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His eyes darken at the suggestion, but he shakes his head. “Sorry, that’d look a teensy bit suspicious, and I’m on strict instructions to keep undercover.” He casually drops a hand on my forearm. “But if push comes to shove, we can feign a headache halfway through the visit.”
“Both of us? Wouldn’t it be even more suspicious?”
“Nah.” Archie shrugs and gets up. We’re the last ones left on the bus. “By that point, everybody will have been properly wined and they won’t care anymore. Come on.” He offers me a hand. “Let’s do this.”
He pulls me up and precedes me out.
When we get off the bus, everyone else is already assembled outside the winery. We’re waiting in a paved open space with a circular fountain in the middle. The reception is to the left, and in front of us, a sloped-ceiling, squat building with a round arch in its center leads to the vineyards. A tall, square tower on the left makes the entrance asymmetrical. Beyond the arch, green grass and endless rows of vines extend past the horizon.
We’re a big group, thirty people, maybe more, mostly on the younger side. Winter has arranged for the parents and other middle-aged relatives to take part in the same visit, but later in the day. A small mercy, meaning I can at least avoid my meanest aunts a while longer. My best friend might’ve forgiven me, but her mom is a different story.
From the front, Lana catches my eye and waves. I smile and wave back but quickly look away. I’m still not 100 per cent comfortable around her—mostly because I’m still too ashamed of what I did. Plus, she’s hanging out with the rest of my old group of friends, while I’m loitering way at the back, hiding behind all the professors who form a pretty smart human barrier. With this many people, maybe I can keep a buffer between me and Susan, Daria, and Martha and Hector, a couple who were another regular in our gang. But what if I can’t?
The initial signs of a panic attack—sweaty palms and accelerated heartbeat—threaten to make me hyperventilate when Tucker comes out of the welcome center and gives me the best news of the day.
“All right, everyone,” he calls. “Please gather around. There are too many of us to go in at once; we have to split into two smaller groups. Blue bracelets go first, while orange bracelets have to wait fifteen minutes. Please come up front to receive a bracelet.”
Archie turns toward me. “I’ll go get ours,” he offers, and my knees wobble a little with relief. “Anyone we want to avoid?”
“Yeah,” I say, pointing at Susan and Daria. “The woman in the coral dress with the brown bob, and her friend with the shoulder-length balayage.”
Archie cute-frowns. “Am I supposed to know what a balayage is?”
“Ah, no. It means lighter hair tips and dark roots, she’s the one in the white pants. They’ll probably be in the same group as Lana. You’ve met her, right?”
Archie nods. “Gotcha.”
While Archie is gone, the guy with the Italian accent oh-so casually walks up to me, saying, “Fine day, huh?” He jerks his chin up to the sunny sky.
The weather, really? Is this how he’s going to start a conversation?
“Yeah, very nice,” I respond, equally dully.
He moves on to the next obvious topic. “You’re the bride’s sister, right?”
“Yep.”
I’m saved from his next boring conversational tidbit by Archie’s return. He comes our way, walking rather aggressively and staring the Italian dude down. I swear, if he were a peacock he’d have his tail all rounded out in a show of male dominance.
“Hey, Gio,” he says. “The bracelets are being handed out at the reception; we’re in the orange group. Logan is in the blue with his wife-to-be.”
Giotakes the hint and makes himself scarce, saying, “I’ll go get mine.”
I turn on Archie and glare at him. “What are you doing?”
His chest de-puffs, and he shrugs innocently. “Nothing.”
“The next time you donothing, try to be less of a caveman about it. I told you no one can find out about us. And your little scene was completely unnecessary, anyway; your friend is the worst flirt ever.”
“Really?” Archie scrunches his face, surprised. “Must be the Californian air, because in Rome, he used to make conquests left and right every time we went out.”
“He spoke about the weather,” I hiss.
“Ouch.” Archie makes a mock-pained expression and then says, “Hold out your wrist.”
I do, and he takes my arm in a gentle grip, his eyes burning with such passion he might be putting a wedding band on my ring finger. Of course, in Archie land, a ring would only mean: I promise to sex you up good, from now till the end of the week. Nothing remotely romantic.
Still, my pulse speeds up. And when he looks down at my wrist, I follow his gaze and have to work hard not to shiver while he fastens the orange bracelet around it. My skin burns where his fingers graze it, and why does this feel so much like foreplay? Can this man turn everything into a dirty thought, from foot massages to yoga classes to simple tour bracelets?
