Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
He had a beard. A trim one. One that looked soft and yet still…beardy.
“I’m focusing on the irrelevant because…” Helia muttered to herself as she traipsed across the Bacco property—Collin’s property now—back to her family’s land. “Because he’s back,” she finished on a near silent huff. “He’s back,” she repeated.
Her first best friend, her first lover, her first a lot of things.
Her everything. Until he’d left. She hadn’t known—still didn’t—everything that had gone on between him and Roger in the castle.
She’d known it hadn’t been good, though.
A fourteen-year-old boy, already built like a man, didn’t hide in her family’s storage barn for no reason when he had a thirty-thousand-square-foot literal castle to sleep in.
Seventeen years later, the vivid memory of finding him, curled up with a pillow and a thin blanket in the bucket attachment of their tractor, still haunted her dreams. As did the wary way he let his guard down as she stayed in the barn talking with him for four hours.
In the years since he’d left, she’d been tempted to be angry with him for never reaching out, never letting her know he was okay.
But how could she stay mad at someone running from something she couldn’t even imagine?
She’d missed him, though. His quiet smile, the way his eyes creased when his lips curled up.
The dubious yet tender look he gave her every time she proposed one of her crazy ideas.
He would have done anything for her—both a gift and a responsibility.
The feeling had been mutual, though, and one of the reasons she’d let him go seventeen years ago without a fight.
“Did you check the wine?” her mother asked, walking toward her with a bouquet of white roses sprinkled throughout with red winter berries, startling Helia out of her trip down memory lane.
So lost in her thoughts, she’d arrived at Sundaram—her family’s property and business—without even noticing. Or doing what she’d set out to do in the first place.
She winced. “Sorry. I, uh…Collin is back.”
Her mother paused. The afternoon sun caught her face as she tipped her head. With her sharp bone structure, deep indigo eyes, and smooth, even skin, she’d always been a beautiful woman. That hadn’t changed at sixty-five.
“For his father’s memorial?”
Her parents had taken Collin in when she’d befriended him that long-ago winter.
She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time—her family had always been a loving, welcoming one.
As an adult, though, she recognized that they’d known things weren’t right in the Wilde household and they’d wanted to give Collin a safe space to be, to come.
“I doubt it,” she replied. “But I don’t know.” It would be scandalous if he didn’t attend, and gossip flew up and down the Napa Valley faster than the tourists’ cars. Collin wouldn’t care, though.
A sympathetic look crossed her mother’s face. “Will he stop by? I’d like to see him.”
She nodded. “He said he would. I gave him two hours before I went looking for him again.”
Her mom smiled. “An ultimatum, Helia? Really?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe not the best idea given that I—we—haven’t seen him in years.
” She paused. “But it worked. I think.” Then, not wanting to delve into the reality of Collin being back any longer, she nodded to the bouquet.
“How’s everything coming together?” They had a sunrise wedding the next day followed by brunch for a hundred people, then, five hours later, a dinner reception for four hundred.
The whole event a mix of Indian and American traditions.
“The florist just left. Everything is sitting in the cooler, but I wanted to see a centerpiece vase on one of the tables,” she replied, holding up the one in her hands. With its wide rounded base and narrow neck, it looked like a filigree-covered wine decanter. Beautiful, but unusual.
“Are you going back to check on the wine?” her mom asked.
Helia inclined her head. “I’ll have to. I’m sure Alessio left it where he said.
” Alessio Venzago was the fourth generation of Venzagos to make wine for the Wilde family.
Collin’s three generations of grandfathers had held the role of head winemaker, with the Venzagos being their right-hand men.
When Roger inherited, he’d had no interest in making wine, so had handed the reins fully over to Alessio.
Her mother nodded. “While you’re waiting for Collin to stop by, can you check in with Akin and make sure he has everything he needs?”
She nodded and headed toward the building that housed their industrial kitchen to talk with the chef.
A visit that would likely take less than five minutes.
Akin was a man on top of things, as connected to the success of their business as the family itself.
