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

Chapter 21

Twenty-One

Tiff

“And then I knew I was responsible for Dad’s gray hairs,” Chrissy says lightly.

“What do you mean was? ” he grumbles, sipping at his glass of wine. They didn’t have a Petite Sirah, but he’d selected a cabernet that was delicious and paired incredibly well with the family style pasta dishes that fill the center of the table.

Crusty bread.

Perfectly cooked rigatoni.

Plumply filled ravioli.

Meatballs the size of my head.

I’m stuffed, and we haven’t even had dessert yet. But I’m going to because Chrissy and Rory both said that it’s even better than the raviolis and the raviolis may be the best things I’ve ever eaten.

Plus, there’s that whole Dessert Stomach thing, right?

I have a completely different space for anything sweet and loaded with sugar.

This is so totally going to be worth blowing my budget for the month when I pay my share.

“Rude,” she says lightly. “Tiff, my dad’s being mean to me.”

I tear my eyes off the menu—where I’ve been mentally warring between the lemon chiffon cake and the chocolate mousse—and look up at Chrissy.

Her eyes are sparkling with humor.

“I don’t think I have it in me to be a mediator between you two,” I say honestly. I’ve enjoyed listening to them, enjoyed hearing the stories and getting to know Chrissy and Rory, getting to see Jean-Michel with his daughter—sweet and caring and patient.

Almost a pushover.

Almost .

Because Chrissy and Rory seem to know exactly how far to push him.

That’s a skill I haven’t acquired yet.

“How about a stepmom?” Rory asks.

My mouth drops open.

“Jesus Christ,” Jean-Michel mutters, taking my hand and squeezing it lightly, reassuring me silently as he says, “I never thought I’d wish for your men to be here to handle you two hooligans, but I sure as shit wish for it tonight.”

Rory smiles beatifically. “Lucky for us, they’re on a road trip so we got to meet Tiff.”

Chrissy nods in agreement.

“I should have gone too,” he grumbles, shoving a dessert menu at them. “And pick your dessert already while I get this food boxed up. Tiff doesn’t get enough sleep as it is, so she needs to finish eating and find her bed.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

But it’s not Chrissy’s voice that comes from behind me.

And it’s not Rory’s.

It’s…

I spin slowly, mouth dropping open, horror filling my belly.

Stefan is standing there…next to Brit.

Who’s not on a road trip.

Who’s actually off today, which is why I’m off today.

“I—” I struggle to get anything meaningful out. “I?—”

But Stefan isn’t looking at me. He’s glaring at Jean-Michel.

Shit.

“Stefan—”

Jean-Michel seems to read the situation in an instant, along with Chrissy and Rory, something that I read because they’ve quieted down, expressions going serious, while Jean-Michel wades right into the conversation, standing and sticking out his hand. “Stefan, Brit. I’m Jean-Michel.”

“We know,” Brit says softly, reaching forward when Stefan makes no sign of returning the handshake, and wrapping her hand around Jean-Mi’s.

“I suppose you do,” he replies, that thread of gentle I love so much slipping into his voice as he shakes her hand then releases it. “I saw your game the other night, that was a hell of a save you made in the third.”

Her mouth curves. “You wouldn’t be saying that if we were playing the Eagles.”

His mouth curves. “No, I definitely wouldn’t have.”

“What are you doing here?” Stefan asks, and there’s not gentle in his words.

Only protectiveness.

Something I also love.

Something I worry is going to have the leftover pasta tumbling to the floor as these men exchange blows.

Because he looks like he knows exactly what I’m doing here.

Holding hands with a billionaire.

Or at least I had been.

“We’re eating dinner,” I say. “With Chrissy”—a nod—“Jean-Michel’s daughter, and Rory”—another nod—“his adopted one.” It’s an oversimplification, but not by much, and I’m not splitting hairs right now.

Not with Stefan looking like he might explode.

I’ve never seen him as anything but calm and collected and steady.

