She’s already shaking her head. “I’m not sure what all of this is”—she sweeps her hand around the room—“but nothing has changed. You’re still in New York, busy running an empire. I’m still here, wanting more than you’re able to give me. I’m sorry you thought for a second I wouldn’t see you. In some ways, you’re like family. My brother’s best friend. I’ll always have a soft spot for you. But . . .” She frowns.
This is not going well.
I want to reach out for her so badly, but Chari isn’t mine right now. And I have to respect that. But still . . . fuck, this is hard.
Tell her you’re committed, that you’ll find time to be together.
Tell her you love her and should have realized it sooner.
Tell her something, you idiot.
Be honest.
“Remember the night you turned twenty-one?”
Chari’s brows draw together as she nods. “Yeah.”
“After your twenty-one shots . . .”
“Many of which were beer,” she adds.
“Thankfully, yes.”
Her smile loosens something in my chest. This has to work.
“I stayed at your house that night.”
I was sure she couldn’t possibly remember, but as the fire crackles next to us, Chari surprises me.
“I know. We ate bacon the next morning. At least, you and Devon did. I don’t think I ate all day.”
“You passed out on the couch,” I recall. “Devon took off your shoes and put a blanket on you before he went to bed. I went into the kitchen and drank some water first, like a responsible young man.”
Chari smiles, clearly having no clue where I’m going with this story. But to me, it’s like the whole thing happened yesterday.
“When I came back out and walked by the couch, I thought about the raging hangover you’d have the next day. And I wished I’d made you drink more water too. Even if they weren’t all real, you did your share of actual shots that night.”
“Raging hangover,” she mutters. “That’s an understatement.”
“I watched you, feeling guilty. It was the first time I really saw you as anything other than Devon’s little sister. All night, I’d imagined what I might say to you if you weren’t. And while I watched you sleep, your hands folded so neatly on your chest, your hair splayed out everywhere.” I shrug, acting like it’s no big deal to confess this, when in fact I never planned on telling anyone other than Hayden. “You looked like an angel to me. I thought about that night for years, wondering what Devon would think if I told him I thought his little sister was hot as hell.”
“Oh my God,” she says. “You did not think that?”
But I can tell she still doesn’t get it.
“After my discovery, when Hayden and I decided to move forward with the company, one of the first decisions we had to make was to name it. Something that could work well with beer, wine, and who knew what else.”
It takes her a second.
“Hayden’s dad hired a marketing team that would make most Fortune 500 companies jealous. They were the best in the business. Charts of names and market research . . . but it was one thing I refused to budge on.”
Her eyes, like saucers, tell me she’s finally made the connection.
“Are you saying . . . ?”
I nod. “It’s named after you, Chari.”
“No, there’s no way. Devon . . .”
“Has no idea.”
She still doesn’t believe me. I pull my phone out of my pocket, pull up Hayden’s number, and hold it out. “Text Hayden. He’ll tell you.”
Chari doesn’t take the phone. “Angel, Inc. is named . . .”
“After the beautiful, caring girl who turned into a woman right before my eyes.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me? Last week . . . how could you?” She stops, but I know what she’s trying to ask.
“How could I screw up a chance with the woman I’ve harbored a secret crush on for years? My only real defense is that I’m an idiot, and it’s not a very good one. Why did I think it was OK not to go home for Christmas last year when my family lives two hours away? Or that buying my dad a few new pizza ovens would make up for missing his surgery last year.”
How could it have gotten so bad?
“I don’t know, Char. I really don’t. But I do know one thing.” I swallow, mentally crossing my fingers. “I need someone to remind me never to do it again. Never to take the people I love for granted. And I’d really like for that person to be you.”
42
Chari
From the minute Devon dropped me off at the front door of Chateau LeMonte, I’ve been caught up in a whirlwind of confusion. Of course, it makes a whole lot more sense that Enzo, and not Devon, would want to meet me here. To say this is not my brother’s scene is to put things mildly. I knew something was fishy before I showed up, but I hadn’t put two and two together.
Enzo is here.
Devon is not.
I’ve tried all week to harden myself against the possibility Enzo might change his mind (although I was admittedly close to caving when he sent me that check-in text). At the end of the day, Enzo chose Angel. He will always choose Angel.
There just isn’t room for us both in his world.
Or so I thought. The realization that Angel was named after me . . . that’s something I hadn’t prepared myself for. And honestly, I don’t know what to say.
Thankfully, a knock at the door gives me a stay of execution. Within minutes, the table is set with lunch, reminiscent of the breakfast Enzo ordered for me that morning in Switzerland. Of course, I don’t miss the parallels.
The view.
The notecard.
He’s recreating the date that put me on a collision course with disappointment and heartbreak.
Still, I don’t react to Enzo’s announcement. We talk casually over lunch, as if the bombshell he dropped on me in front of the fireplace never happened. I’m buying time to figure out what to do next. He knows me well enough to realize that, and he’s very politely allowing it.
I want to throw myself in his arms, obviously. But then what? Will it be another three weeks before I see him again? Longer?
“More champagne?”
“It’s not yours,” I tease. Forgetting for a second this isn’t a date. It’s a . . . I don’t know what exactly. “Angel doesn’t have a sparkling wine.”
“Yet.”
He refills my glass as we exchange glances. I hate to be a mood killer, but this has to be said.
“And that’s the reason why, as much as I want to forget dessert and have my way with you, it just can’t happen.”
Enzo hears only one thing in all of that. His chocolate brown eyes darken. As they do, I force myself to look away, only for my traitorous eyes to shift to his bare forearms instead. Throughout the meal, I’ve cursed the fact that I once told him I have a weakness for rolled shirtsleeves. And I’m sure he did it on purpose.
Jeans and a button-down. He knows it’s my favorite of his looks.
“Tell me, precisely,” he says, standing, “why ‘this’ can’t happen?”