Raffi chewed on his cheek for a quick second before relenting. He extended his large hand as he said “Raffi.”
Then they shook, which was the second time they had touched in the span of two minutes.
“I have to change,” he said gruffly.
“Of course,” she replied.
Raffi disappeared inside. Ani took in a deep breath of the cool Napa air. Holy shit. What had just happened?
She could not stop poking at this guy, even though she was the one who had drowned his shirt in green liquid. HisYSLshirt. What a prick. But he was the owner of the winery and still someone she had to at least be professional around.Come on, Ani.He might be a total snob douche, but she had to at least be civil to him.
And she was definitely not thinking about him changing out of that soaking wet shirt that clung to his chest.Yes, yes, yes, he’s hot, she thought.But danger comes in pretty packages.
As if on cue, he waltzed back outside, donning a near identical fresh Oxford shirt. See? She knew that type of shirt must be a dime a dozen to someone like him.
Raffi turned to face her and cleared his throat.
“Listen, this winery means a lot to me. It’s still in its infancy, and I’m”—he gestured toward the litigation rocks—“well, still getting the hang of things.”
Oh. This was as unexpected as everything that came before. Was this an apology?
Ani frowned.
She attempted to decipher the meaning in his words. If he was saying sorry, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it, although she couldn’t help but be touched by how sincere he sounded about the winery. What was it, she wondered, that meant so much? He had been a doctor and then switched torunning a winery—why? Raffi was too much of an enigma, which worried her because Ani absolutely loved solving puzzles.
“On that note,” he continued. “Yes, I did look you up. I want to know everything about everyone who is going to be part of Ô.”
Ani’s breath hitched. She felt flattered and also maybe impressed by the extent of his research. Oh no, she was feeling intrigued by Raffi again.
“But I have to say, based on the work on your website—I have to be honest here—the types of weddings you’ve created in the past don’t exactly line up with the vibe that Ô has. Your style seems more…quaint. And that worries me, because we are trying to achieve a type of brand here, and we don’t want to tarnish it.”
Red-hot heat rose up in Ani’s face. Twin flames of anger and shame.
Anger, because howdarehe.
Shame, because he was somewhat, almost right.
Ani had been agoodwedding planner for the past four years, after she quit her paralegal job and made her childhood dream come true. But she hadn’t landed any big opulent weddings. She was mostly unknown and had been doing cousin and friend-of-friend (and friend-of-sister) weddings, plus an extra one here and there when someone found her contact info and liked the low prices on her website. Because her couples didn’t have the budget, she could only do so much, the photographs on her website could only be so impressive. Raffi had her there.
While she loved DIY-ing and working with any couple,regardless of budget, she also had to pay the bills. And luxury weddings paid the bills.
In theory.
Last year, she thought her big break had come when an Armenian couple—the now Avedissians—hired her to plan their bash at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco. Her parents didn’t know them, and no one she knew was familiar with them either, which was unusual, but she took it as a sign that her reputation was skyrocketing. It was such a big wedding, she even made her first hire, Sanan. The couple kept asking her to pay the vendors and said they would write her a check at the end. Ani complied, wanting to put this wedding, with its orchids and ostrich feathers, in her portfolio, even though it meant opening a third credit card and signing a few IOUs with her trusted vendors. And finally, on the wedding day, after begging the couple for the check for weeks, Ani politely demanded the money, and the bride angrily scribbled her one for the sum that was owed: $49,700.
That check bounced, and the couple had disappeared from the face of the earth.
Ani had taken out a personal loan with a very high interest rate to ensure she could pay Sanan—who didn’t know of her money woes—plus the priority vendors. The monthly payment had been breathing down her neck for months. Not to mention the credit card debt that was racking up. And now her account overdraft.
There was one person in her life who she could ask for a loan, but she never, ever would. She would not be the older sister who begged her younger and much more successful sister for money.
Ani hadn’t put the Avedissians’ wedding photos on her site. She had successfully planned one extravagant wedding, with all the bells and whistles—in this case, smoke machines and custom lighting. She’d steered the Avedissians’ taste from the gaudy to the tasteful (leaving only mere touches of garishness to satisfy the bride). But she refused to showcase the con artist couple’s wedding on her site, much less submit it to any magazines or blogs. She deleted the two photos she’d posted on Instagram as soon as the check bounced and Ani realized she’d been played.
So now, with Raffi doubting her abilities, it felt like someone had squeezed a full bottle of antiseptic on her very open wound. And not just anyone, but a man who was born wealthy, who likely never knew what it felt like to have a single caffeinated drink drop his checking account into negative numbers.
Ani felt a raging beast emerge from her chest at the injustice ofhim, in particular, making these comments about her work. After all she’d done this morning to build up her confidence. This man of ill repute thought he could try to take it all down. No. She wouldn’t give in.
All thoughts of professionalism were suddenly crushed under her patent burgundy heels. Ani stared daggers at the spoiled playboy in front of her.
