Unforgettable

by Ann Christopher

  “Don’t you bring her into it!” he shouted, pounding the nearest wall with his fist. “This is about you never having faith in me—”

  “No.” Nigel laid an implacable hand on Daniel’s shoulder. Much as Daniel tried to shrug it away, that hand stayed right where it was. “I’m hard on you. I admit that. Of all my boys, you remind me the most of myself. I expect a lot of myself and I expect a lot of you—”

  “You’re damn right you do!” Daniel rode that wave of emotion again, unable to dive to safety no matter how he tried. Hot tears blurred his vision, but he blinked them back, determined to pluck his eyes out and stomp them on the floor before he betrayed any further weakness for the Dictator to use against him. “You expect too much from me! You expect way too much!”

  “I know I do, son. It’s because you’re a good boy. I know what great things you’re capable of.”

  That hand weighed heavier on Daniel’s shoulder.

  Almost as heavy as the shame and anger that weighed on his heart.

  I know what great things you’re capable of.

  The worst possible thing anyone could say to him.

  Complete bullshit, in fact.

  He was supposed to be the handsomest Harper brother. The tallest and strongest. Maybe not Isaiah smart, but still plenty smart enough to amount to the kind of man a father could be proud of. Maybe even the kind of man Zoya could have faith in. Possibly want to marry.

  Maybe Nigel wasn’t the most effusive father in the world, but Daniel had always known that people expected great things of him.

  Too bad Daniel was the only one who knew that he was, underneath all the looks and credentials, nothing more than a pathetic piece of shit who’d let his sister die.

  “I expect too much,” Nigel said. “But you expect more of yourself. You always have. And you can’t do it all, Danny. You’ve got to let yourself off the hook. Let the anger go. You don’t have to be perfect. It’s not your fault she died. If anything, it’s my fault because I was the adult in charge. And I’ve had to live with that every day of my life. I had to face your mother with that.”

  “I know that! I know!”

  “Daniel. You were only fourteen years old—”

  “I know how old I was!”

  “And she was messing around on the diving board.”

  “She knew better! And I told her to stop! I told her to stop!”

  “But, Daniel, she was only eight, and eight-year-olds do stupid things—”

  “No, man! I don’t want to talk about this! I don’t want to talk about this!”

  Rage swallowed Daniel whole, making his face, scalp and ears burn, his throat tighten and his fists clench. He would not do this. He would not run back down this rabbit hole of guilt, shame and nightmares. He’d had enough of that agonizing place where Caroline was always just about to die or barely dead and could therefore be saved if only he tried hard enough. The statute of limitations had run out long ago on torturing himself. He was over it. Done. He’d already signed his declaration of independence and fought his revolutionary war against the past. The victory was his. Caroline was dead and buried. No point to resurrecting her.

  “I’m not talking about this, man.” It was hard to get the words out when he had to grit his teeth to hold back the sobs, but Daniel did the best he could. His father’s compassionate face blurred behind his tears, so he angrily wiped them with the back of his hand. “We don’t need to go there.”

  “We do need to go there, son. We should have done it years ago.”

  “No.”

  “Let it out, Danny.”

  “No!”

  “You’re not mad at me. You’re mad at yourself. And you’re mad at her for dying. And it’s time to let all that anger go. It’s hurting you.”

  “Screw you, man!”

  “Let it go, Danny. It’s over.”

  Everything erupted in a blistering surge of emotion. Guilt. Anger. Shame. The power of it bent Daniel at the waist, forcing him to brace his hands on his thighs unless he wanted to fall on his face. He was way too old for this crying shit, especially in front of his father, but that was the thing about losing control:

  You didn’t have a choice.

  “I did the best I could, man! I did the best I could!”

  For one long minute, he let the despair own him. He hated his father for raising his uncompromising mirror and forcing Daniel to look into it. He hated this vineyard for challenging him and the vineyard in Bordeaux for tempting him. Zoya? He hated her for being woman enough to see that he hadn’t been man enough for her or their baby fourteen years ago, for still being the center of his existence when he’d spent so much damn time trying to prove he’d moved on, and for making him lie awake nights wondering if she loved him enough to ever marry him, when he’d known within seconds of meeting her that she would always be the only woman for him.