Prone to culinary curiosity, he thrived at Sundaram, where they’d made a name for themselves as the place for mixed-cultural weddings in the Napa Valley.
It wasn’t all they did, but if a couple coming from two different cultures wanted a wedding that seamlessly, and beautifully, blended both, Sundaram was the name that everyone spoke.
From food to decorations to officiants to transportation to music, she and her family made it happen.
And Akin adored the challenge. Indian and Chinese?
Done. Azeri and French? Not a problem. Argentinian and Senegalese? He had it covered.
“Hi, luv,” he said, spotting her at the door. “Everything okay?” he asked, returning his gaze to the sauce boiling in a pot.
She smiled. “I’m here to ask you that.”
He flashed a smile, his teeth a slash of white against his dark skin. Like so many of the people who worked at Sundaram, he embodied a blend of cultures. His smooth dark skin and high cheekbones coming from his Nigerian mother and his startling gray eyes from his white British father.
He nodded. “The crew was in earlier. I sent them home to get a few hours of sleep before they have to be back at three.”
“At least it’s December,” Helia said. A sunrise wedding in the summer, when the sun came up at five thirty rather than seven thirty, meant the crew arrived shortly after midnight.
He wiggled one eyebrow, then dropped his gaze back to his sauce.
“What’s that?” she asked, walking closer.
“The rosewater syrup for the gulab jamuns,” he answered, referring to one of the desserts they’d serve with dinner.
This couple had decided on a sit-down meal but wanted a dessert station with an assortment of their favorite sweets from their respective childhoods—everything from homemade Ho Hos and Oreos to kheer, kulfi, and of course, the gulab jamuns.
The latter, deep-fried milk curd balls, needed to start soaking in the syrup by midnight to ensure the right flavor and consistency.
“I’ll bring the wine over first thing in the morning. The champagne is already chilling. Need me to make any calls? Rattle some cages?” she asked.
Akin grinned again. “No, luv, we’re good. Everything else is ready to go.” She hadn’t expected anything less. Akin disliked drama and chaos more than he disliked a messy kitchen. A trait that bred loyal kitchen employees and kept everyone’s blood pressures low.
She nodded. “Holler if you need anything. You know where to find me,” she said, leaving him to his work and heading to the office.
“Hey, sweetie,” her dad said, holding the door open as she approached.
“Where are you off to?” she asked.
“Your mom had a question about the placement of the agni she wanted my input on,” he replied, referring to the small firepit that played a significant role in most Hindu weddings, including the one taking place tomorrow.
“Can you tell her Akin has everything under control?”
Her dad chuckled, his dark eyes glistening with an easy humor. “When doesn’t he?”
Helia inclined her head and smiled back. “I saw Collin.”
A tiny frown twitched on his lips. “Wilde? He’s back? Did he come for the memorial?”
“Yes, yes, and I don’t know.”
Her dad studied her before turning his head and looking toward Bacco—not that they could see the castle from Sundaram. “Is he doing okay?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know.” He raised an eyebrow. “I mean, he’s okay, as in, he’s alive. I don’t know if he’s still in the military or not or how he feels about…” She waved in the general direction of the castle. “Although he seemed a bit lost when I saw him.”
Again, her father turned his head. He gave it a subtle bobble—a trait he’d picked up from his Indian mother—and shoved his hands into the pockets of his quilted jacket. “I imagine he is. Will we see him?”
“He said he’d come by.” Now that she’d left him alone with all his memories, she wasn’t so sure he would stop by, but he had her number. Too bad she hadn’t gotten his.
“Then he’ll stop by,” her father said. “Make sure to find your mother and me when he does. We’d like to see him, too.”
“Of course,” she said. Her father’s gaze swept over her face, then he nodded and walked toward the event space.
She watched him go, wondering how her parents seemed to make love—relationships—look so easy. Sure, they fought occasionally, and sure, they got on each other’s nerves. But when the chips were down, they turned to each other. For more than forty years.
