Chapter 3
KANE
Another glass of wine, sir?” The sommelier hovers at my elbow, bottle poised.
I shake my head, keeping my attention on Morgana. She’s three people down the tasting bar, trapped between her mother and Aunt Carol, while her cousin Jennifer is boasting about her son’s school.
“—and of course, they only accept twelve percent of applicants,” Jennifer says, loud enough for the entire tasting room to hear. “But when you have the right connections...”
Morgana’s shoulders inch higher with each word. She’s gripping her wine glass, knuckles white against the stem. I’ve seen her nervous, stressed, even panicked, but this endless one-upmanship is grueling to watch. Morgana looks like she’s trying to disappear into herself.
“Speaking of achievements,” Sarah jumps in, “did Emma mention her husband made partner? Youngest in the firm’s history.”
Emma preens, diamond wedding ring catching the afternoon light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “We’re looking at houses in Marin now. The school districts are so much better.”
“Must be nice to have options,” Morgana’s mother sighs, shooting her daughter a pointed look. “Some of us are still waiting for grandchildren.”
Morgana takes a gulp of wine.
“Oh, but you have a boyfriend now,” Aunt Carol says, turning to Morgana with laser focus. “What was his name? Kyle?”
“Kane,” I correct, moving closer to Morgana’s side. My hand finds the small of her back.
“Right, Kane.” Aunt Carol’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “And how long have you two been together? It seems rather sudden.”
“A few months,” Morgana answers, voice steady despite the tension I feel coiled in her spine.
“Months?” Jennifer exchanges looks with Emma. “And you didn’t mention it? That’s so unlike you, Morgana. You usually tell us everything.”
That’s rich, considering they haven’t seen her in years. But Morgana wisely doesn’t take the bait.
“Well, when are you planning to get married?” Sarah asks. “You’re not getting any younger.”
“Sarah,” Morgana’s mother chides, but she looks expectantly at her daughter, too.
“We’re enjoying where we are,” I say firmly. “Not everything needs a timeline.”
“But surely at your age,” Aunt Carol starts.
“At our age, we know what we want.” I pull Morgana against my side, the feeling of her soft curves against my body stirring more than my protective instinct. “And what we have is worth taking our time with.”
The sommelier launches into an explanation of the next wine, something about oak barrels and hints of stone fruit. I tune him out, focused on Morgana beside me. Her breathing is shallow, and she looks like her blood pressure is through the roof.
“This Pinot has an interesting finish,” Belinda’s voice carries from the other end of the tasting bar.
She’s holding court with her bridesmaids, all of them in matching “Bride Tribe” shirts.
“Though not as complex as the wines we had in Bordeaux last summer. Victor and I did a two-week tour of French vineyards. Didn’t we, honey? ”
Victor murmurs agreement, looking vaguely uncomfortable. He keeps glancing our way, then quickly averts his gaze when I catch him.
“Have you been to France, Morgana?” Belinda calls over, voice condescending.
“No,” Morgana says.
“Oh, you simply must go. Though I suppose international travel is expensive on a bank teller’s salary.”
“Financial advisor,” I correct, edge creeping into my voice. “She’s a financial advisor. Morgana is very good at what she does.”
Belinda’s smile tightens. “Of course. I meant—”
“We know what you meant,” I cut her off.
Jennifer whispers something to Emma, and they both laugh, not bothering to hide their amusement. The sound makes my blood boil. These people are supposed to be Morgana’s family, but they’re picking her apart like vultures.
“You know,” Aunt Carol says, studying me over her wineglass, “you look very fit, Kane. What kind of work do you do?”
“Security consulting.”
“Like a mall cop?” Sarah asks, and the cousins dissolve into fits of giggles.
“Kane was a Navy SEAL. He did three tours in Afghanistan. Bronze Star, Purple Heart. He’s a hero.” Everyone turns to the sound of Morgana’s clear and confident voice.
Pride surges through me at her fierce defense. That’s my girl.
“Military,” Morgana’s mother says faintly. “How intense.”
“Well,” Aunt Carol clears her throat. “That’s very impressive.”
The rest of the tasting continues in relative silence, but I catch the looks. When Jennifer makes another dig about Morgana’s dress size disguised as concern about her health, I’ve had enough. How the hell she shares DNA with them, I’ll never understand.
“We need some air,” I announce, helping Morgana off her barstool.
“But we haven’t finished,” her mother protests.
“We’ve had enough.”
I guide Morgana out of the tasting room, through the main building, and onto a quiet terrace overlooking the vineyards. She pulls free the second we’re alone, wrapping her arms around herself.
“I’m fine,” she says before I can ask.
“No, Morgana. You’re not.”
“I told you they were like this. I warned you.”
“Warning me and living it are different things.” I move closer, but don’t touch her despite every fiber of my being yelling at me to take her in my arms and never let go. “That comment about your job was uncalled for.
“Belinda’s always been like that. Everything’s a competition. And your dress size, your salary, your vacations…it’s all fair game.”
“It’s bullshit.”
She laughs, but it sounds brittle. “Yeah, well. Welcome to family gatherings with the Simons.”
“How long have they been doing this to you?”
“Forever?” She turns to face the view, golden afternoon light catching in her hair. “It got worse after Dad died. He was the only one who defended me and stood up to everyone else.”
