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

Epilogue

Tiff

The long string of Italian cuts off and the room goes quiet, as though bracing.

But I only have my eyes on one person.

Jean-Mi.

He’s sitting two chairs over, Marie between us, both of them reviewing a proposal that’s just been brought into the room.

This meeting is supposed to be about setting up a European base of operations here in Florence.

That’s not going to happen.

Because these men, the ones sitting across the table, handsome like most Italian men, are trying to fuck us over.

I lift my brow, shake my head minutely.

Jean-Mi picks up on it in an instant.

My Italian isn’t perfect—and I jumped on the chance to get some real life practice by joining in on this trip—but it’s good enough to tease out the men sitting across from us are trying to take advantage of Titan.

They literally said as much.

“Right,” Jean-Mi says, pushing back his chair and standing. “I think we’re done here.”

Marie and I follow suit.

The men on the other side of the table still, but only for a moment. Then they’re on their feet, moving toward us with wide eyes, probably wondering why the meeting is suddenly over when, by their accounts, their fuckery was working.

The next minutes are filled with us heading out of the building, the trio of men following and slowing us down, trying to court us back into the conference room, and then finally…

Me demonstrating my Italian.

Their faces pale.

“Ciao ,” I say after I’ve told them they’re idiots for not knowing who was sitting in the room with them. But I only get to enjoy their shock for a second before Jean-Michel takes my hand and we walk out into the late afternoon sunshine, Marie at our side.

I wait until we’ve rounded the next corner to explain what I overheard the men saying to each other as he and Marie were reading contracts.

Basically “the dumb Americans think this is a good deal, but we’re going to squeeze them out.”

Obviously, it was more than that, but also, it was basically that —this company thinking they can take advantage of my man.

“That’s not going to happen,” I declare and have the pleasure of seeing Jean-Mi smile.

“Baby.”

“It’s not going to happen,” I snap. “Even if I have to learn a dozen languages.”

Though, truthfully, that sounds like fun.

Jean-Mi grins now, stroke his knuckles over my cheek “Thank you, buttercup.”

His gratitude for me, his pride in me—they settle deep. “I don’t think they’ll make the mistake of trash talking before the deal is done again,” I say softly.

“No, I don’t think they will,” Marie agrees, winking at me. “We’ll have to get sneakier when we put our translator to use.”

I wink back. “Damn right.”

Jean-Mi opens his mouth, probably readying to ask Marie if she’s up to making new arrangements.

She beats him to the punch.

“I’m on it,” she says, her eyes bright, clearly ready for the next challenge. “Just…” An exhale, her gaze turning toward the beautiful city all around us. “I’ll get on that tomorrow.”

“Monday,” Jean-Mi corrects.

Her mouth quirks, but she doesn’t argue, just gives me a squeeze then juts her chin up at Jean-Mi. Though I don’t miss that something passes between their eyes before she actually leaves.

They’ve worked together so long that they can speak without…well, without actually speaking.

Usually I can glean what they’re saying—or at least the gist of it.

But today I’m distracted from my studying of their silent language when I’m bumped from behind.

Frowning, I spin around, scanning the sidewalk.

Then freeze.

Because the woman who jostled me…she looks like Angela.

Mouth falling open, I turn further, stare going down the road, gaze scouring for further sign of Jean-Mi’s ex.

But I come up empty.

By the time I really start looking, there isn’t a single blond in sight.

And by the time I realize that , the silent conversation behind me is over.

“What is it, buttercup?” Jean-Mi touches my jaw, concern in his eyes.

I shake myself, realize that Marie has left, and focus back on my man. “Nothing. I thought I saw?—”

His brows furrow and I table the paranoia. No one has seen or heard from Angela since that night at the arena six months ago—a good thing for her, considering the FBI has issued a warrant for her.

There’s no way she’s here in Italy.

That requires visas and passports and…

Well, showing her face.

So, I shrug off the weirdness, lift up on tiptoe, and press my lips to his cheek.

“I saw a gelato stand,” I say. “Can we get some?”

“ Before dinner?” he teases.

“The Italians eat late,” I argue, even though he’s already giving in and drawing me over to the shop filled with mounds of delicious-looking gelato. “So we need something to tide us over.”

A couple of minutes later, we both have cones and we’re walking toward the center of Florence. The Arno river flows quietly, halving the city, and we pause, admiring the view as we finish our gelato.

Breeze ruffles my hair, the sun sinks lower in the sky, and I lean back against the man I love.

At least until he takes my hand.

“Come with me.”

“More orders.” I mutter.

That earns me a grin and a light swat on my bottom as he starts us walking along the river again. We pass some of the famous bridges—and then the most famous one, the Ponte Santa Trinita, with its four statues at the ends that symbolize the four seasons.

But it’s not until we’re walking up a flight of stairs and he’s drawing me out onto a balcony that my mind finally clues into what the look he and Marie had shared earlier was about.

What they were planning .

A round, marble table is pushed close to the balcony’s railing and set with gorgeous flatware and plates and glasses. Roses and—my heart can’t take this—Ranunculus Persian Buttercups fill silver vases.

I turn to the man who owns me, body and soul.

Only he’s no longer standing beside me.

He’s kneeling .

“ Jean-Mi.” I whisper, my hand coming to my throat, my heart threatening to pound out of my chest.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a box.

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

Then again when he opens the lid, shows me the gorgeous ring inside.

