Wine in a Million (Wordplay #4)

1. Rosay

Chapter one

Rosay

W hoever said love is blind surely never sat across from a man with a stained, too-tight white button-up, a sunburn on the edge of blistering, and a toupee slightly off-kilter.

Thom—with an H—purses his lips, clearly unable to answer the simple question of who his favorite Disney villain is.

It's not a difficult question, or at least it wasn't for the last five guys I've met tonight.

Thom put on a good front, pretending to be interested in whatever I was saying in hopes of bedding the "pink-haired bombshell," as he so graciously named me the moment he sat at the table.

Like my ex, Thom seems to think a hefty bank account and a nice car can make up for any infractions—a lack of chemistry, opposite schedules, tripping over a curb and finding your dick lodged into your secretary's vagina.

You know, normal happy couple issues.

"Next," the speed-dating coordinator yells, her voice barely audible over the din of the restaurant.

"It was nice to meet you, Rosay," Thom purrs. The leery tone of his voice makes me want to shower. "Until we meet again."

I think not.

The pungent stench of body odor lingers in the air, overtaking the aroma of garlic and oregano from the pizzeria.

A bell dings, signaling the start of another round.

I push back from the table and rip off the sticky name tag, pitching it into the trash on my way to the bathroom and cursing myself for choosing speed-dating over margaritas with my sorority sisters.

My phone chimes three times in rapid succession. I groan, already knowing it's yet another task update from the uptight, pain in my ass interim CEO. Nothing makes Grim Graham—my nickname for the type A asswad who's now my boss—happy except his employee’s tears.

Toilet paper litters the ground as I push through the door and find the only stall without an empty roll.

A call comes in from my brother, Kieran, just as I close myself inside.

I swipe it away and pull up Graham’s email, scrolling the three-page dossier on a client he wants me to meet with this week.

Ever since the previous boss’s black market finance deals became public knowledge—ending with his timely arrest—Thompson Investments has been under damage control.

Bringing in a new, hotshot CEO instead of promoting from within made it apparent they were trying to repair their image.

The door opens, and raucous chatter fills the bathroom, reminding me of the fun I should be having at speed dating.

I flush and wash my hands, my mind filled with too much information about a new tech start-up Graham wants me to connect with.

Skirting behind a few women reapplying their makeup, I push through the door and back into the racket of the bar.

Glasses clink at the bar top, and a group of men are huddled around a screen cheering on the local baseball team.

I spy Thom sitting across from an older woman.

His gaze drifts to me, and he tries—and fails—to discreetly wink.

I turn away with an eye roll and seek solace at the bar.

Speed dating was supposed to be a way for me to dip my toes back in the water after Connor cheated, to show that the problem isn’t me, that I’m not too much for someone to love, but tonight seems to prove that I am better off alone.

Though I haven’t found my prince charming, I'm not yet ready to go home to my empty apartment.

My favorite bartender nods my way and yells over the cacophony to let me know he'll be over shortly, and I lean against the bar, surveying the area.

A pizzeria might seem like a weird place for a speed dating event, but it's truly perfect.

It's relaxed, with an ambiance of a little Italian village that almost makes it seem intimate, yet it's close enough to downtown that if there is a match and you want to continue the evening, there are plenty of actual date options.

The food is damn good, the menu supplying freshly made pasta and the finest cured meats.

And last, but not least, it's one of the only restaurants where I can enjoy my favorite wine from my family's winery, without getting dressed to the nines.

"A glass of the Esme tonight, Rosay?" Vinnie asks, throwing a dingy towel over his shoulder.

He knows I don't drink anything but the Viura named after my late mother, but he still politely asks every time I manage to drag myself out of bed for one of these events, as if I'll find someone perfect between bites of greasy pepperoni pizza.

I nod and slide Vinnie a twenty. His pour is hefty, and the minute the notes of melon and apple hit my tongue, I sigh. Some people have clothes or pictures that remind them of their favorite people, but for me it's this wine.

