Page 6 of The Wrong Fiancée

Someone filled my water glass, and I turned to thank the server and stuttered. It was Elika in the resort's signature uniform: a crisp, fitted black dress with a white apron. Understated, as expected from a place like this, her dark hair was neatly pinned back, and her beautiful face was composed and professional.

There wasn't a flicker of surprise when she saw me, even though my pulse quickened at the sight of her. She moved fluidly,topping off glasses with the precision and grace you'd expect from someone used to serving this particular clientele.

"Elika, can you ask the sommelier to come by?" Sam said with an obvious familiarity.

Did they know her? Well, of course, they did. They were regulars at this resort.

"Mr. Thatcher, I'm afraid he isn't in today. May I help you?" Elika was polite.

"Stop with the Mr. Thatcher. I know the resort has rules, but come on, Elika, you're my niece," my future father-in-law said indulgently.

My eyes went wide. I looked at Felicity, who shrugged and whispered, "Her father was Daddy's half-brother."

What were the chances that I was engaged to a relative of the woman whom I'd had the best sex of my life with?

Elika smiled tightly. "Of course, Uncle Sam. Maybe I can help you with the wine?"

"Get the Somm, Elika," Ginny muttered, not even looking at her niece.

"I can't, Mrs. Thatcher, he's not in today," Elika continued politely.

It didn't go unnoticed by me that Ginny didn't ask Elika to call her Auntie or by her name. I felt an undercurrent of something unpleasant as I witnessed the family dynamics.

"I'm thinking of having the lamb; what do you recommend?" Sam ignored his wife.

I didn't like how the Thatchers were treating Elika. She was a hotel maid and cleaned rooms, and was probably pitching in today as a server. How would she know what wine?—?

"I think the 2016 Domaine du Vieux Télégraphe Châteauneuf-du-Pape. It's rich with complex flavors of dark berries, spices, herbs, and earthy notes, with enough structure and depth to complement the richness of lamb. The 2016 vintage is widely regarded as one of the best vintages in recent years for the region. Weather conditions were nearly perfect, leading to wines with great balance, concentration, and aging potential."

I stared at her, dumbfounded. Elika—knowing Châteauneuf-du-Pape? Picking it out with that level of detail? I remembered her as being fierce and passionate, but I'd never imagined her with this kind of refinement. When we were together, I hadn't thought much beyond the fact that she was beautiful and fun—a fiery fling. A hotel maid, back then. Or at least that's how I'd justified walking away from her.

I was fully aware of how much of a snob I sounded like, and I felt ashamed of myself. I had passed judgment on Elika without knowing her.

Uncle Sam looked chagrined. "Let's get a bottle of that."

Rebecca smiled maliciously, apparently aware of the creepy dynamics that I could feel. "I'm having the halibut, as is Ginny."

"Me too. But I was thinking about the Sauvignon Blanc," Felicity chimed in pleasantly.

"Of course," Elika kept her tone professional. "If I may, I don't think the Sauvignon Blanc would do your meal justice. It's too acidic for how delicately the halibut is prepared. Maybe a 2018 Didier Dagueneau Pouilly-Fumé or a 2019 Domaine Vacheron Sancerre—the minerality will balance better with the butter sauce."

Michael chuckled, clearly impressed. "You're wasted here, Elika. You should be at one of those big restaurants in New York, running their wine program."

Ginny scoffed, as did Rebecca, who gave her husband a pointed look.

Elika smiled politely, her eyes emotionless, bland. "Thank you. The training program here for servers is at a high level, and most of us know the wine list well."

"Well, I still want the Sauvignon Blanc that Felicity mentioned," Rebecca said petulantly.

Christ! This was definitely not how it would be if my parents were around. Dad would sit Elika down and talk her ear off about wine and leave a huge tip.

"Yes, Mrs. Kingston."

"I'dlike to get the bottle of the Pouilly-Fumé you recommended," I spoke for the first time.

"Yes, Mr. Archer."

I wanted to tell her to call me Dean, but that would mean everyone would wonder how we knew each other, and I really didn't want to have that discussion with my future in-laws.

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