Page 2 of A Toast for Laurent

“Fuck you. That was a onetime thing. Rhone has been pulling this shit since middle school.”

A woman approached the bar, and Nero flashed his signature smile that made me want to punch him in the face. “How can I help you, beautiful?”

I sighed loud enough for him to hear my displeasure. I’d told him repeatedly it was only a matter of time when a woman would not be flattered by his word choices.

Unfortunately, this woman ate it up. A pink blush spread across her cheeks, and her eyes darted downward. “I was ready for my next tasting.”

I grabbed a few discarded wine glasses from the bar, leaving Nero to be inappropriate, and placed them in the bin to be washed. It was quiet for now, but come five o’clock, the place would bust at the seams with a mix of locals and tourists now that the weather had warmed. Between ski season and spring, there was always a lull, but I never minded it. The tasting room was quieter, but I could grab a glass of cabernet Sauvignon and look out at the vineyard without worrying about taking a seat from a customer or listening to the loud voices bouncing off the high oak ceilings.

The sound of high heels clicked across the Italian slate floor, and I glanced up, ready to greet the newcomer. Blonde hair bounced with each step. A white blouse was tucked into a black pencil skirt—my three sisters would be proud—and long gorgeous legs peeked out. The black heels that caused the noise were sexy as hell, and I had to force my head up to make eye contact with the beautiful woman.

Shock slammed into me as familiar greenish blue eyes stared into mine. The last time I saw her I was twenty-two, a month away from graduating college, and tied so tightly around her little finger, I would have given her anything.

But she left. Without a fucking word. Not even a goddamn note. After everything. I wasn’t even worth a goodbye.

“Hi Laurent,” she said, as if eighteen years of silence weren’t between us.

I forgot how to form words. In my defense, it’s not every day the ghost of my past shows up and offers a hi and a smile.

“It’s Phoebe,” she said, as if I didn’t know. As if I could forget the woman who had imprinted so deeply on my heart and royally fucked me up.

“Holy shit, Phoebe!” Nero said. I grabbed him by the back of the neck and about faced him, shoving him toward the other end of the bar. An amused chuckle escaped him.

“What are you doing here?” I finally managed.

“I’ve come to collect on our pact.”

“Excuse me?” There was only one pact I could recall, and there was no way in hell that was the one she was talking about.

Her gaze met mine. “I’ve come to marry you.”

Laurent stared at me like I was crazy, and maybe I was, but it wasn’t my fault. Desperation had taken control of my body and my mouth, and I was not responsible for anything I said or did.

Every damn memory of our past slammed into me. The desperation slipped away just enough for the broken girl I was to resurface.

Laurent motioned to his brother. God, the last time I saw Nero he was eighteen, but that smile was exactly the same. He’d grown into his body, no longer lanky, but solid. Laurent came around the bar, and his big hand wrapped around my wrist. “Come with me,” he demanded, his voice much deeper with age. He moved with determined strides, dragging me through the tasting room. I stumbled, trying to get my footing, but my heels made it much harder. I managed to keep from face planting as we turned and headed up a staircase.

A long hallway greeted us at the top of the stairs, and he took a hard right, then turned into the first door on the left.

“Sit!” he barked, his finger jabbing toward a chestnut-colored leather club chair with gold rivets lining the seams.

“You’ve gotten bossier,” I said.

“I’ve gotten a lot of things since you disappeared on me.”

I bit my lip. “Oh. You’re not over that, huh?”

“Over tha—” His mouth snapped shut, and he shoved his hand through his medium length brown hair.

Reality settled into my bones. This was a mistake. I should have known I wouldn’t be able to walk into his life and not expect to answer for my past.

Tension crackled between us, sucking the air out of the large office. I plopped into the chair, not because he demanded it, but because the weight of my bad choices weighed me down, and I didn’t think my legs could hold me much longer.

Laurent maneuvered around the oversized mahogany desk and lowered into a high back leather tufted chair fit for a CEO. Even though it was his family’s business, there was no doubt in my mind he put the time and hard work in earning his place.

He rested bent elbows on the desk, fingers steepling as he continued his staring contest from downstairs. The soft boyish charm he once had was hardened by a strong jaw, an icy glare, and a stubborn set of shoulders. “What’s going on, Phoebs?” His voice softened, proving that despite his cold appearance, his inside was still sweet.

I swallowed at the shortening of my name. Other people have called me that common nickname before, but none of them said it with the sincerity he always did.

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