  Most of all, he hated his beloved little sister Caroline for ignoring him when he shouted that warning...for playing around on the diving board when she knew better...for hitting her head...breaking her neck…sinking to the bottom of the pool and forcing him to pull her body, already lifeless, to the surface.

  Daniel couldn’t hold it all back for another second. So he let his father grip his shoulder while he cried and cried and cried.

  And then he was really done.

  Not fake done, as he’d been pretending for most of his life.

  Really done. The kind of done that translated to sunshine and air, the weight of a thousand elephants lifted off your shoulders.

  Nigel, perhaps sensing the gradual return of Daniel to his right mind, reverted to Dictator mode.

  Which was exactly what Daniel needed.

  “Stand up, boy,” he barked.

  After a furtive swipe of his wet face with the bottom of his shirt, Daniel stood. Waited, his gaze lowered, the same as he’d done all those nights his father caught him sneaking back into the house after partying.

  “You feel better?” Nigel asked.

  “Yeah,” Daniel said, his voice hoarse.

  To his utter astonishment, Nigel clapped his hands on either side of Daniel’s face, pulled him closer, and pressed a hard kiss to his cheek. “I’m happy to accept your apology.”

  “Apology?”

  Nigel reached for the desk and produced an envelope of fine white stationery. “For biting my head off when I wanted to leave this for you.”

  Oh, shit.

  Dumbstruck, Daniel took the envelope and read the note inside:

  Please get my ass out of the sling and this vineyard back in the black.

  I’ve never been happier to have a son like you.

  Your father.

  Daniel hung his head again, feeling like the slugs that tried to infest vineyards whenever people turned their backs for too long. “I, ah… I want to—”

  The old man flapped a hand. “Forget it. We’re done with the past. I’m proud of you. I have complete faith in you. In everything. So we don’t need to speak on any of this again, do we?”

  “Nah, man,” Daniel said sheepishly.

  “Good. ’Cause you got a vineyard to save.” Nigel hesitated, his eyes narrowing into the kind of shrewd assessment that Daniel normally dreaded. “And a wife to get. Don’t you?”

  Daniel thought about Zoya’s smile. Her laughter. Her sharp tongue, kindness and sexiness. He thought about the potential of his life without her (plague-wracked medieval village with poor sanitation) and with her (Disneyland and rainbows every single day, even on the worst days).

  There was no choice to be made.

  Never had been a choice since the day he met her.

  “Yeah,” he told his father. “I’ve got a wife to go get.”

  Chapter 25

  “That’s my parents’ restaurant, Harper Rose Bistro,” Daniel said, pointing as he walked down the sidewalk. “This here is my brother James’s shop, Blue Sky Outfitters, but we’ll check that out when he’s back from his honeymoon and can show us around.
They sell gelato over there. See the yellow building? I know you’re big on gelato. Being European and all.”

  “Where is the boulangerie?” asked Baptiste, who’d come back to the States with him.

  “The who?”

  “The bakery.”

  “Speak English, okay.”

  “I speak the king’s English. And how is your French?”

  “Très bien, merci.”

  Derisive sound from Baptiste. “A basic phrase learned from a travel pamphlet. You know the saying: if you speak two languages, you’re bilingual. If you speak one language, you’re American.”

  “Va te faire foutre. How about that?”

  “Your profanities don’t trouble me,” Baptiste said. “The question is, where in this small town can I get chocolate croissants and macarons?”

  Daniel shot him a sidelong glare. “Don’t get fancy, Frenchie. Our bakery’s around the corner. You’ll eat a doughnut, and you’ll be happy about it.”

  Wry smile from Baptiste. “What can I say? I’m not from around here.”

  “Yeah. You don’t blend. And I told you to stop wearing those crazy European sneakers. Those things look like a pair of Adidas mated with the genie’s pointy slippers from Aladdin.”

  “Your hate only strengthens me.”

  Daniel made a face. Rubbed his forehead. “Yeah, look, man, you need to work on your colloquials.”