This is?—

“And who is he to you?” Stefan asks cooly.

I open my mouth.

And once again Jean-Michel is faster.

“She’s mine.”

Which is pretty much the worst fucking thing he could have said because I watch the slender hold on Stefan’s temper snap and he takes a step forward. “ Excuse me?”

Brit puts her hand on his arm, her head swiveling around the room.

I follow her gaze, see that we’ve gathered the attention of a few nearby tables.

“Maybe we should have this conversation elsewhere,” she says. “Where there are fewer prying eyes.”

“I don’t give a fuck about prying eyes,” Stefan snaps.

Jean-Michel tenses.

Her fingers tighten, like she’ll drag him out of there if she needs too, and I watch the rage ratchet up in Stefan’s face.

He wouldn’t hurt Brit.

But he’ll protect me, no matter the scene he creates.

And that’s when I know it’s time for me to step in.

“Stefan,” I say softly, waiting for a long moment before he tears his eyes from Jean-Michel’s and drags them over to mine.

His anger on my behalf is intense and intimidating and…

Touching.

He loves me. He saw me at my worst, drew me into something special with him and Brit, and I can never thank him enough for it. But I need him to be okay with what’s happening with Jean-Michel, to understand it, even as I can barely comprehend it myself.

“Will you both join us for dessert?” I ask, still quiet, still calm.

Stefan is stiff as a statue, anger and protectiveness warring in his eyes.

And he doesn’t answer.

But, somehow, that’s okay because Brit answers for them both.

Her mouth hitches up on one side. “I could go for dessert.”

“Great!” Rory chirps, snagging an empty chair from a nearby table and bringing it over, cramming it between hers and Chrissy’s. Then a second from another table and shoving it between that first chair.

“This is perfect,” Chrissy says. “I’ve always wanted to meet you, Brit.” She stands and rearranges the seats. It’s a tight squeeze, but we’ll fit.

And we do.

Though that’s mostly because both Stefan and Brit aren’t six-five and two-hundred and thirty pounds like a couple of the defensemen on the Gold.

“They have the best lemon chiffon cake you’ll ever taste,” Chrissy says, passing Brit and Stefan a menu.

I guess that makes my decision between the mousse and the cake.

“Personally,” Rory says, unleashing her smile on Stefan as Brit and Chrissy start talking hockey, “I think the chocolate mousse is better.”

Or not.

I slant a glance at Jean-Michel.

He’s watching Stefan.

And Stefan’s watching him right back.

Yikes.

So maybe dessert wasn’t such a good idea after all.

We walk out of the restaurant, bellies somehow even fuller than before.

The conversation hadn’t gone as badly as I expected, mostly thanks to Rory and Chrissy breaking the ice.

They were good at that—I experienced it at the cafe this afternoon and witnessed it again this evening.

Meaning that Stefan didn’t launch himself across the table and jab his fork into Jean-Michel’s jugular. It also meant that Chrissy and Brit spent the majority of the time in shop talk, while Rory coaxed Stefan into a terse conversation about his post-retirement career.

I watched.

Listened.

Spoke only when necessary.

But mostly sat and listened.

And it was fine, especially when Jean-Mi was his usual self—making sure I had enough to drink, got the dessert I wanted, held my hand, and generally watched out for me.

Then it was better than fine when Stefan glanced over at me and I got to watch the ice in his demeanor begin to melt.

Not stabbing in the jugular. No sharp words.

Watchful and cautious.

But murder thankfully off the table.

A breeze picks up as we turn for the parking lot, and I shiver, the chill of the spring evening just enough to make me wish for a coat.

And as though plucking that thought from my mind, Jean-Michel helps me into his jacket. “You good?” he asks softly.

“I’m good,” I say just as quietly. “Then again, I’m not the one with a man glaring at him for the last hour.”

He touches my cheek. “Stefan cares about you. That’s a good thing. I’m glad you have that.” His phone buzzes, and he pulls it out, glancing at the screen and wincing. “I’ll just be a minute, buttercup.”

