like your father?”

  He shook his head with what looked like open disbelief at his sudden good fortune. “Where were you when I needed a pep talk about making it through officer training? Or when I was trying to find my first job in Napa? Or when I was trying to talk my father into letting me make a couple changes at the vineyard?”

  She reached across the table for his hand. “I was right here where I’ve always been, silly boy. Wondering where you were.”

  His grip felt warm. Strong. Infinitely reassuring. And as she stroked her fingers across the sensitive skin of his wrist, his gaze turned to smoke.

  “So,” he said, his voice growing husky. “It’s been forty-eight hours or so. Are we still doing the no-sex thing?”

  “We are.” She laughed as she snatched her hand back. “Focus, will you?”

  “I’m focused on the fact that we have fourteen years to make up for.”

  “Which is why we’re talking. And you haven’t told me anything about your time in the Air Force. Or about Napa.”

  “The Air Force served its immediate purpose, which was to take up every waking minute of my day so I didn’t have time to think about you and the way we left things. I met a lot of great people. Learned a lot about myself.”

  “Like what?”

  He frowned thoughtfully, considering. “I’m tougher than I thought I was. I can get some shit done if I put my mind to it. I’m a good leader. I’m a quick thinker.”

  “Did you go overseas?”

  “Yeah.” Something dark flickered through his eyes. Despair, maybe. Grief. Loss. “Turkey. I don’t want to talk about it. Not with you.”

  “Were you injured?”

  “Nope,” he said tightly.

  “But some of your men were?”

  He said nothing, his gaze leveling out on the table.

  “Not everyone can be saved, Daniel.”

  His gaze flashed back up to hers. “You don’t know anything about it,” he said, nostrils flaring.

  “I know you tried to save your sister. And that’s got to make you particularly sensitive about keeping people safe.”

  He blinked, his attention sliding out of focus again. She kept perfectly still, waiting. And then he was back, shooting her a wry smile. “Is this payback for the whole cello thing?”

  “Nope,” she said lightly. “But karma’s a bitch, isn’t she?”

  He laughed and pointed to her menu. “Pick something so we can order. We need to get this conversation back on track. Talk about pets and hobbies like normal people do on a date.”

  “Nothing about DanZo is normal. Thought you knew that by now.”

  More of his addictive laughter. “Eh. Normal is overrated.”

  A phone vibrated somewhere nearby.

  “Sorry,” he said quickly. “That’s me.”

  “No worries,” she said, leafing through the
menu.

  He fished it out of his pocket. Glanced at the display and did a major double-take. “Oh, shit. This is my buddy Baptiste from Napa.”

  “How many buddies from Napa do you have?”

  He snorted. “A few. He moved back to Bordeaux a couple years ago. To run his family’s vineyard. They’re like Rockefellers over there. Serious old money from the two Fs. Fashion and finance.”

  “He lives in Bordeaux in France?”

  “Yeah. You mind if I—?”

  “Go ahead,” she said, bemused.

  He got up as he answered, giving her a quick kiss before he headed to the front door and outside.

  Which reminded her...

  Pulling out her own phone, she dialed Griffin’s number.

  “Hey,” he said after the first ring. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, Lucifer. Just wanted to check in and see how the twins are doing.”

  “The hooligans are fine. They’re looking forward to hanging out with you over the weekend. Fair warning: the words zombie marathon came up. Also, they both have a major science project due on Monday. They’re supposed to make working volcanos. Good luck with that.”

  “Don’t even try it,” she said, and he laughed. “Just because you have a business trip to LA doesn’t mean you can abdicate all parental responsibility.”

  “What time works for drop-off tomorrow?” he asked.

  “You tell me. I’ll be at Spun Gold all day. You can drop them there.”

  “Well, my flight leaves around nine p.m., so I could get there as early as—hey! What’re you doing?”

  There was a commotion on the other end of the line—a scuffle, maybe—and then an angry woman’s voice in Zoya’s ear.

  “Who the hell is this?” the woman demanded.

  “Desiree, what the hell are you doing?” Griffin shouted in the background.

  Zoya’s lower jaw hit the floor. “Excuse me?” she said to the woman, hastily lowering the volume on her phone because a couple of diners at nearby tables had looked around at the tinny sound of yelling voices.

  “This is Griffin Lowe’s wife and I want to know who this is calling him!” the woman said shrilly.

  Zoya couldn’t quite stifle an incredulous bark of laughter. Talk about karma being a bitch. Griffin had cheated on Miranda with Desiree. Now Desiree apparently thought Griffin was cheating on her with Zoya. Griffin might well be cheating again, for all anyone knew, but trophy wife sure was barking up the wrong tree with Zoya.

  And Zoya couldn’t wait to tell Miranda all about this little incident the second she got home from her honeymoon.

  “Listen, honey,” Zoya said, doing what she thought was a commendable job keeping most of the wicked amusement out of her voice. “You need to put your crazy on lockdown because I’m just making arrangements to get the twins for the weekend. No one here wants your precious husband.”

  “So...” After a long and bewildered silence, Desiree sounded a lot less pit bull and a lot more wounded puppy. “Who is this, then?”

  “Zoya Thomas. Miranda’s best friend.”

  Longer silence.

  “Oh,” Desiree said, her voice sounding hoarse and childlike now, and if Zoya didn’t know any better, she’d say the woman was on the verge of tears. “I’m, ah, sorry.” And then, in a muffled voice, “I’m sorry, baby.”

  Longest silence of the night.

  Then Griffin’s voice came through with no problems, quiet but as chillingly powerful as the iceberg that took down the Titanic.

  “Can I have my phone back?”