  “I’d like to work on her,” Baptiste murmured, looking back over his shoulder to continue ogling a leggy redhead that passed them going the other direction. “I’d forgotten how beautiful American women are.”

  “And speaking of,” Daniel said, stopping several feet away from Spun Gold. He took a deep breath, his heart pumping out a million beats a minute as he pointed to Zoya, who was taking delivery of her new sign (Spun Gold this time, thankfully) from the same beleaguered guy with a clipboard. The several days since he’d seen her felt like half his lifetime, which was further proof (not that he’d needed any) that there was no way he could take Baptiste’s job offer. They’d texted several times, but their argument had left him and the future of their relationship very unsettled, and he intended to rectify that situation as soon as possible. Their time apart had certainly clarified his goals; hopefully it’d done the same for her. “There’s my girl.”

  She wore a fluttery red dress today, all sunshine and light as she signed something and beamed up at the delivery guy.

  Baptiste’s breath caught as he stared at Zoya. “Beautiful. Now I can understand why you turned down my job offer. Before, I just thought you were an idiot.”

  “Thanks for that,” Daniel said sourly.

  “Does she have sisters? Friends?”

  “Like I’d introduce you to any nice women I knew.”

  “That hurts me.” Baptiste made a show of pressing a hand to his heart. The performance showed promise, at least until he turned to stare after yet another passing woman. “That really hurts me.”

  Daniel clapped him on the back to get him moving again. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Zoya looked around right about then, and her gaze connected with Daniel’s. Though she’d been smiling at her sign, she brightened until every part of her body seemed to be in on the joy. Hell, it even seemed to propel her down the sidewalk and into his arms.

  Daniel had just enough time to brace himself and catch her by the waist, lifting her straight up until her feet dangled above the ground and her arms tightened around his neck. She was compact but strong. Warm. Curvy. Luscious. Fragrant. Everything.

  Journey’s End was his home, yeah, but so was this woman.

  “I thought you weren’t coming home until tomorrow,” she cried.

  “Zoya,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut as he kissed her cheek.

  “I missed you,” she murmured in his ear. “Don’t leave me again, okay?”

  “You got it, Kitten,” he said fervently.

  “Hello, Kitten.” Baptiste’s amused voice popped their reunion bubble. “I’m Jean-Baptiste Mercier. Pleasure. I’m ready for my hug now.”

  With a sharp intake of breath, Zoya stiffened and glanced around to discover Baptiste waggling his fingers at her.

  And then, as per usual when it came to women and Frenchie here, there was another sharp intake of breath. She smacked Daniel on the shoulder, wanting to be put down.

  Sighing with annoyance at this swift loss of his beloved’s attention, Daniel set her on her feet and watched the Mutual Admiration Society convene its latest meeting. He kept an arm firmly around Zoya’s waist, though. Just to be safe. The way she was looking at Baptiste? Seemed only prudent.

  His buddy ticked all the sexy European boxes, Daniel supposed grudgingly. Shaggy dark brown hair that just hit his collar, don’t give a fuck five o’clock shadow, the jacket, the high-end skinny fit jeans, the cheekbones, the soulful eyes. Insincere when it came to women, but soulful looking. Hell, Baptiste even had the scarf thing going, with a blue one artfully arranged around his neck.

  And Zoya was lapping it up.

  Daniel awarded her silent points for trying to keep it on the down-low in front of him, but the telltale flush creeping over her face was a dead giveaway.

  “Daniel,” she said in a stage whisper. “Some hot guy wants to hug me.”

  “Ignore him,” Daniel said. “He’s a vagrant.”

  Baptiste flashed that shit-eating grin a little wider at Zoya, and his damn eyes glittered. “It seems as though this guy should show me a little more loyalty. Because if it weren’t for me and my jet, he’d still be at de Gaulle, hoping his flight is delayed while he waits half his life at security. All because he wants to get back to his beautiful Zoya as soon as possible. So it seems like he should allow me one little hug. Without insults.”

  Zoya twinkled up at Daniel. “That seems fair, don’t you think?”

