Winnie said nothing for a minute. “Well, I guess now you know.”
“Now I know,” I said with finality. “And I can move on.”
And I did.
At least, I tried.
It was hard with Gianni right there all the time. He accepted the offer to do Hot Mess, but production wasn’t starting until April, and in the meantime, we still had to work together.
But just when I was positive he couldn’t change his ways, he kept his word not to bother me anymore.
He stopped coming to the tasting room to antagonize me. He didn’t tease me in the kitchen at Etoile. When we had meetings or discussions about the menu, he was professional and polite—no cocky attitude, no boasting, no dirty jokes, no flirty references to anything that had happened between us. It was just like he promised.
I was totally baffled.
Worse? I missed the attention—not that I’d admit it to him.
Then one morning, about two weeks after the blizzard, he came to the tasting room to tell me he’d turned down Fiona Duff’s offer.
“I hope you didn’t turn it down because of me,” I said, even though part of me was desperately hoping that was exactly why he’d turned it down.
“There were several reasons. You were one of them.” He shrugged. “It didn’t feel right.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, I just wanted you to know.” He gave me an impersonal smile and started to walk away.
“Gianni!” I blurted, because I didn’t want him to leave.
He faced me again. “Yeah?”
I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated the gesture and give him a hug and feel the warm strength of his body against mine again. I wanted to confess that I thought about him way more than I should. I wanted to say the words—I miss you. I pushed you away because I was scared.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
“Um, thank you. For telling me.”
“You’re welcome.”
As he walked away, I felt like crying.
Days passed.
Occasionally I’d catch him looking at me across the dining room, or see him walk past the tasting room and pause like he might come in, but he never did. Every time, my breath would catch and I’d hope for something from him, some sign that he was thinking of me too, that he couldn’t stay away, couldn’t keep his promise.
But he kept it.
At night, I’d lie in bed and remember his kiss, his touch, his hot, hard body over mine. Sounds he made and words he’d growled. Secrets he’d shared and those I’d given up. The intensity of our connection. The pulse of his orgasm inside me. The soft, quiet moments afterward, lying in his arms. The final morning I’d woken up and thought, maybe . . . maybe.
But it had only been a dream. Or worse—a game of make-believe. Whatever I’d imagined between us was clearly one-sided. And if I gave into the temptation to be with him again, I’d only be handing him the chance to break my heart for real. I hadn’t lasted all this time—years of resisting the pull of him—to fall apart now. I just needed to stay strong and wait out this agonizing interim where he was here, but not with me.
Weeks went by this way.
A month.
The snow melted, Abelard and Etoile were swamped over Valentine’s Day, and an early thaw meant spring tourism would pick up even sooner than usual. I kept my nose to the grindstone and focused on my job—there was plenty to do between pruning and planting in the vineyard and working the floor at Etoile at night. I was beyond exhausted when my head finally hit the pillow. Winnie and I also planned summer events for guests, and every day I saw the glow on her face grow more radiant when she spoke about her hopes for the future with Dex.
In the meantime, I grew more grouchy and sullen. My complexion, always pale in winter, grew sallow and greenish. I didn’t feel right in my skin, and all I wanted to do was nap or eat junk. My bad ankle still hurt, and my foot got weirdly swollen—actually both my feet. I was in a bitter, foul mood all the time, nothing could lift me out of it—not Friends, not peanut butter and M&M’s, not even wine, which didn’t even appeal to me these days. I figured it was my body’s way of telling me I’d been consuming too much sugar, alcohol, and salt, so I cut them from my diet and tried to get more exercise and more sleep. But March arrived, and I still felt bloated and exhausted all the time. Then one day I went to get dressed for work and popped the button off my pants trying to get them on.
At first, I just rolled my eyes at the annoyance—I was already running late and didn’t have time to sew a button. I was rifling through the hangers in my closet, hunting for another pair of pants that would fit my bloated belly when something occurred to me.