As I stalk down the hall and make my way upstairs toward my rooms, I mull over the current issue with the Abbott vines. We can’t afford to lose them. The Abbott-Bellanti chianti is already presold for a thousand bottles. Not only that, but we did a big thing by combining the wineries. Something like this hasn’t been done before around here, and it’s made quite a splash in the press. Everyone is talking about it. There’s no way I can drop the ball now. What would people think if they find out that my winery can’t make a claim on a single Abbott grape? My brothers and I have worked too hard to let a bunch of gossip stain the Bellanti Vineyards name.
Which is why I need to focus on business. Not my dick.
Taking out my phone, I pull up Frankie’s contact, but then hesitate with my thumb over her name. It’s late. She’s probably in bed with her husband right now. All that warmth going to someone else. All that passion, wasted on a lowlife like Rico. Just thinking about it makes me cringe. A man like him doesn’t know what to do with a woman like her.
Pacing the room, I realize I should’ve pressed Armani a little more deeply about his plans for Rico. I need to know what we’re up against, and what our options are. Beyond Armani, we have an entire team of lawyers at our beck and call, but Rico knows he’s got us over a barrel. I doubt he’d be interested in simply selling to us. Not for any reasonable price, that is.
But Frankie can be reasonable. I just don’t know that she will be…fuck.
I detest texting, but for reasons I am not willing to examine at the moment, I can’t quite stomach the thought of hearing her voice right now.
For the first time, I tap out a text to Frankie.
Meeting tomorrow morning. We need to settle this once and for all.
Then I hit send and power down my phone without waiting for a response. I know it’s the only way I’ll be able to sleep tonight—otherwise I’ll be checking for her reply every five minutes.
I take a hot shower and then climb into bed, telling myself I’ll deal with Frankie in the morning.
15
Frankie
“He’s ruined everything else.He doesn’t get to ruin my senior year, too.”
I’m driving Livvie to Napa High, even though Charlie and I told our little sister she could skip school if she wanted. We thought a break might give her some time to deal with everything that’s been going on, and there are only a few weeks left until winter vacation anyway. But Livvie was adamant. She said she didn’t want to miss any of the reviews before midterm exams, insisting she’d finish the quarter with her usual straight As, come hell or high water.
It’s about an hour and ten minutes to NHS, so we left extra early and hit the Starbucks drive thru before hitting the road this morning. Our breakfast sandwiches are long gone, though Livvie ate half of mine, but my little sister is still fiddling with the cardboard sleeve on her cup while she stares out the car window.
Even though she’s tried her best to put on a happy face, it’s obvious that everything is weighing heavily on her—and I hate that I don’t know how to make it better. I still see red every time I mentally replay that horrible scene with the men who came to the winery to take the Friesians. Which Dad still hasn’t apologized for.
In fact, he hasn’t reached out at all. Of course he hasn’t. Slow clap for Absentee Father of the Year.
It’s infuriating the way he’s left Livvie without a positive male influence in her life. I know how I felt growing up without one. And look what happened—I eloped with the first man who threw any attention at me, married him without a second thought. His bullshit promises to take care of me were like my own personal aphrodisiac. I don’t want that for my sister.
Unfortunately, solid father figures don’t exactly fall from the sky when you need them.
Although…now that I think about it, I might know someone who fits the bill.
After I drop Livvie off at the school’s front doors, I watch her disappear into the teeming rush of teenagers and overstuffed backpacks, and then go park in the lot.
It’s been years since I walked these halls, and I can’t help but smile as I make my way to the front office. School was my sanctuary, though I never fully appreciated that until after I’d graduated.
When I ask the admin behind the curved reception desk if I can visit Mr. Matthews, my old school counselor, she smiles. “Mr. Matthews is no longer a counselor here,” she says.
“Oh,” I say, deflating. “Do you know if he transferred somewhere else, or—”
“He is Vice Principal Matthews now,” she clarifies. “And I happen to know that he’s free.”
She has me sign in on a clipboard and then motions me down the hall. As I knock on his door, I briefly wonder if he’ll remember me. I’m sure he’s seen thousands of students pass through NHS during his time here.
“Come on in,” he calls out. Just the sound of his voice is a comfort.
When I step into his office, a welcoming smile spreads across his face.
“Hello.”
“Francesca Abbott. What a nice surprise.”
