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Julian’s fingers twitched in his lap, and he tamped down the urge to wind one of those curls around the same finger he’d touched her with earlier. Christ, they were going to call him up onstage any minute to make a speech and he had a semi—because of ringlets—so he needed to stop thinking of Hallie in that towel. With no panties on.
Feeling as if he had some sort of fever, Julian removed his suit jacket and hung it on the back of Hallie’s chair, liking the way it looked there a little too much. A man didn’t hang his jacket on the back of a woman’s chair unless they were together, and now the room knew—and that satisfied something in Julian he’d never known existed.
Mine.
He’d said that to her last night in the vineyard, and it rang in his head now until he forced a swallow and tore his eyes from the nape of her flushed neck.
Later.
Julian let out a slow breath and turned his attention to Natalie and Corinne. His sister was now building a fort out of sugar packets and cocktail napkins. And he could see her nervous actions weren’t lost on Hallie, who sent him a look of concern over her shoulder. Nor had they gone unnoticed by his mother, whose pasted-on smile had dimmed somewhat during the introductory speech. And if this moment, this few seconds in time, were taking place a month ago, he might have been thinking of nothing but the pacing of his prepared words. The schedule of the luncheon and how it fit into his day, the routine he would need to complete upon arriving back at the guesthouse later.
But this string of seconds wasn’t happening a month ago. They were right now.
And he wouldn’t trade this moment for any other. Background noise and movement in the ballroom blurred everything except for the women surrounding him. He reached for Hallie’s hand beneath the table; then, deciding it wasn’t enough to have only that one connection with her, he moved his chair closer until her scent was stronger and inhaled deeply.
All moments were not equal.
Every second was not a grain of sand in an hourglass.
Time was bigger than him.
Maybe time wasn’t something that could be controlled at all; it was about making time matter with the people he cared about.
The speaker called Julian’s name from the podium, and he stood, took a few steps before realizing he was still holding on to Hallie’s hand. He’d nearly dragged her off the seat.
“Sorry.” He bent his head over her knuckles and kissed them, viewing the rapid intake of her breath and parting of her lips with the clarity of a man who’d just thrown out the script. Or had it been thrown out for him—he wasn’t totally sure, and, ironically, he didn’t have time to figure it out.
Julian accepted a plaque from the speaker. They stood shoulder to shoulder and posed for a flurry of photographs before he found himself in front of the microphone. He angled it higher to accommodate his height and set the plaque down on the podium. That’s when he realized the note cards containing bullet points for his speech were in the pocket of the jacket hanging on the back of Hallie’s chair. That really should have thrown him off, but he only found himself looking down at the table of women with a sense of . . . freedom.
The hell with the speech.
“Thank you very much for this honor. My father is grateful to the NVAV for recognizing his early contribution to the association after twenty years of success. He sends his appreciation from Italy.” Julian paused, traced a finger over the gold engraving. “I’m not going to accept this recognition on his behalf, though. I’m going to accept it on behalf of my mother.”
Some murmuring started around the ballroom, heads ducking toward each other, whispers ensuing behind hands. Julian didn’t really see any of it, because he was busy watching Hallie and Natalie and Corinne. People. His people.
Corinne appeared to be shell-shocked, but there was a distinct sheen in her eyes that, in turn, created an odd prickle in his throat. Natalie’s house of sugar packets had lost the battle with gravity, and finally, Hallie—God, he was so glad she was there—was smiling at him, her knuckles white in her lap. She was outshining the entire room, so beautiful he stumbled over his words and simply stared. What the hell had he been about to say?
Focus.
“My mother picked up the pieces after the fire four years ago,” he continued. “It might not be her family name on the label, but her fingerprints are on every bottle that leaves the vineyard, I can promise you that. Along with the hard work of our manager, Manuel, and the grounds crew that cultivate the grapes as if their last name were Vos, too. The vineyard only thrives because of them, because of Corinne Vos, and as much as we appreciate this honor, she should be acknowledged here today. And every day. Thank you.”
