“You know,” Marco says. “The helipad at the winery is clear. If you’re up for it, Dean, we could do a fly over now?”
“Yeeaaah, man,” Dean says. “Frankie? You’re welcome to—”
“I’m in,” I tell him.
I’ve never been in a helicopter before, but I don’t have time to be nervous or overthink it. The next thing I know, the three of us are climbing into the touring helicopter. Dean gives us a short rundown of what the tour would include as he prepares us for the flight with safety measures and makes sure our seat belts are secure.
My heart lurches into my throat at liftoff, thewhump-whump-whumpof the propeller blades above my head jacking my nerves. But then we’re in the air, and the helicopter steadies. The land spreading out beneath us looks incredible. We’reflying. I let out a laugh of pure joy.
Dean is talking the whole time about his plan for the collaboration. I’m listening intently while I watch the world race by beneath us.
And then…oh no.
I get the barf bag open just in time.
“Duuude,” Dean chuckles. “You nailed it in the baaag. That’s impressive. We should take a pic, put it on a shirt.”
“Good idea,” Marco says. “We could put her photoonthe barf bags, with a quote about your flying being so smooth, you’ll hit the bag every time.”
Marco winks at me, but all I can do is puke again while they laugh at my misery.
When I finally run out of hurl, I apologize to Dean profusely, though he insists it’s no big deal. I’d had my tummy tea this morning, but I should have brought some with me in a thermos. I’d gotten cocky. Lesson learned.
Luckily, we land at the Bellanti helipad a few minutes later. My face is probably green. Not entirely sure that I can stand on my own, I let Marco help me out of the helicopter. A small crowd rushes out of the offices to see the helicopter—no one was expecting one today, I’m sure—and Dante pushes his way to the front. He glares at the sealed barf bag in my hand, his eyes blazing, but Marco sweeps him into a handshake with Dean, leaving me time to slip away and find the nearest restroom.
Donovan is on me instantly, following like a shadow. I’m too focused on my insides to tell him where I’m going…but then I realize I’m not going to make it anyway. Turning to the row of hedges outside the office windows, I give up whatever is left of my breakfast, hoping no one notices.
When I look up, I see Donovan nearby, pretending to study a tree. Realizing that I’m looking directly at him, he smiles, giving up the pretense. Unspooling a garden hose nearby, he comes over to me and starts washing away the evidence.
“Thanks,” I say sheepishly.
“These bushes needed watering anyway,” he says.
As he walks me from the main building to the tasting room, I clear my throat and ask, “Any chance you won’t tell Dante about this?”
He hesitates. “He cares for you, Mrs. Bellanti. Considering there are men around with bad intentions, I don’t think he’d care about any…gardening we need to do.”
I nod in gratitude, and then step out on a limb. “What do you know about all the extra security?” I ask, trying to make it sound casual. “If Livvie’s out of town, then…why are there still so many guards? And what about Marco? Dante doesn’t want him racing in Vegas this weekend, but—”
“That’s a conversation for Mr. Bellanti to have with you, ma’am,” he says gently.
We step into the tasting room, and the coolness of the air conditioning feels like heaven on my face. “You’re a good soldier, aren’t you Donovan?”
There’s a shuffle behind me. “Are you Francesca?”
Spinning to the unfamiliar voice, I find a striking couple behind me. The man is lean but broad in the shoulders, his dark hair gleaming. The woman on his arm reminds me a little of Charlie with her glossy, straight blonde hair and how well she pulls off casual designer slacks and a blouse. She looks poised yet breezy, as if she just stepped off the page of a fashion magazine.
“Yes?” I answer, glancing back and forth between the couple. “I’m Francesca Bellanti.”
Donovan gently takes my elbow in a reassuring gesture. “Mrs. Bellanti, it appears we have a few VIP visitors today. May I introduce Stefan Zoric and his wife Victoria—”
“Tori,” the woman says, smiling at me.
“Mr. Bellanti’s old friends from Chicago,” Donovan finishes.
“Not that old!” Tori jokes, then seems to notice my confusion. “Is it not a good day for a private tasting? Dante extended an offer to us a while back to visit any time. We were in LA for some business and decided to take the weekend to visit Napa. I hope it’s not an inconvenience?”
“Oh. Hello. Of course it’s not an inconvenience. I’m happy to show you around.” I’m smiling now, but I’m still a bit taken aback. It’s the first I’m hearing about this. “Please, call me Frankie.”