“Take your time.”

Gentle eyes. A soft brush of his lips over my forehead. “Be back.”

He steps a few feet away and answers the call.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, kid,” Stefan mutters, drawing me into a hug.

“I—”

But he drops his arms and is gone before I can reply.

“He’ll get over it.”

I glance up at Brit, wince. “Maybe.”

“He will.” She nudges her shoulder against mine, sticks her tongue out at Stefan, who glowers back. “You just listen to your heart, honey.”

God, I love these two.

“Brit,” I whisper, snagging her hand, squeezing it. “You guys have been so?—”

She squeezes back when I get choked up. “You’re family, babe. Which means you’re stuck with us.” Another bump. “Now, go home, enjoy yourself, and we’ll see you in a couple of days, yeah?”

I frown. “I’m supposed to be grab Roxie tomorrow.”

“You were .” She smooths her finger beneath one of my eyes and then the other. “Now the plan is that you’re going to take a couple of days to get rid of these.” She leans closer, lips at my ear. “And to soak up this time with Jean-Michel.”

I suck in a breath. “Brit,” I warn.

She leans back, grins. “I like him.”

“Stefan clearly doesn’t feel the same way.”

“Like I said, he’ll come around.”

Nerves ripple through my stomach. “How do you know?”

She touches my cheek lightly before pulling me into a hug and murmuring, “Because he loves you, honey. And he wants you to be happy.”

“Even if my happy makes him un happy?”

“No, because he’ll get his head straight soon enough and realize that you being happy makes him happy too—no matter the form it comes in.”

I hug her back. “Thanks, Brit.”

“Anytime, honey.” She drops her arms and turns for Stefan, but just as quickly, she turns back, her eyes deadly serious. “But, heaven help Jean-Michel if he hurts you.” A beat.

“Because then he’ll have to deal with both of us.”

“And then,” Rory says, “Joan of Freaking Arc”—Chrissy’s testy senior cat, as I found out this afternoon—“puffed up to at least twice her size, but she still let the puppy cuddle up close to her.”

Something else I learned this afternoon?—

Rory and Chrissy both rescue animals—cats, like Jean-Mi had mentioned previously, for Chrissy, and dogs for Rory.

“She’s surly on the outside and a soft, cuddly teddy bear on the inside.”

A beat, and even though it’s dark as we drive up to Chrissy’s house, where they’re finishing out their girls’ day with “bad movies, lots of popcorn, and a sleepover like the teenagers we are at heart,” I can see the flash of white in the shadows when I glance back over my shoulder and smile at Rory.

“Kind of like someone else I know,” she goes on. “Like, say, a surly business man who’s really ooey gooey on the inside.”

Jean-Michel sighs.

Chrissy giggles.

He doesn’t comment, though, just turns onto a road and slows, preparing to pull into a driveway.

But then he stops abruptly, half-in and half-out of the street.

“What’s the matt—” Chrissy begins.

“Stay here,” Jean-Michel orders, throwing the car in park, sending his door flying open. His tone is bordering on harsh—or at least, far sharper than anything he’s used with the girls or I at any point this evening.

“I—” Rory’s sentence is cut off by the door slamming.

“What’s going on?” I ask quietly as Jean-Michel strides forward, his body illuminated in the headlights for a moment and then thrown back into the shadows.

Not for long, though.

Because then he’s storming up a well-lit driveway, by an expensive car parked in it, and isn’t stopping until?—

“Oh shit,” Chrissy whispers.

“I second that,” Rory mutters.

“Who is that?” I ask of the woman standing at the top of the drive, her hands on her slender hips as she turns to meet Jean-Mi.

There’s a long blip of quiet.

Then Chrissy answers.

“My mother.”

And I’m not thinking about Jean-Mi’s orders.

Or how angry he might be for me ignoring this particular one.

I’m thinking about him .

Which is why I throw open my door and rush up the driveway.