too short to spend your time doing stuff you don’t like.’
She knew that—that was why she didn’t have an ulcer any more. A baby, but not an ulcer.
‘I am interested … it does sound like fun.’ Remy tipped her head, thinking quickly. ‘Maybe I could spend a week or so here, look over the space and draw up some sample menus. I could possibly cook a couple of dishes that you can sample. I can’t commit to a taking a job right now—to anything right now—but I’d be happy to give you guys some ideas, so that when you do employ someone you can tell them what you want and not have to rely on their taste.’
Ginny clapped her hands in delight. ‘Would you? That sounds amazing. Of course we’d pay you for your time.’
‘Hell, I’d pay you to cook for me,’ Eli stated. ‘So, how long have you been travelling for?’
‘Ages.’ Remy smiled at him and his returning smile showed interest. She checked inside herself again … No flutter, no tingle—nothing. Damn.
Eli must have seen something cross her face, because his eyes laughed at her before he softly spoke again. ‘Huh, I must be losing my touch. That doesn’t happen often.’
He said it with such genuine regret and confusion that she couldn’t hold his arrogant statement against him. So she shrugged and smiled, genuinely regretful. ‘Sorry.’
‘I’ve lost track of this conversation,’ Ginny muttered.
‘I’ve lost track of my burger,’ Remy stated, desperate to change the subject. ‘Oh, good—it’s on its way.’
The waitress slipped her plate in front of her with a murmured apology about the delay. Remy waved her away—and then blanched as the smell of fried onions hit her nose. Swallowing down her sudden nausea, which she attributed to her being on the very wrong side of ravenous, she cut into her burger and pulled it apart. She’d ordered it rare, as she always did, and the patty was perfectly cooked, oozing juice.
Her stomach climbed up into her throat and Remy slapped her hand over her mouth.
Ginny frowned. ‘Hey, are you okay?’
Remy shook her head and pushed her plate away. She had to get out of here. Now!
Scrabbling for her bag, she stood up, teetering on her feet. Eli flew up and grabbed her arm, keeping her from doing a face-plant on the floor.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she muttered to no one in particular.
From a long way away she heard Eli speaking to Ginny. ‘Maybe you should take her to wherever she’s staying, Gin, and I’ll settle the bill.’
Before she knew it the pint-sized Ginny had a surprisingly strong arm around her waist and was guiding her out of the restaurant.
So … okay, then, she thought as she sucked in fresh air. Maybe she wasn’t going to be one of those lucky women who got to skate through pregnancy.
Bo looked at his watch. He had ten minutes before his meeting with Ginny and Eli, and he was thinking, as he always did, that he was lucky to have his sister and his cousin as full partners in the family business. They fought like cats and dogs, but implicitly trusted each other, and each of them had their strengths, their place in the business.
His was the business brain and he kept the whole ship sailing smoothly, Eli made the exceptional wines the business was built on, and Ginny was the farmer, the viticulturist: responsible for looking after the vines and the land, the olive orchard and the vegetable gardens that supplied the mansion hotel and the restaurants with fresh produce.
On paper and in the eyes of their staff he was the boss, but in reality they operated as a rough sort of democracy. Any major decisions were made collectively, through negotiation and compromise. Sometimes that negotiation and compromise sounded more like shouting and arguing, but whatever worked …
And it did work. Better than any of them would have believed when they’d inherited equal shares of the winery, house and land after their beloved grandfather had passed on ten years before. He and Ginny had supported Eli when he’d informed them that he needed to travel, to visit other wine-producing countries, and he and Eli had trusted Ginny’s instincts to restore the Belleaire mansion to its former glory when they’d decided to turn it into a hotel. They’d both stood at his side when he’d buried his wife of six months …
Ana.
So little time as man and wife and he ached remembering that their marriage hadn’t been the happiest time of their relationship. As always, before he forced those thoughts away he consoled himself with the reminder that he’d known her and loved her one way or another all his life. She’d been his childhood friend, his first girlfriend, his prom date. They’d broken up during college but had reconnected in their mid-twenties when she’d become his live-in lover, his fiancée, and finally, for far too short a time, his wife.
And, to date, the only woman he’d ever loved. Would ever love.
Ignoring the issue that cropped up after they married, he deliberately remembered that they had suited each other perfectly. He was ambitious and dynamic and driven, able to take control and to be in charge. He had grounded her. She’d been sanguine and scatty, easy-going and happy to let him do what he did best—which had been to make the decisions and to chart the course of their lives. They’d been the perfect example of opposites attracting, and lightning, Bo thought, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stared out of his office window at the sun setting over the western vineyard, didn’t strike twice. He’d had the real thing. The only thing …
They said that memories of the people you’d lost faded, but even after four and a half years Bo didn’t need to look at the large black-and-white photograph that dominated the credenza next to his desk to visualise Ana. The long blonde hair he’d used to love wrapping around his fists as he slid into her, her dirty laugh, her wide blue eyes. Sometimes he swore he could still smell her.
She was still as much a part of him as she had been … she always would be. Love didn’t die with death. Or because of a rolling, on-off six month argument.
‘I’ll love you to the end …’ he’d told her as the light of life had faded from her eyes, as she’d lain in his arms, battered and broken, in that driving rain. She’d needed to hear it and he’d needed to say it.
She’d managed a final tiny smile. ‘Promise?’
‘Yeah. Always.’
He glanced at the photograph and his heart contracted. He was still in love with his wife—would always be in love with his wife. Despite everything that had happened, he’d never stopped loving her. As a result he liked women but he didn’t engage with them emotionally … financially. When you’d had something so amazing nobody else could compete—and he wasn’t prepared for them to try.
And if the fact that he was still in love with his wife wasn’t enough to put him off getting involved with a woman, then his job was. His career demanded eighty-hour weeks or more—when would he have time to date, for a relationship?
Nah, he was happy to play it cool, skimming along the surface …
Then his thoughts veered off on a tangent, as they often did lately,
