Chapter 1 #2
He was tall, yes, but it was the way he held himself like an aristocrat that caught Ani’s eye.
Broad shoulders and long, long legs. The sharpness of his jawline stole her breath, as did his heavily lidded dark eyes.
His hair, so thick and gelled to one side in a sexy coif. She wanted to run her hands through it.
Get a goddamn hold over yourself, akhchig, she inwardly muttered, and remember what Nareh said.
The way Raffi regarded her, though, didn’t seem like he was eating her up with his eyes, slicing into a thick, juicy steak. And why would he, when she was just…fine-looking? Not a woman anyone would immediately read as hot.
And yet Raffi stared at her with what Ani considered to be interest, with curiosity, and she felt the tiniest surge of hope that maybe Nareh was wrong and he didn’t suck, and her mother was right and she should open her heart—
That thought was interrupted by her heels crunching into gravelly rock at the threshold of the winery.
Ani wobbled, trying to right herself. In one motion, Raffi bounded over to help, but Ani felt herself bobbing out of control as she kept attempting to find solid ground but was thwarted by the small rocks that had declared war on her patent pumps and seemed intent on knocking her down.
Raffi reached to catch her right as she was about to face-plant but instead caught her arm, just as the contents of her extra-expensive, extra-large matcha latte smashed against his white shirt.
He did not immediately let go of her arm, even as he stared down at the damage.
Ani put her now-empty hand over her mouth because his Oxford was entirely soaked in green.
It was so bad, but her brain still registered the curve of his pecs and the way the pressure on her arm where he was gripping her felt weirdly safe and good.
No, no it doesn’t, she tried to tell herself, remembering Nareh’s warning words.
He probably reached out not to help but because it was an opportunity to touch a woman.
Gross. Still, the look on his face read “concern,” not “sleazy delight.”
Ani hopped out of her shoes in order to stand properly, and when it was clear she was able to balance, Raffi let go of her arm. She wondered if his gripping fingers had left a mark on her skin.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “These rocks, they—I mean, for anyone in heels, this is a total liability. Who put these here?”
By the look on Raffi’s face, it was clear to Ani that it was him. He had put them there.
“This was YSL, you know,” was his response, gesturing to the shirt, his voice as irritatingly deep and handsome as the rest of him. He appeared less in shock, more in disappointment.
Ani went from being apologetic to apoplectic at his snobby response.
“Such liberal use of the past tense. I could get that stain out in two minutes.”
She was about to add that she was sure he could buy another one when her eyes were drawn to the clack of footsteps from above.
A large older gentleman with thick eyebrows stood on the balcony of the winery, frowning down directly at Raffi.
She barely made out the man’s words in his low, growling voice. “Tun mart ches tarnar.”
“You’ll never become a man.”
Ouch. That had to be Raffi’s father, the mythologized mobster.
Ani quickly averted her eyes. And speaking of ouch, she made her way barefoot across the craggy rocks, back onto the smooth concrete, mere steps from the massive winery doors.
She slipped her shoes back on, trying not to be aware of how intimate a gesture this was to do in front of someone she’d just met.
She stared at those blasted pebbles. “So were you going for, what, a moat around the property?”
Raffi drew in a breath sharply. “I thought it’d give the place a little something extra.”
Ani gestured around her. “Believe me, this is already plenty extra. You should remove that unless you want a lawsuit on your hands.” Then she caught his eyes, which appeared worried. “Not from me. From, you know, guests. Prime drunk patron stumbling block, right here.”
“I thought wedding planners anticipated everything. Couldn’t you tell your heels wouldn’t make it?”
Ani was stunned. First, Raffi knew she was the wedding planner, not the bride.
Had he…looked her up? Second, he was being combative, and this was not behavior she expected from supposed sexy, devil-may-care Raffi.
Rude. And third (the one that made her blush), no, she hadn’t anticipated it because she was too busy being distracted by his hotness.
As annoying as he was, she couldn’t deny his Adonis-like appearance.
Ani decided she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. She had ruined his very expensive shirt after all.
