“You go ahead,” I say. “I just wanted to check in.”
“OK, have fun today. Love you.”
“Love you too,” I say, hanging up. I mess around on my phone for a few minutes, checking email and social media, but that view calls to me. Coffee in hand, I step back out onto the balcony to savor it some more, and to maybe take a few pictures for Lisa and Devon.
Unbelievable.
So this is how the other half live? It’s exciting—exhilarating, even—but it’s also a bit intimidating. I’ve been hanging so far, but there are definitely times I feel way out of my league. At the restaurant in New York. In first class on the plane. Last night at dinner with all the suits.
I feel like an elementary school teacher playing grown-up. Can I really hang with Enzo’s crowd tomorrow? Or in general? His new life is so different from my own, and I’m not sure I can achieve the same equanimity with which he approaches it.
But I decide it’s time to stop agonizing and start exploring. Before long, Enzo will be back. And tonight . . .
It’s finally time.
21
Enzo
Though the meeting with our supplier went longer than I anticipated, everything seems to be in order for tomorrow’s official launch. Thankfully, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve been to Switzerland a handful of times. The house Hayden’s parents own is in Lugano, just a few hours south of Montreux, and they’re actually dual citizens. Naturally, when we started discussing our plan for rolling out Angel in Europe, Switzerland made the top of our list.
I walk into the lobby of the hotel, anticipation growing with every step.
There’s no doubt I was a little distracted this morning, but I managed to compartmentalize, somewhat, and keep thoughts of Chari at bay. Hayden called in, and we hammered out the final details for the launch with our distributors, the bar owners, and the marketing team in charge of getting word out. It took a little longer than anticipated, but I’m confident in our plan.
I wanted to get both Angel’s Brew and Angel Wine launched at the same time, but Hayden and the Swiss team convinced me it would be prudent to start with just one product. If the U.S. market is any indication, demand will grow naturally because of the nature of the product. Multiple countries have already expressed interest, and the sales team is confident our biggest issue by the end of the third quarter will be meeting supply.
I look at my watch in the hotel elevator. Two o’clock. Our reservation at the vineyard is for three, and it’s a half hour drive from the hotel. I was hoping for more time in the room first, but this is probably just as well.
I made a vow that our first time together will be special, and I intend to keep it. If I managed to keep my hands off her this morning after waking up with her legs tangled through mine, then what’s another few hours?
Tonight.
My hand is almost shaking as I swipe the key card. I’ve never been this out of control in my life, and the reason for it is standing on the balcony, not having heard me come in. I want to join her, but I have to change, and I know the whole waiting thing is going to be a hell of a lot harder if I have to change in front of her. Or even if I have to see that glint of attraction in her eyes before I bring my clothes to the bathroom. So I change before going out there, ditching the suit for a pair of jeans and a sweater.
I won’t even need a jacket. The mild, sunny weather couldn’t be more perfect.
“Hello there,” I say, spotting a coffee cup in her hands.
Chari turns.
She looks me up and down. “You already changed. I didn’t even hear you come in.”
I join her at the railing, the view no less spectacular because I’ve seen it before.
“I’m stealthy.”
I lean in to kiss her, and she weaves a hand into my hair, bringing me closer as our tongues tangle. It takes less than a minute for me to become hard as a rock. Knowing we’re alone, with a bed just a few steps away . . .
I pull back.
“Unfortunately, we have to head out already. Sorry I’m a bit late.”
“It’s fine. How did it go?”
It shocks me more than a little to realize the last thing I want to talk about is work.
“Good. We’re all set for tomorrow.” I take her hand. “Ready to go?”
She’s wearing jeans, brown boots, and a chunky salmon-colored sweater, the loose turtleneck making me long to pull it down and devour her neck, kissing my way up behind her ear and making her beg for us to stay here, in this room.
I groan as she brushes past me, not sure I can make it all day.
Tonight, I tell myself again. It’s quickly becoming a mantra.
On the drive up the mountain to Coteau Vineyards, Chari clutches my hand, squeezing it hard enough to hurt whenever a car brushes past us on the narrow, winding road.
“We’re going to die.”
I try not to laugh.
“We’ll be fine. But maybe don’t look.” Even as I say it, she glances at the side of the road as it plunges into what could reasonably be considered a cliff.
“Holy shit, are they serious?”
I’m not sure who “they” are, but Chari’s response to everything on this trip makes me smile inside. There’s still so much that I want to show her, do for her. I’m not as flashy as Hayden, but I don’t shy away from some of the nice things our hard work has earned for us.
“There it is.” I point to the fields above us. Even brown and divested of grapes, they are beautiful. Rolling hills of vines that hint at the lush greens of spring to come.
“A vineyard!”
Our car comes to a stop. Getting out, I speak to the driver, arranging for our pickup.
“I know you’ve been liking some varietals,” I tell her. “I thought this would be a good place to test more out. And I think you’ll like the scenery.”
“Have you been here before?”
Chari and I walk hand in hand down a hill the car couldn’t navigate, and given my usual reluctance to show that kind of affection, I’m surprised by how natural it feels. Like she belongs by my side.
“Not this one, but another across the lake. Did you know”—I point to the mountains on the other side of Lake Geneva as it comes into view below us—“that France is just over there?”
“Seriously? When I’m looking out from our balcony, I’m looking at France?”
“Straight ahead and to the right, yes. To the left you’re looking at the Swiss Alps.”
A man, probably in his late sixties, comes out of the building to greet us on the cobblestone street.
“Bonjour, Monsieur DeLuca. Mademoiselle Atwood.”
My lips twitch at Chari’s expression. She’s already admitted it freaks her out that everyone knows our names before they meet us. She thinks it’s magic.
I know otherwise. We’re paying handsomely for the courtesy.
“Bonjour, Monsieur LeSeurre.” I tell Chari, “He is the owner of Coteau Vineyards.”
“Alexandre, please.”
A round of handshakes follows.
“Thank you again for opening for us this afternoon.”
Many businesses in Montreux are shuttered during the week in the winter. Tourists flock to the ski resorts, leaving other attractions around town relatively quiet. But Hayden’s father has more connections than anyone I know.