Bottles & Blades (Eagles Hockey: Oak Ridge Vineyards #1)

Chapter 20

Twenty

Jean-Michel

I’m finally able to get away from the bullshit with Justin—and the other bullshit that is an inevitable consequence of me being here: jumping into a meeting with an investor, working through an issue with our contract with Duarte, several HR issues, my approval needed to up compensation budgets, a request to meet with an employee who’d like to take advantage of our continuing education program.

They’re all important, but I am critically aware of each passing moment.

Of each minute that Tiff is sitting alone in my office.

When I’m finally done with all of that, I’m stopped by Marie, who wants to show me the final documents she’s put together for Justin to sign.

“Legal have a look at this?” I ask.

She nods. “All good on their end—terms favor Mel by a whole hell of a lot, but that’s what the asshole gets.”

I don’t disagree as I scroll through the pages on my tablet, highlighting one word change before approving the rest of it. “Is Tiff good?”

Marie frowns. “I’ve been working on the contract, but the last I saw, your office was empty.” A beat. “I thought maybe, since you got held up, you told her to go home.”

I grind my teeth together. “No. I didn’t say that.” My words are terse, but I don’t take out my frustration on Marie, just turn on my heel and move down the hall to my office, Marie’s heels clicking as she walks beside me.

I push through the door, worry snaking through my insides.

Worry that’s doused when I see the stack of notecards on the table.

Not gone—or I have a good excuse to go after her again if she is.

I move to my desk, look for a note, and finding none, I move back out into the hall, pivot for the elevators.

I’m stopped by Donnie’s voice. “Mr. Dubois?”

“Yeah, Don?” I ask, pausing by his desk.

“I didn’t get a chance to order Tiffany’s food…”

I frown.

“…because Chrissy and Rory were here,” he finishes. “They took her down to the cafe about an hour ago.”

Relief hits hard.

And then is quickly trailed by more worry.

Chrissy and Rory?

With Tiff?

“Shit,” I mutter.

I turn to Marie. “I’m taking the rest of the day off. Fix that contract, get it signed, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

To her credit, she just nods. “On it.”

“Thanks,” I tell her and Donnie, and move to the elevator.

But when I jab the button and the door doesn’t immediately open, I decide, fuck it, and head for the stairwell, yanking open the door and pounding down the steps, my heart twisting.

I love Chrissy and Rory, know they’re kind and lovely women.

But they’re also highly protective of me.

And Tiff is sweet and shy and…

Christ, what if they scared her off?

“Mr. Dubois?—”

I smile at my employee—Mitch, I think is his name—but don’t pause as I finish the last flight of stairs, brush by him, and push out onto the floor. I keep my gaze on the cafe’s door, doing my best to not stumble into any interactions that might delay me.

“Mr. Dubois,” a woman begins, and while I want to ignore her and push through the glass doors less than five feet ahead, there’s something in her voice that stops me.

A tremble.

A thread of fear.

Dammit.

I stop, look down at the woman who’s maybe five feet tall. Her face is familiar but it takes me a moment to remember her name. “Samantha,” I say.

“Mr. Dubois,” she repeats quietly. “I know you’re a busy man, but—” She breaks off, lips pressing together, throat working.

Sensing she needs privacy, I nod to a round table sequestered in a quiet corner of the space. “Should we talk there?”

“I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” she whispers. “I can make an appointment.”

Instead of wasting more time trying to put her at ease, I just start walking toward that table then sit in one of the chairs.

After a blip of hesitation, she follows, hesitating again before sitting in the chair opposite me.

“Tell me how I can help you,” I prompt gently.

I’m impatient to get to Tiff, but she’s freaked. I’m not going to add to that.

“I—” She wipes her hands on her thighs. “I have a problem.”

“What problem?” I press when she doesn’t go on, settling my own hands on my legs, clenching tightly, striving for patience.

“I made a mistake,” she says quietly.

“Tell me.”

A long blip of silence, her head down, gaze on her hands.

I tighten my grip on my thighs, grind my teeth, and manage to hold on to my patience.

“She said she was your wife.”

The words are so soft I barely hear them, and because they don’t make any sense, I don’t know how to respond.

“Tiff isn’t?—”

Samantha’s head lifts, her brows dragged together, confusion in hazel eyes. “She said her name was Angela.”

That’s a rock sinking to the bottom of my stomach.

Fucking hell.

“Angela isn’t my wife either.” I force my voice to remain even. “What did she ask for?”

“The Duarte contract.”

The rock becomes a boulder.

“Hang on a second.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell, typing out a message to Marie.

JEAN-MICHEL: Where are you?

MARIE: Just finishing up the paperwork with Justin and Suzanne.

Suzanne being our attorney—the sharkiest shark of them.

JEAN-MICHEL: Meet me in my office as soon as you’re done.