Whereas her marriage lasted a whopping four.
She consoled herself that it ended with a whimper, not a bang—just two people realizing they wanted different things out of life.
Adam was currently somewhere in Mongolia shooting a documentary on a nomadic tribe, doing what he loved.
The same as her. Event planning might not be the sexiest job, but she loved it, especially weddings. And she was damn good at it.
Her dad disappeared into the south side of the stone building where they hosted events when the weather wasn’t agreeable to an outdoor venue.
Her maternal grandparents had built the facility when they first bought the property sixty-five years ago.
It had hints of French influence from her grandfather with an Argentinian flair from her grandmother.
They made wine and used the space as their tasting room.
When her parents took over, they leased the vineyards to a local winemaker and focused on hosting events.
A few years into it, they added a new-but-built-to-look-old stone barn to host larger receptions like the one tomorrow.
A familiar truck pulled up the drive before she had a chance to slip up to her office. With a sigh, she mentally rearranged her schedule, fitting the final review of tomorrow’s timetables into a slot between dinner and the final setup check.
An hour later, she waved goodbye to Juan Mendoza, the delivery driver for the linen service they used. When his truck passed through the portico, she started toward her office, but again, the sound of another car slowed her steps.
A bright yellow Maserati cruised into the courtyard. Her stomach somersaulted at the sight, and she debated making a run for it.
Unfortunately, that wouldn’t solve the problem.
Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that her history with the driver went back far longer than the events of the past four months.
They’d been, if not friends, then friendly acquaintances.
Not the exes he thought they were now since they never really dated.
Yes, they’d been on two dates, but both had gone south so fast she hadn’t bothered to figure out how or why.
Derek stopped his car, leaving it running as he leaped out. “We need to talk, Helia,” he said, stalking so close she took a step back.
“We don’t, Derek. There’s nothing to talk about.
” Something she’d told him three times since she declined a third date.
“And we have an event we’re getting ready for.
” Unwilling to show any weakness, she held his gaze.
His generic brown eyes were average and uninteresting in every way.
Except for a frantic glint in them that gave her pause.
A glint that made every internal danger radar she had go off. A new, and disturbing, development.
“Helia, we’re good together. You know it, I know it.
Why are you playing hard to get?” he insisted, taking another step forward.
She hated herself for taking a step back, but her reflexes kicked in before she could consider holding her ground.
If ever there was a time to do that, it was now.
He wouldn’t press her too far—not here, not with people moving around the property preparing for the event.
But her logic didn’t work as fast as her instinct.
“Derek, you know that’s not true,” she said, still confused how he could think any of those things. They were as compatible as oil and water, and not once in her life had she played hard to get.
“You’re lying, Helia. I don’t know why, but you are,” he said, his hand closing around her upper arm before she could move away. “We’re good together, Helia.”
Her heart rate took flight like a swarm of hummingbirds when his grip tightened. She’d have her thick flannel to thank if she walked away without bruises.
“Let go of me, Derek,” she said, jerking away.
When he didn’t give an inch, true fear rolled through her body like an earthquake, leaving her legs shaky.
She desperately wanted to be one of those strong kick-ass women she saw on TV or read about in books.
But deep down, she wasn’t prepared for this to happen to her.
“Come now, Helia. Talk to me. At least talk to me.” He pulled her close, his face inches from hers.
A thousand thoughts raced through her mind—should she stomp on his foot, or scream? Maybe knee him in the nuts, or slap him with her free hand? Like a deer in the fucking headlights, though, her body refused to cooperate with any of those options.
Fighting to breathe, her chest rose and fell in jerky, uneven spurts. Distantly, she knew she needed to do something soon, to protect her body as well as her pride. Rocking back on her heel, she shifted her weight to lift her knee.
A sharp squeal ricocheted through her ears, but her knee connected with nothing but air. A heartbeat later, Collin stood between her and Derek, his stance wide as he faced her not-ex. “She asked you to let her go,” he growled.