As I take a larger gulp, I sink into a memory of running barefoot through my parents' vineyard, chasing after my mom. Sunlight warmed our skin as we picnicked outside with my dad, and I watched them taste the different grapes to choose the exact right ones for the Esme line.

It was perfect.

We were perfect.

A vibration in my pocket makes me groan.

If it's Graham with another one of his directives, I might scream.

The door of the bar swings open, and in spills a group of men dressed in short, matching black jackets with tight ornamented trousers, bow ties, sombreros fixed atop their heads and trumpets glued to their fingers.

Seeing the mariachis nearly makes me miss the fact that my phone is still vibrating.

More worried about missing the call than who's actually calling, I swipe to answer.

"Finally, I got you on the line," my stepsister, Winnie, says with an exasperated tone. Had I not been distracted by the emails from Graham, or the tomato sauce stain on Thom's shirt, I would've remembered it's Friday night.

Family Friday Night.

I haven't attended weekly dinners at my dad and stepmom's since they built their new house. It's not that I'm not welcomed or invited, but when the family no longer feels like yours, you eventually take the hint and stay away.

"Yeah," I sigh. "You got me. What's up, Win?"

My youngest stepsister is actually my favorite.

With a perpetually sunny disposition, she's not yet jaded like her older brother and sister.

We're closest in age and were able to forge a bond over makeup, boy bands, and how much our parents sucked as we grew up.

Though Kieran and Waverly are only four years older than us, it feels like they are from a different planet.

“I’m eng—” The line cuts out, muffling her words.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m engaged,” she squeals into the speaker.

“Oh my gosh!” I squeal back, excited for my sister. “Congratulations, Winnie. ”

“I tried to call you from Kieran’s phone, but you didn’t answer,” she says, nearly out of breath. “I had to walk all the way back to the car to grab my phone.”

Though it’s said playfully, my brain searches for any hint of anger in her voice. When it finds none, I relax back into my seat and grab my wine.

“Tell me all about it,” I say, just as a vibration in my hand has me drawing the phone away from my ear. A picture of a sparkling square diamond set in a white gold band stares back at me. “Holy shit,” I breathe.

“I know, right. Jordan did so well.” I smile at the happiness in her voice.

She’s been dating Jordan for nearly ten years, suffering through his cardiothoracic surgery residency program schedule while running her own wedding planning business.

If anyone deserves a massive diamond, it’s her.

She continues telling me about the weekend he spent recreating their favorite dates from over the past ten years, culminating with their first meeting at the winery where bouquets of her favorite flowers were wrapped around the wrought iron railing.

“I’m so happy for you, Win.” I dab at an errant tear sliding down my cheek with a greasy pizza napkin.

"Thanks, sissy. I miss you," Winnie says. "It's—”

“Win?” I ask through crackles coming from the speaker. “You still there?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Her voice comes through a little clearer, though not crystal.

“I was saying it’s been too long since you've come to dinner, and I'm sick of listening to the twins prattle on about the winery and med school.

I need some juice, some drama in my life.

" She drags out the end of the word life, and I find myself laughing at her frustration.

As a wedding planner, she has more than enough drama with bridezillas and bridesmaids. "What's going on with you? "

Though Winnie can't see me, I shrug. "Same stuff, different day."

“What?” she asks, and I wonder if she’s too far from the Wi-Fi.

“Go closer to the house.” I listen for the crunch of gravel beneath her feet. “Nothing is different over here.”

"Well, if nothing is different, then you can come to dinner and it'll still be the same tomorrow, right? The world won't collapse if you take one night to eat with us."

The longing in her tone makes my heart squeeze. Winnie is the dreamer. The youngest who doesn’t have to bear the weight of everyone’s expectations. The one who’s never messed up and got themselves locked up, nearly tarnishing the family name.

No, that title is reserved for only one person: me.

I’m the family fuck up, and staying away is easier than sitting across from my stepmom and dad knowing I've hurt them.

"I'm just busy at work, trying to get this promotion." I’m not even sure I want the promotion, but it’s an easier excuse than saying, 'I don't feel comfortable or like a part of the family.