  “Eh.” Daniel shrugged, working hard to keep his grin on lockdown. “This one time. Just so he can eat his Gallic heart out.”

  “Zoya.” Baptiste opened his arms with obvious delight, then swept her in for a double-cheeked kiss.

  Zoya damn near swooned. “Oh, my God. Look at your eyes. They’re green. Like moss. That’s amazing.”

  “Thank you. And you’re magnificent. I can see why Daniel couldn’t stop talking about you.”

  Zoya’s grin widened. “Thanks for bringing him home, Baptiste. Am I saying it right? Baa-teest?”

  “That’s perfect.”

  “Not Jean-Baptiste? Oh, I get it. You’re named after John the Baptist,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Americans. They’re so slow sometimes, aren’t they?”

  “It’s true. I’m named after a saint,” Baptiste said, ducking his head in a show of humility that fooled no one.

  “And that’s where all comparisons to a saint end,” Daniel muttered. “Trust me.”

  “Sounds like jealousy, Zoya,” Baptiste said without missing a beat. “He sees what’s brewing between me and you.”

  Zoya laughed. A little too gaily, in Daniel’s opinion.

  So he elbowed Baptiste out of the way. “Say au revoir now, kids. Baptiste is going to wander around. See how he likes Journey’s End.”

  “Au revoir, Zoya,” Baptiste said. “I’ll see you later.”

  “You’re staying for a few days?” she asked.

  “At least,” Baptiste said, turning to go.

  “Great shoes!” she called after him.

  Baptiste glanced down at his ugly-ass shoes, then smirked up at Daniel.

  “Buy some Air Jordans,” Daniel said. “I’m begging you.”

  They all laughed. Baptiste shoved his hands in his pockets and headed off to parts unknown, while Daniel pulled Zoya close again, for a kiss this time.

  “I missed you,” he said huskily when they pulled apart.

  She was gratifyingly breathless and flushed. “I missed you. I want to hear all about your trip, but I can’t talk now—”

  “I know,” Daniel said. “I came to see your father anyway.
”

  Zoya frowned. “My father?”

  Right on cue, the door to Spun Gold banged open and Big Shel appeared, all smiles.

  “Here I am, Danny Boy,” he said. “You ready for our lunch?”

  “Past ready,” Daniel said, turning Zoya loose with a final peck on the cheek.

  “My father?” she said, putting her hands on her hips and looking totally nonplussed. “But what about you and me? I thought we needed to talk?”

  “We do need to talk. So I’ll plan on seeing you tonight.” Daniel shot her a significant look. “You know what to do.”

  Zoya broke out into a knowing smile filled with sensual promise, then quickly caught herself and ducked her head before her father could see. “I’m, ah, not sure I’m free tonight.”

  “Hot date with Baptiste?” Daniel asked.

  “That’d serve you right, you cocky SOB,” she said. “I’ve got my customer knitting circle tonight. With wine. We’re working on our wool beanies.”

  “Is that so? Well, come after. I’ll grab dinner with Baptiste. And I’d like a gray wool beanie. Please.”

  “We’ll see if you please me,” she said, turning back to the sign guy.

  Daniel laughed.

  By this time, Big Shel had made it down the steps. Daniel shook his hand, then tugged him in for a hug.

  Big Shel gave Daniel’s cheek an approving pat when they pulled apart.

  “Good to see you again, Danny Boy,” he said as they set off down the sidewalk for Java Nectar. “I didn’t like you leaving again so soon after you got back.”

  “I wasn’t wild about it, either, to tell you the truth,” Daniel said. “Just a quick business trip. How’s your health? Zoya said you had some wonky test results?”

  Big Shel flapped a hand as they went through the gate and had a seat at one of the outdoor tables far away from Spun Gold and Zoya. “False alarm. My blood pressure was a little high this time. They tweaked my meds. Everything’s fine. Nothing to do with my brain tumor.”

  “Thank God for that,” Daniel said fervently.

  “You and Zoya look like you’re getting along,” Big Shel said mildly, perusing a menu someone had left on the table. “Guess you couldn’t decide who got custody of Sunday afternoons at my house and decided to work on a reconciliation instead?”