“How big of trouble am I in?” Samantha whispers. “I know I messed up. I didn’t realize she wasn’t your wife. She was here and she gave me her card and?—”

“Do you still have that card?”

Samantha nods shakily. “In my desk.”

I stand, eyes drifting to the cafe longingly for a beat, wondering for the hundredth time why I’m doing this, what Angela really wants, and how I can put an end to the shitshow that’s taken over my life. Then I tuck that all away and focus back on the crisis in front of me. “Let’s go get it.”

Another shaky nod, and I have to give Samantha credit, though.

She doesn’t hesitate when she stands up and follows me to the elevators.

“Tell me exactly what you gave Angela,” I say once the doors close and we’re alone in the car.

She exhales then, “The latest version of the Duarte contract we offered, along with…”

The list she recites gives me a headache.

And my latest nightmare.

Contracts and internal files for proposals on several projects we’re bidding for.

Enough material that she can work with my competitors and undercut us for months.

Christ.

I rub my temple.

“I’m so sorry.”

“We’ll sort it out.” I force a smile. “We always do.”

Meanwhile, I want to find a punching bag and have a go at it till my knuckles bleed.

Later.

For now, I just shove the rage down, wait for the doors to open and trail her to her desk.

She produces the card—which fucking looks identical to my own, with the exception of Angela Dubois-Rosseau printed across the middle.

Christ.

“I’m sorry,” Samantha says softly. “I— it wasn’t until I saw her being escorted out the other day that I realized my mistake.” She nibbles at her bottom lip. “I know I should have told someone sooner, I just…”

“You told me now,” I remind her. “Which is most important. But now I need you to tell Marie and the legal team exactly what happened.”

She goes pale. “I can’t lose my job. My son…he’s going to college, I need?—”

Fucking hell.

“You’re not going to lose your job,” I say calmly. “But they need to know so we can protect the company.” I crouch a little so I can meet her gaze full-on. “You’re not in trouble. I’m not mad. I’m thankful you told me, okay?”

Her throat works, but then she nods. “Okay.”

“Good,” I say. “Now, we’re going to go to my office and talk this through with Marie and legal one more time and then you can head home, okay?”

Another nod. Another “Okay.”

“Good,” I say again, tilting my head toward the elevators again so we can go up to the floor where my office is.

By the time we make it there, Marie and Suzanne are waiting.

Unfortunately, that’s the only speedy part of the process.

Breaking everything down takes time. Too much fucking time.

I’m itching to get out of there by the time Samantha takes off, but the conversation isn’t over, and I have to go over every detail of our next steps with Marie and Suzanne before they too leave.

“Fucking finally,” I mutter, shoving my cell in my pocket, starting for the table where Tiff left her study stuff. I’m just scooping her notecards up when I hear my office door swing open.

“Whatever it is,” I tell the intruder without looking up, “it can hold until tomorrow.”

“No, it can’t.”

My gaze jerks to the door and I feel that pang in my chest as Chrissy, Rory (who’d spoken), and Tiff march in.

Well, Chrissy and Rory march.

Tiff hangs behind, still unsure.

“Come on, Dad,” Chrissy says, all but skipping across the room and looping her arm through mine. “We’re going to dinner.”

“Baby,” I begin.

“Hush.” She squeezes my arm. “I don’t want to hear any protests.”

“I—”

“You didn’t eat today,” she says. “And Rory and I have given her the full tour so we’re all hungry too.” Her voice lowers, her next words for my ears only. “And…she’s great, Dad.”

I still, glance down into my daughter’s eyes. They’re blue like mine, but bright with life and joy and love, instead of the surliness I carry around me like a mantle. “I was going to tell you.”

Her face gentles. “It sounds like you two have had a busy couple of days.”

“It’s early,” I say. “Only those couple of days.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes you just know.”

I know she knows that.

Because she’s lived it.

“She’s too young for me,” I still find myself saying.

“Seems like those eyes of hers have lived several lifetimes over.”

She’s not wrong.

“ Sweetheart .” I touch her cheek. “I should back off.”

I say that, even as I know I’m not going to do that.

Something Chrissy clearly sees too because she just smiles and says, “You’ll expend a lot less energy if you just accept it.”

I sigh. “The dinner or Tiff?”

“Both.”

My mouth quirks as I look across the room again.

Tiff is smiling at something Rory is saying.

And my heart is as soft as fucking goo.

Then I turn back to my daughter. “I had other plans, honey.”

She grins. “I bet.”

“ Chrissy ,” I warn.

A warning she ignores as she lifts on tiptoe and presses her lips to my cheek. “Mario’s,” she murmurs. “You’re buying.”

I sigh then lightly touch her curved belly. This pregnancy has been hard on her. “You feeling okay?”

Triumph in her eyes.

Because I’m giving in.

Because, as she likely knew before she even marched through the door, I have no hope of denying her.

Because I’ve never been able to deny my girls anything.