She stuck out her hand. “It’s Ani, by the way, though I guess you already knew that.”
She gave him a look like “Yes, I know you googled me.” Okay, she couldn’t help the snark.
Raffi chewed on his cheek for a quick second before relenting. He extended his large hand as he said “Raffi.”
Then they shook, which was the second time they had touched in the span of two minutes.
“I have to change,” he said gruffly.
“Of course,” she replied.
Raffi disappeared inside. Ani took in a deep breath of the cool Napa air. Holy shit. What had just happened?
She could not stop poking at this guy, even though she was the one who had drowned his shirt in green liquid.
His YSL shirt. What a prick. But he was the owner of the winery and still someone she had to at least be professional around.
Come on, Ani. He might be a total snob douche, but she had to at least be civil to him.
And she was definitely not thinking about him changing out of that soaking wet shirt that clung to his chest. Yes, yes, yes, he’s hot, she thought. But danger comes in pretty packages.
As if on cue, he waltzed back outside, donning a near identical fresh Oxford shirt. See? She knew that type of shirt must be a dime a dozen to someone like him.
Raffi turned to face her and cleared his throat.
“Listen, this winery means a lot to me. It’s still in its infancy, and I’m”—he gestured toward the litigation rocks—“well, still getting the hang of things.”
Oh. This was as unexpected as everything that came before. Was this an apology?
Ani frowned.
She attempted to decipher the meaning in his words.
If he was saying sorry, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it, although she couldn’t help but be touched by how sincere he sounded about the winery.
What was it, she wondered, that meant so much?
He had been a doctor and then switched to running a winery—why?
Raffi was too much of an enigma, which worried her because Ani absolutely loved solving puzzles.
“On that note,” he continued. “Yes, I did look you up. I want to know everything about everyone who is going to be part of ?.”
Ani’s breath hitched. She felt flattered and also maybe impressed by the extent of his research. Oh no, she was feeling intrigued by Raffi again.
“But I have to say, based on the work on your website—I have to be honest here—the types of weddings you’ve created in the past don’t exactly line up with the vibe that ? has.
Your style seems more…quaint. And that worries me, because we are trying to achieve a type of brand here, and we don’t want to tarnish it. ”
Red-hot heat rose up in Ani’s face. Twin flames of anger and shame.
Anger, because how dare he.
Shame, because he was somewhat, almost right.
Ani had been a good wedding planner for the past four years, after she quit her paralegal job and made her childhood dream come true.
But she hadn’t landed any big opulent weddings.
She was mostly unknown and had been doing cousin and friend-of-friend (and friend-of-sister) weddings, plus an extra one here and there when someone found her contact info and liked the low prices on her website.
Because her couples didn’t have the budget, she could only do so much, the photographs on her website could only be so impressive. Raffi had her there.
While she loved DIY-ing and working with any couple, regardless of budget, she also had to pay the bills. And luxury weddings paid the bills.
In theory.
Last year, she thought her big break had come when an Armenian couple—the now Avedissians—hired her to plan their bash at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco.
Her parents didn’t know them, and no one she knew was familiar with them either, which was unusual, but she took it as a sign that her reputation was skyrocketing.
It was such a big wedding, she even made her first hire, Sanan.
The couple kept asking her to pay the vendors and said they would write her a check at the end.
Ani complied, wanting to put this wedding, with its orchids and ostrich feathers, in her portfolio, even though it meant opening a third credit card and signing a few IOUs with her trusted vendors.
And finally, on the wedding day, after begging the couple for the check for weeks, Ani politely demanded the money, and the bride angrily scribbled her one for the sum that was owed: $49,700.
That check bounced, and the couple had disappeared from the face of the earth.
Ani had taken out a personal loan with a very high interest rate to ensure she could pay Sanan—who didn’t know of her money woes—plus the priority vendors.
The monthly payment had been breathing down her neck for months.
Not to mention the credit card debt that was racking up. And now her account overdraft.
There was one person in her life who she could ask for a loan, but she never, ever would. She would not be the older sister who begged her younger and much more successful sister for money.