Page 96 of Love, Lies, and Celtic Knots

The significance of what she’s holding, what it might be that causes her so much pain hits me like a tank, flattening every rational thought.

My stomach knots, and I press my forehead against the glass, fighting the urge to storm inside and demand answers. But I already know what this is about.

Her words from earlier echo in my head: ‘That I was pregnant? That I lost the baby? That I almost died that night?’

My father. He had to have known. He could have gotten word to me. Better yet, he might have taken her in.

The realization burns like acid in my veins. It all makes sense now. Her anger, her bitterness, the lengths she’s gone to in trying to destroy everything tied to me and my family. She’s not just doing this out of spite. It’s about what she lost—what was taken from her.

And she blames me.

A part of me wants to argue, to deny it, but I can’t. She’s right. Maybe I wasn’t the one behind the wheel of this disaster, but I didn’t stop it, either. I wasn’t there when she needed me. And my father… God, the man I spent years resenting, might have been the one who pushed her into the car that night, figuratively if not literally.

I watch her gulp down more wine, her tears falling freely now, and my chest tightens. She’s grieving—still grieving—over something I never even knew about.

The anger inside me grows, hot and consuming, but it’s not directed at her. It’s at myself. At my father. At the damn universe for letting this happen.

But there’s one question I can’t shake:Why didn’t she tell me? If not at the time, then sometime between then and now.

Why didn’t she call? Write? Reach out? I’d tried contacting her as soon as I could after joining the Navy, but she’d been gone. She’d taken my truck—at least that’s what I guessed—and vanished. I made sure the truck was signed over to her. After abandoning her, it was the least I could do. I’d never seen itas abandonment, but now with hindsight it is obvious that’s the way both she and Brennen saw it.

But she’d had plenty of time to reach out to me. Even though I hadn’t known about it, the baby had been mine, too. Why didn’t she tell me? Why did she grieve and suffer alone?

The answer doesn’t come, and I know it won’t—not today. Not while she’s sitting there with her grief so raw, and my own barely beginning to surface.

My hand rests on the door for a moment, my fingers brushing the handle. Part of me wants to go inside, to confront her, to demand that she stop keeping this pain to herself.

But I can’t.

Not like this.

I pull back, stepping away from the window, the rain slicking my hair and soaking through my jacket. The cold bites at me, but it’s nothing compared to the heaviness in my heart.

I climb onto my Indian, the engine roaring to life, and take one last look at the window. She’s still there, still lost in her pain, oblivious to me watching her.

I grit my teeth and turn the bike around, heading back to the vineyard.

Not tonight.

Not when she’s already been through so much.

But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

I pull into the driveway, the rumble of my bike cutting through the stillness of the evening. The rain has eased, but the storm inside me hasn’t. The house looks the same as it always has—quiet, unassuming—but tonight, it feels heavier, like the walls are holding on to all the secrets and pain that have lingered here for years.

I park the bike and step inside, brushing the water from my jacket. If my motorcycle jacket is all that gets ruined, I’ll call it good.

I’m back at the vineyard and I’ve pretty much had it with everyone and their brother. I slam the door open, rattling the walls as I stride into the fermentation room. My glare immediately finds Brennen, and his startled jump tells me he wasn’t expecting this. Good. Alex trails behind me, positioning himself near the door, his eyes fixed on Brennen. He doesn’t even glance at the woman beside him. That’s probably for the best. This isn’t going to be pretty.

“Brennen!” My voice echoes through the room, and I watch him pale before his expression hardens.

“What the—Ryan?” he snaps, his voice sharp with disbelief and anger. “What the fuck? I thought I made it clear that you weren’t welcome in my winery. I told you to stay away. The winery isn’t any of your business.”

“I told you the other day, Brennen,” I say, keeping my voice calm but firm, “this wineryismy business. It’s our family’s legacy, and I’m not about to let it fall into the hands of a bunch of vultures.”

I rub the bridge of my nose, trying to rein in my frustration. “This isn’t just about the Celtic Knot anymore. You’re in over your head, and whether you like it or not, you need my help.”

Brennen’s jaw tightens, and his face flushes with anger. “Emma and I have been holding this place together just fine without you,” he sneers. “We don’t need your help, you arrogant asshole.”

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