Page 5 of A Taste of Chardonnay

My lips parted, but the words halted in my throat. The truth was…

“I have no idea.”

I glanced at my watch; only an hour had passed since I arrived. I usually tried to stay for at least two, but my social tolerance was teetering on the edge. Chardonnay had that effect on me. One interaction with her and I was ready to head to my cabin in the woods, pour two fingers’ worth of whiskey and lose myself in a history book. It’s either that or she gets me so aroused I have no choice but to take matters into my own hands. Literally.

Nero—Grasso sibling number four—stepped from the house, adjusting his shirt with a shit-eating grin. Considering Lainey was also missing, I could guess where he was. Ever since he opened his eyes to the girl who’d been right in front of him since we were kids, he had given up his playboy ways, and his dick and his heart belonged solely to Lainey now. I wished they would ease up on the all-over-each other phase. I didn’t need to walk in on them fucking.

“Hey.” Nero stopped beside me, patting my back.

“Hope you washed your hands.”

“Huh?” Nero looked down at his opened hand and turned it over. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” I nodded toward the door Lainey was walking through, a flush coating her cheeks and chest. “You’re not as smooth as you think you are.”

“We didn’t have time for foreplay.” He smirked in that annoying way he did.

“Franc’s going to kick your ass if he finds out you’re fucking in his house. Speaking of, don’t both of you have houses of your own?”

“Yes, but Lainey was working on a cake all night, and she forbade me from going to the shop.”

“I wonder why.”

Nero shrugged, feigning innocence when anyone who knew him knew innocence was not his forte.

Jack, my best friend and worst guard dog, plopped his ass on my boot and rested his furry head against my leg. I leaned down and pet my Australian Shephard, who I rescued after he was brought to the local shelter from a puppy mill. Some days, I think he rescued me.

“So,” Nero says, leaning on his heels and looking awkward.

“What?”

“Your dad,” he started, and my hand stilled on Jack’s fur, every muscle in my body tense.

Nero, a former thirty-six-year-old playboy, somehow became best friends with a group of old military vets, and that group included my old man. Nero kept me posted on how he was doing, and I hated that I cared. After everything that man put me through, I shouldn’t give two shits. But somehow, growing up with so much hate and anger, I couldn’t allow myself to default to what was most likely in my DNA. I fought against it as much as I could. Sometimes, Nero would catch me off guard and the resentment and bitterness that simmered beneath the surface would rise, and I’d tell Nero to fuck off. But the guilt of not listening would follow me home.

“What about him?” I asked through clenched teeth.

“The guys are worried about him.”

“Okay.” Just because I kept updated on him didn’t mean shit. Ron wasn’t my problem and hadn’t been for a long time. He was lucky he had any friends at all.

“He’s been a little forgetful lately.”

“Is he drinking again?”

“No, he hasn’t touched alcohol in years.”

He waited until I moved out, got my shit together, to give it up. Maybe if he’d given the bottle up when I was a kid, living at home, needing my father, things could have been different.

When he got sober, he tried to contact me. Through a fucking letter. He didn’t even have the decency to meet me face to face with his half-assed apology. I’d tossed the letter in the fire and let the flames speak for me.

I tipped my glass to my lips, appreciating the complexity of the liquid gold—respecting it and never abusing it. “He’s getting old.”

“He’s seventy. Gramps was much older than him and was sharp as a tack until he died.”

“He took care of himself.”

“I guess, but it’s still concerning. I mean, he went for a walk and couldn’t find his way home.”

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