' No, those words are simply reserved for the confines of my mind where I can close the doors to the emotions I’m not ready to deal with.

"A promotion? That's awesome, Rosie." I can hear the smile in her voice, the genuine happiness for me. "And how goes—” The line cuts out again, making me groan.

Talking on the phone should not be this difficult.

“Repeat that, you cut out.”

“How’s the dating life?"

The squawk of a trumpet draws my eyes to where the mariachis have set up in the corner of the restaurant. Is there anything more Texan than mariachis in a pizzeria? I think not .

I pick at some skin on my thumb, trying to find the right words to convey that I'm not perpetually lonely and in desperate need of a good lay. "I'm looking for my fiancé—” Loud music blares from the mariachi band, making me pause my statement. "—in a sea of bad investments."

"Fiancé!?" Winnie squeals with delight.

“What?” For fuck’s sake can this call be over with already.

“I can’t believe you’re engaged too!”

"No, Win," I reply, raising my voice over the bluster of brass instruments.

"Oh.Em.Gee. This is so exciting! Guys, Rosie's engaged too!"

Fuck.

I slam my hand against my forehead. Of all the times for my sister to mishear my words, it had to be while she's at family dinner. Leaving the last dregs of wine in the glass, I drop a tip for Vinnie on the bar and weave through the crowd, ignoring the wave from Thom as I push through the door.

"Winnie." I inhale a crisp breath of late November air. "Can you hear me?"

"Congrats, mija." My dad's smooth voice comes through the earpiece, stopping my heartbeat.

Oh no.

"Papa?"

"You're on speaker," Winnie yells, her voice distant in the background. “Send us a pic of the ring!”

My throat closes, allowing only the minimal amount of air needed for me to not fully pass out. I waver on my feet, pressing my hand against the cool brick of the pizzeria.

"We're so happy for you," Wendy, my stepmom, chimes in, her tone amiable. I swallow against a dry throat, searching for words as my entire face heats. "What's the fella's name? How did he propose? Tell us everything."

“?Cómo se llama? ?Dónde lo conociste?” Dad asks in rapid Spanish, zeroing in on the fact that though we speak every two weeks, he's never heard me talk about a fiancé. “Is it serious?”

My brain lags as if it's an ancient floppy disk being shoved into a new, top of the line PC. Their questions batter my brain, and I find myself unable to focus on answering even a single one.

“Of course it’s serious,” Wendy chides. “She said fiancé, not boyfriend. Oh, sweetheart, we’re so happy for you.”

A small voice screams for me to correct them, to tell them they've got it all wrong and that I haven't found someone who can love me for me, someone who doesn’t need me to be smaller for them to be seen.

But there's a bigger, more imposing figure standing on my shoulder and whispering into my ear that the pure excitement and pride I hear from my family is something I haven't felt for a long time.

Something I crave.

“But we haven’t even met him yet,” Dad replies, ever the voice of reason. “?Y si no es bueno para ti?”

Dad’s concern about a man not being good enough for me makes my stomach knot.

With a past like mine, filled with choices that had lasting ramifications, I’m not surprised he’s worried about my intuition.

Words are trapped in my throat, begging to be let out, but if I correct them, will they look at me like I’ve failed them again?

Like it’s what they’ve come to expect from me?

"Rosay?" Dad's voice softens. "You still there, mi cielo?"

A heaviness settles on my chest at hearing Dad use Mom's nickname for me. It brings me back to when I was a little girl, when we were still thick as thieves, before my entire world came crashing down .

"I'm here." I bat away a tear. "Sorry, it's kind of loud here."

“I didn’t even know you were dating someone again.” His voice carries a hint of hurt, and my stomach sours at the thought of being the one who made him sad. “Who's the lucky guy who swept my Rosalina off her feet?"

My mouth opens, words form on my tongue, and just as I'm about to say Thom (don't judge me, he's at least good for something), my phone buzzes in my ear with another call and I groan, "Graham."