A thread of the same deep voice I heard before filters through the door. Bingo.
I toss back my hair, take a breath, and turn the brass handle. The door swings open wide, and the conversation halts. Barging in, my breath catches in my throat as I get my first look at the man standing behind the desk. My fiancé’s head swivels toward me, dark eyes immediately sizing me up as if evaluating a potential threat—which, let’s face it, is probably exactly what he’s doing. His chiseled face is strikingly handsome, something I wasn’t expecting.
The angry words I’d been ready to toss at him stick in my throat. It’s then that I notice an attractive redhead sitting behind the desk. She’s leaning over a tablet with a stylus in her hand, showing off some deep cleavage. Dante’s hand is on her arm, fingers splayed over her tanned flesh as if he’d been stroking her while she was taking notes.
Frozen in place, my eyes shift between Dante and this…woman. I’m struck by both how undeniably hot he is and how infuriated I am that he’s flirting with someone else while he’s engaged to me.
He comes around the desk, revealing an impressive body. “What is this?” His tone and body language tell me he’s clearly annoyed at being interrupted.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I’m Frankie. Abbott. I just wanted to introduce myself—”
“Talk to Jessica,” Dante interrupts. Then he rudely brushes past me and out the door, as if I’m completely insignificant.
Just like that, he’s gone, leaving me with the redheaded woman.
“I…I just wanted to meet him,” I say softly.
Jessica crosses her arms. “Mr. Bellanti is a busy man. He hates being interrupted at work, and you shouldn’t be showing up here unexpectedly.”
Charlie’s words about staying out of her husband’s business echo in my mind.
Standing, smoothing down the front of her tight red dress, the woman goes on, “Look, why don’t you go home and take the next few hours to get ready for your scheduled dinner tonight? Maybe change into something a little more…current.” She makes a circular gesture around my body, smirking. “Mr. Bellanti prefers his women in clothes from this century.”
I dislike her. Like, a lot. I also have no retort.
As I watch her stroke her hand down the same arm that Dante had been touching, I suddenly know with a fierce certainty that she and my fiancé are fucking.
She walks over to me, and damn near pushes me toward the door.
“I’m leaving,” I say.
“Good.” Gripping my elbow, she guides me over the threshold. “Goodbye, now.”
With that, she closes the door in my face, solidifying my suspicion that she’s sleeping with Dante.
For some reason, that makes me angrier than anything.
4
Frankie
When I was a kid,I used to stand in front of the open refrigerator after school, convinced that if I stared hard enough, something delicious would magically appear.
That wishful thinking didn’t work then, and it’s no more effective now as I gaze into my dated closet, glaring into the expanse of crappy clothes. I literally have nothing appropriate to wear to my dinner with Dante tonight, and thanks to Jessica’s bitchy comments, I’m even more worried about it than I was before.
Jessica.
I throw down the hanger in my hand and grab a handful of other outfits. No. No, no, and no. I toss them all onto the ever-growing reject pile, my emotions still swinging violently between rage and desperation. My fiancé isn’t just an asshole, he’s a philandering asshole. And to make matters worse? He’s doing it with an employee. Someone I’ll probably have to see more than I’d like, considering I’m marrying into the family business. Though why I ever thought he’d be loyal to me is anybody’s guess.
Still, it’s not the kind of relationship I want for myself. I know I deserve better. I deserve love and kindness and gentleness and real connection. The kind of relationship where we can curl up on the couch and talk about our day, or laugh over stupid television commercials, or just sit in comfortable silence and appreciate each other.
Longing stirs in me with a familiar pang. My eyes burn, and I realize I have to put away any possibility of experiencing true love or fidelity in this marriage. Those are childish wishes, the dreams of a teenager with a crush and hopes for a rosy-pink future.
The kind of dreams that only get people into trouble anyway.
My cell vibrates on my vanity. I answer Charlie’s call and put my phone on speaker.
“Tell me everything,” she chirps. “I want all the juicy details about your meeting with Dante. Wait, but first tell me the plan for the winery. What are they thinking for expansion, or wait, are they even keeping our winery as a winery or are they going to—oh no, they’re not going to shut it down, are they? Where am I going to run my business, then? Will we still have jobs? I can’t stand all these unknowns! Why aren’t you saying anything?”