I move behind her, close enough that she can lean back if she wants. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“That you’ve had to deal with this alone. That they make you feel like you’re not enough when you’re…,” I stop myself, words crowding my throat. Everything. You’re everything.
“When I’m what?” She turns slightly, looking up at me.
“When you’re the best person I know.”
Her eyes go soft. “Kane...”
“I mean it. You’re brilliant and kind and funny. You remember everyone’s birthday. Give pro bono financial advice to seniors because you want them to be secure. And you’re the first person to show up when someone needs help.”
“Stop,” she whispers, but she’s leaning back into me now.
“You deserve better than their petty judgments and backhanded compliments. You deserve people who see you.”
“You see me,” she says quietly.
“Yeah. I do.”
We stand there for a moment, her back pressed to my chest, my arms bracketing her against the terrace railing. The tension from the tasting room bleeds away.
“Ready to go back in?” I ask eventually.
“Do we have to?”
“Probably. But I’ll run interference. You focus on the wine.”
She turns in my arms, looking up at me with something vulnerable in her expression. “What would I do without you?”
“Lucky for you, you’ll never have to find out.”
I’m sitting on the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, laptop open, trying to catch up on some work emails.
But I haven’t really been focusing. I can’t stop thinking about the way Morgana looked during that wine tasting, the way her family made her shrink.
Frustration and anger surge through me as I think about how her family treats her.
My phone buzzes. When I finally checked my messages, the group chat had exploded. These guys need to lay off, I think. But then I see it’s Morgana.
Still awake?
Yeah. What’s up?
Need company. Coming over.
I open the door to find her in sleep shorts and an old concert t-shirt. Her hair’s in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean of makeup. She looks so pretty that my heart aches.
“Hey,” she says quietly. “Can I come in? I can’t sleep.”
“Come here.” I step back, letting her in.
She makes a beeline for my bed, curling up against the headboard with her knees pulled to her chest. I can see the day’s weight in the slump of her shoulders.
“Today was brutal,” she admits.
“Your family’s brutal,” I correct, sitting beside her.
She gives a watery laugh. “Yeah.”
I crack open the minibar and pull out two tiny bottles of whiskey. “Medicinal purposes.”
“My hero.”
We sit side by side, backs against the headboard, shoulders touching. She sips her whiskey and winces.
“God, that’s terrible.”
“Hotel minibar whiskey usually is. But what do you expect at a winery?”
“Remember that time in college when you brought that awful bourbon to my dorm?” She smiles at the memory. “Said it would put hair on my chest.”
“You threw up in my shoes.”
“You held my hair back.”
She goes quiet, staring at the tiny bottle in her hands.
“Can I ask you something?” she says eventually.
“Anything.”
“Why do you keep turning down dates?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“I’ve heard Jake and the guys mention it. That you turn down women who ask you out.” She’s picking at the label on the bottle, her eyes not meeting mine. “Why?”
“Because I haven’t met the right person,” I say.
“What would the right person look like?”
In a bright flash of clarity, it comes to me.
You, I think. She’d look exactly like you.
Where the hell did that come from? Has my ideal woman really been standing in front of me all these years and I’ve been too blind to see that?
I’ve been so scared about losing her from my life that I sometimes forget how we kissed all those years ago.
“I don’t know. I haven’t found someone who...” I trail off, very aware of how close she is, how little she’s wearing, how much I want to pull her into my lap and show her exactly what I mean.
“Someone who what?”
“Someone who can put up with all my bullshit and still like me at the end of the day,” I finally say. It’s the truth, but not the full truth.
She turns to look at me and tilts her head slightly. “That’s a pretty short list.”
“Yeah.”
“Kane...”
“We should talk about tomorrow,” I say, needing to deflect before I do something stupid. “What’s the plan?”
“More family torture,” she sighs. “There’s some kind of group activity in the afternoon. Wine tour or spa day or something. Then the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night.”
“I’ll be right there with you.”
“I know.” She shifts, her head dropping onto my shoulder. “That’s the only reason I can do this.”
We sit in comfortable silence, drinking terrible whiskey and watching a movie on the TV. Her breathing gradually evens out, her body relaxing against mine. After a few minutes, I realize she’s fallen asleep.
I sit absolutely still, not wanting to wake her. She murmurs something incoherent, hand curling into my shirt.
Carefully, I shift us both, lifting her in my arms. She mumbles against my chest but doesn’t wake. I tuck her into my bed, planning to take the chair, but as I start to move away, her hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
“Don’t go,” she mumbles, still mostly asleep.
I should resist. Should maintain some boundaries. But the way she’s looking at me, soft and unguarded...
“Okay,” I whisper.
I climb in beside her, staying on top of the covers. She immediately rolls into me, seeking warmth, her head on my chest, her leg hooked over mine. My arms come around her automatically.
This is what the guys meant. This thing between us that’s way past friendship. The way she turns to me first. The way I can’t imagine my life without her. The way holding her feels like home.
She fits against me like she was made to be here. Her breath evens out, warm against my chest. I press a kiss to the top of her head, allowing myself this one small thing.
She sighs in her sleep, burrowing closer. And I lie there wide awake.
The Ghost Security group text buzzes again on the nightstand. I ignore it.
Right now, all I want is to hold her.