“Holy shit. Do I look sexed up? I don’t look sexed up, right?” Ani sounded panicked.
“No, baby, not at all. Trust me, I held back after you did your hair. You look polished and beautiful. Paparazzi ready.”
“How are you so calm about this?”
He wasn’t. His entire body was buzzing on high alert, ready to protect or defend Ani if need be. He did not trust reporters in the slightest. He remembered how a couple of them had come banging on his door, wanting to report on Sevan’s death. The party had been at the house of a major donor for the mayor, hosted by the donor’s son, so it was newsworthy. He wouldn’t let them near his girl.
“I’m not. We don’t have to say one word to them, okay?”
Ani took a deep breath. “Okay.”
Because he had the top down on his convertible, the questions started before they even got out of the car.
A cacophony of voices erupted around them.
“When’s Grace and Kami’s wedding?”
“Who are you? What’re your names?”
“Can you tell us anything about the wedding? Any theme? What’s their song?”
“Is De Niro invited?”
“You’re doing a lot of work back there. Is it going to be done in time?”
Raffi silently waded through them, Ani close beside him, keeping their heads down. He turned around briefly to check on her. Ani was smiling politely, but he could see the fear underneath.
Suddenly, the doors of the winery swung open, and, oh no, it was his father. Moushegh was there, gripping the edge of the door, shouting in Armenian. Then English. “Get out of here. You scum. Get off my property. I will call the police!”
“Dad,” Raffi mouthed, but his father’s eyes were nowhere near him. Raffi didn’t know much about the world of online celebrity journalism, but he knew this could be bad. He didnotneed the image of Ô tainted by the angry bear that was his father. They didn’t need this type of publicity.
Then Ani spun around to face the hungry crowd. “Hi, everyone. My name is Ani Avakian, I’m the wedding planner. This is Raffi Garabedian, the co-owner of Ô winery. We’re grateful for your attention today. Unfortunately, we don’t think Grace will be making an appearance anytime soon, but we are thankful for your interest. I will share that the work Raffi and I have been managing will be done in time for the wedding, and it is going to be stunning. To maintain the couple’s privacy, we won’t be answering any other questions at this time. Thank you!”
She capped her speech with a sweet smile and turned back, her face immediately morphing into a combination of worry and relief.
There was more clamoring from the paparazzi behind her, but slowly, more and more cameras fell to their sides as they realized they didn’t have anyone famous to capture. Thank God.
Ani, once again, was fucking brilliant. He had to tell her, he had to—
They reached his father at the door, and Raffi and his dad had an awkward silent moment, then Raffi ushered Ani inside, followed behind her, and shut them all in.
Oh God. Meeting the parents. Parent, anyway. Far, far too soon. But then again, in Armenian relationships, meeting the family often came early on. That was the norm. Even so, this felt different. And not in a warm, sentimental way, but in the way that made Raffi’s shoulders tense beside her, his movements just a fraction stiffer than usual.
Because Moushegh was hardly a peach.
Raffi didn’t want to subject Ani to him, not yet.
“Those damned reporters,” his father growled in Armenian. “Defiling our property. No shame, no shame at all!”
Raffi cleared his throat. “Um, Dad, this is Ani. Ani Avakian. Ani, my dad, Moushegh.”
Really driving home that there was an Armenian woman before them who could understand every word.
His father shook himself as if he hadn’t really noticed until now the presence ofa lady, as Moushegh sometimes said.
“Ani, eh?” his father asked. “You speak Armenian?” he asked in Armenian. God, the first question. He was already sizing up Ani for future wife potential.
“I do,” Ani said. “Not perfectly,” she said with a perfect Armenian accent, “but I understand it well.”