  “I’m sorry, baby,” Desiree said again with rising desperation. “Baby, I’m so—”

  “Zoya?” Griffin said, his voice clipped. “You still there?”

  “Yep,” Zoya said.

  “Sorry about that.”

  Much as Zoya hated to forgo a chance to needle Griffin about anything, especially such a deliciously target-rich topic as his child bride’s insecurities, something in his voice stopped her. He sounded so embarrassed. So exhausted. And while he might be lying in the painful bed he’d made for himself, Zoya just didn’t have the heart to give him a hard time right now.

  “No worries,” she said. “You okay?”

  Humorless bark of laughter from Griffin. “What could be wrong? Listen, let me text you about the boys, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “And, ah, Zoya? Can we, ah, keep this between us?”

  Zoya sighed, wishing she wasn’t such a soft touch sometimes. Just think of all the fun (childish fun, but fun was fun) she and Miranda could have dissecting this incident and its portents for Griffin’s second marriage.

  Still.

  Do the right thing, Zoya, came her father’s voice in her head.

  She could do the right thing.

  “You got it, Griffin,” she said, sighing.

  “Owe you one,” he said tightly. “Take care.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  She hung up, reaching for her wine, and that was when she noticed Daniel hurrying back to the table. His face shone like a lighthouse beacon for all things wonderful and exciting, his color high and his eyes bright.

  “What’s going on?” she said, catching some of his enthusiasm.

  His smile widened. “You’ll never believe this,” he said, sliding back into his chair. “Baptiste just offered me twice what I’m making working for my father. He wants me to come manage his vineyard. In France.”

  Chapter 22

  “Hey,” Zoya said early the next evening when she opened her apartment door for Daniel. She eyed him warily as she wrapped her sweater tighter around her torso and crossed her arms. Like she needed to protect herself. From him. “What’s going on?”

  His heart, which for the last twenty-four hours had been lodged in his throat like a badly swallowed pretzel, ached with a growing sense of alarm.

  He’d told her he wasn’t taking the job, so he wasn’t quite sure why their date had taken such a nosedive last night. But she’d been quiet during dinner, quieter on the ride home and silent all day today.

  Hence, the growing tension across his shoulders and back and his unannounced visit to straighten things out.

  In his mind, Daniel saw the conversation unfolding smoothly. He’d be calm as he voiced his concerns. She’d laugh them off and tell him he was crazy. They’d somehow wind up in bed (he was a little hazy on that part because they were supposed to be getting reacquainted, but, hey, a guy could daydream) and have another stellar night together.

  Simple, right?

  But in reality, twenty-four hours of the cold shoulder had left him feeling increasingly unhinged and impatient, and the look on her face right now sure as hell wasn’t helping matters any.

  “This really isn’t a good time for me,” she added. “Griffin will be here in a few minutes to drop off the twins.”

  “This won’t take long,” he said, edging past her and into the living room. Heaving a resigned sigh, she shut the door and followed him. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d stop looking at me like I’m Jack the Ripper showing up with a sharpened blade.”

  “I’m not looking at you like that, Daniel.”

  “Sure you are. What’s the problem, Zoya? Whatever it is, we need to talk about it. You can’t shut down on me.”

  “I agree. What about tomorrow?”

  The cool facade, when she had his gut tied up in knots, shot the last of his equilibrium straight to hell. “Tomorrow? We should have talked about it last night. Then I wouldn’t have wasted the whole day feeling like a two-ton anvil’s about to drop on my head. You ignored my calls and texts all day, so you’ve had time to get your thoughts together, if that’s what you needed to do. We’ve already wasted years because we couldn’t communicate. I don’t want to waste five more minutes. Do you?”

  His little speech seemed to crack the wall of ice she was hiding behind. She hesitated.

  “This can’t still be about the job offer,” he said, trying to smooth out his voice and
his emotions. “I told you I’m not taking it.”

  Zoya stared at him, her mouth tight with strain. “Maybe you should.”

  That kick in the chest took him completely by surprise. Why would she encourage him to leave when they’d just found each other again? He cocked his head, hoping he’d misunderstood. “Excuse me?”

  “Maybe you should take the job,” she repeated quietly. “You clearly want to.”

  “I don’t want the job,” he said.

  “But you’re going to Bordeaux anyway.”

  “He wants me to come and discuss business opportunities. He’s impressed with Harper Rose wines. I told you this already. He might want to buy us out. He might be willing to invest.”

  She held up a hand, stopping him dead. “How are we supposed to communicate when you’re not being honest with me? Your friend called and you lit up like the North Star. I have eyes. So please do me the courtesy of not denying it.”

  He opened his mouth, but held his words in check until he got them exactly right. They didn’t have much time right now, and he’d be damned if he’d spend another night like last night, drowning in miserable uncertainty.

  And this conversation was feeling more and more important by the second.

  “It was great to be asked,” he told her. “It was a good offer. That’s all.”

  “A good offer? It’s your dream offer. Why can’t you own it?”

  He stared at her, his thoughts churning like the clothes in some industrial washing machine.

  He didn’t want to own it. Owning it would require several painful admissions, namely that he wasn’t at all sure he could successfully work long-term with his father and, worse, that he could be tempted, at this crucial juncture in his re-blossoming relationship with Zoya, to move halfway across the world.

  “It was my dream offer, yeah. But I’m back home now. This is where I live. The end.”

  “So...What? You go to Bordeaux to discuss business opportunities with Harper Rose with him? And you can do that with no regrets?”

  Daniel opened his mouth.

  And waited for an answer that seemed stuck in his throat with that invisible pretzel.

  “I’ll feel a twinge, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “But the only thing I regret is the way I let this relationship implode the first time around. You have to know that.”