“Buttercup, will you?—”

“Yes!” I squeal, dropping to my knees in front of him, throwing my arms around his shoulders. I know I’m stepping on his spiel, cutting off what was probably a practiced speech.

But there’s never any question of forever.

Not when it comes to this man.

He chuckles then stands, drawing me to my feet, touching my cheek. “Now that I have the answer…” His lips quirk, but he kneels again, ring up, free hand wrapped around mine. “I’ll ask the question.”

I nibble at my bottom lip, strive for patience when all I want to do is kiss him.

“Buttercup, my heart, the woman who’s only ever seen me for me?—”

Eyes burning, I suck in a shuddering breath.

“—I want to give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of, want to build our life together with you as my wife.” He pulls the ring free, settling the round diamond-adorned band at the tip of my finger. “I want forever with you, baby. Will you marry me?”

My tears escape and it’s a good thing I already got my “Yes!” out.

Because I can’t form words. I can only nod.

He grins, slides the band down my finger, settling it at the base of my knuckle.

I only have a moment to appreciate it there before he lays a kiss on me that threatens to turn me to goo—and I know the only reason I don’t actually melt is because cheers erupt around us, jarring me out of the pleasure of his mouth.

We slowly break apart and, cheeks hot, I smile at the complete strangers who are cheering for us.

Complete strangers except for Marie, I realize, my heart so damned full it feels as though it should burst—and it somehow gets even fuller when I notice she’s pointing her cell in our direction.

Documenting this moment for us.

My chest hitches, a sob escaping.

“Hey,” Jean-Mi whispers, brushing my tears away. “This is supposed to be a happy moment.”

“I’ve had sadness,” I tell him.

Gentle blue eyes on mine. “I know, buttercup.”

“And I’ve had goodness.”

He cups my cheek, drying the rest of my tears. “I know that too, buttercup.”

“But I never had anything more beautiful than my time with you.”

Our next kiss isn’t interrupted by cheers.

It’s curtailed by pointed throat-clearing.

Jean-Mi pulls back, his mouth curving up as the unimpressed waiter nudges us toward that beautifully arranged table. He tugs out the chair then leans close and murmurs,

“Okay with you if we ignore local customs and eat early tonight?”

I glance out at the water, the beautiful sunset, the gorgeousness this man arranged for me.

And there’s no hesitation.

I take my seat.

And know that I’ve never been more excited for forever.

Marie

I reach for the handle of the sedan that’s just pulled to a stop at the curb?—

Only to find my fingers brushed away.

Starting, my head jerks up, focus yanked from my phone, and I glare at the man who’s similarly focused on his phone and, apparently, not noticing that this is my freaking car.

“What the hell are you doing?” I snap, brushing his fingers away.

He glances up, as though shocked that other people exist on Earth with him.

And given the brand of that suit—something I know because my boss, Jean-Michel Dubois, wear’s the same expensive designer—this man doesn’t likely interact with the common people.

“What are you doing?” he snaps back.

“This is my Lyft.”

I yank at the door, start to step into the opening.

But before I get there, his hand is on my arm, stopping me.

“Don’t touch me,” I growl.

He steps back, breaking contact, and lifting his hands, palms out in surrender. “Fuck, woman.” A scowl that does nothing to dampen the model-esque beauty of his features.

Gorgeous face.

Sexy body that fills out that expensive suit—broad shoulders, flat stomach, thick thighs.

Too bad he’s an asshole.

Something he proves by what he says next.

“I don’t know what mental hospital you’ve just checked yourself out of, but I have a meeting I need to get to”—he nods at the car—“in my Lyft, and I don’t have time to fuck around.”

I glance at my phone screen then back up at the car.

The make and model match.

My app tells me my ride is here.

And this asshole is trying to take my car?

What’s he even going to do when it takes him to the wrong place?

Part of me is tempted to step back and let him find out.

The rest of me is outraged.

Because I have far too much experience with men being assholes and trying to take advantage of me.

“I don’t have time to ‘fuck around’”—I make air quotes—“either. I have important things to do this evening too.”

It’s a lie.

For once, I’m not working tonight.

My plans are to soak until I’m turned into a wrinkle puddle of woman in my bathtub, drink and entire bottle of Oak Ridge wine, and then pass out with a cooking show on in the background.

But this man doesn’t know that.

And, frankly, his meeting isn’t more important than my life.

I lift my phone, pointing the screen in his direction. “This is my ride. See?”

His expression hardens, but only for a moment before he leans in and seems to stare at my phone. He straightens and something strange crawls across his hazel eyes.

It almost looks like amusement.

But that can’t be right because he steps back, waves a hand toward the open door, and says, “My mistake.”

I scowl at him.

That’s right.

It’s his mistake.

Chin lifting, huff escaping, I dump my bag onto the seat and slide in, reaching for the door?—

Only to find my fingers brushed away again.

The man pokes his gorgeous head in, one dark lock of hair falling over his face, calling for female fingers to push it back. “I’ll get that for you.”

Before I can reply, he’s shutting it, stepping back.

Men.

Ugh.

I sigh and start to settle back on the leather seat.

Only I freeze, horror slicing my insides to ribbons.

Because I hear,

“Jace Henderson?”

And I realize that this isn’t my car after all.

Thank you for reading! I hope you loved Jean-Michel and Tiff’s love story as much as I enjoyed writing it! The next book in the Oak Ridge series is BEAUTY