Rounding the corner of the building, his gaze swept over the wine caves his Moldovan great-great-grandfather had carved out over a hundred years ago. The floor of the Napa Valley was relatively flat, except in a few spots. His long-dead ancestor had chosen land with a rise specifically to build the underground labyrinths—tunnels with natural temperature moderation essential to storing wine before cooling systems were even a glint in anyone’s eye.
But like everything else on the property, they appeared empty and silent, their gates closed and locked. Almost ominous.
A cold breeze rolled up the valley, the chill snaking down his collar and wrapping around his neck, yanking him from his thoughts.
And his avoidance.
He’d come to walk through the castle, to face his past with the eyes and experience of an adult. The sooner he did that, the sooner he could think logically about what to do with both his inheritance and his memories.
Taking the last few strides to the employee entrance, he climbed three steps to the wide threshold and eyed the security pad tucked into a nook between several large stones. He knew the code; the lawyer had given it to him. Yet an almost physical pull on his body held him still.
He lifted a hand, his finger outstretched. The tip brushed the ridges of a number engraved in the tiny metal buttons. As he pressed down, a ripple of awareness ran up his spine.
He stilled.
Opening his senses, his world grew both narrow and open. A mockingbird trilled up on the hill. A woodpecker banged away on a tree to his left. Another breeze shifted the dormant vines, carrying a hint of…lavender?
He frowned. Napa Valley had its share of lavender, but in December?
He inhaled again. The scent of dirt, recently dried from rain a few days earlier, mingled with the ever-present undertones of fermentation and decaying agriculture. And there it was again, lavender.
Dropping his hand, he scanned the parking area before shifting his gaze to the vines forty feet away. His eyes swept from left to right, covering two-thirds of the view before swinging back like a magnet to a spot directly in front of him.
There, flanked by rosebushes, a single white blossom incongruously in bloom, leaning toward her, almost brushing her arm, stood Helia Shaw.
His body seized, imploding like an icy avalanche before rolling back outward in a wave of heat.
Their eyes locked, and even from a distance he could see hers widen in recognition, her lips part on a small gasp.
A blur of jeans and puffer vest and flannel and wild honey-gold hair flew toward him before she leaped, her body slamming into his. He staggered back as her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms squeezed his neck, her chin digging into the flesh of his shoulder. His arms closed around her and a heartbeat later, the reality of her body pressed against his hit him.
Helia Shaw was once again in his arms.
He loosened his hold, hoping she’d do the same and he could set her down.
She squeezed him tighter. “You’re here,” she said, her voice muffled against his leather jacket. “I didn’t know if you were alive or dead or unreachable and now I don’t know whether to be grateful you’re okay or furious that you never wrote me.”
Furious would be easier. “You feel kind of grateful to me,” he said instead.
She drew back enough to look him in the eye but didn’t let go. “You should have written.”
The brown in her hazel eyes expanded, almost covering the emerald green. He’d thought about her ever-changing eyes more than he should while in the army. They’d eased him into sleep, following him into his dreams, more than once.
“Collin?”
He blinked at the sound of his name. No one called him Collin anymore. He’d left that name behind years ago when his teammates dubbed him Monk.
“I should have written,” he said. He didn’t mean it. There’d been a reason he hadn’t. One he lived with nearly every day but never let himself formulate, let alone voice—not even in his own head.
Her eyes narrowed, then a beat later, her grip loosened and she slid away. He couldn’t help it; he glanced down at her left hand. No ring. Ten years ago, he’d run into her brother at the airport in Berlin. Monk had been sitting at a bar, nursing a beer, debating whether to re-up for another few years. Kaden and his husband walked in, on their way to California to attend Helia’s wedding. Monk had reenlisted the next day.
“I’d say I’m sorry about your dad…” she said, her eyes searching his.
“But we don’t have to pretend,” he finished.
Sympathy flashed across her face. “You going in?” she asked, gesturing to the door with her chin. He nodded. “Want company?”
He glanced at the heavy oak door. He’d done enough therapy over the years to know his reaction to being back at the castle could be unpredictable. He didn’t feel the beginnings of anything—no panic attack skulking around the periphery of his mind—but he hadn’t set foot inside yet.
