The one and only time I saw this side of him was at his brother’s wedding where he sloppily lectured every guest on how their food and drink choices were destroying the enamel on their teeth then gave a toast where he listed every flaw of the bride and groom, citing how each made them perfect for the other. It was supposed to be funny—I think—but it was anything but andnearly ended in a physical altercation when his brother took the mic from him. It was disastrous.
But together, we work.
He likes to plan; I like knowing what to expect. He’s practical; I like the steadiness that provides. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get married after Nash, but when Jonathan proposed by listing all the reasons it was a logical next step, I said yes.
“The plan,” I begin, blowing out a long breath, “is to force my mother to have brain surgery and hope a global antique shortage leads thousands of customers to flood the store tomorrow.”
He chuckles, digging his thumbs deeper into my shoulders. “Sounds easy.”
“That’s what I thought,” I say over the rim of my glass before taking a sip. When it hits my tongue, I taste it’s a cabernet—an expensive one—and swallow it down with the whisper of memories it brings. Nash always loved a good cab.
Jonathan stops massaging to step in front of me, taking my hands in his. “And plan B?”
“I don’t know yet,” I admit.
Concern is etched in every one of his clean-cut features as he kisses my knuckles. “You already got the police report filed?” That is such a perfectly him thing to ask. There’s no dwelling or reminiscing; he simply takes action. “I can contact my attorney. What else can I do?”
I laugh softly. “You in the business of miracles now?”
His eyes bounce between mine as if trying to follow every direction my thoughts are scattering.
I have to call my sisters, explain all of this to Bennie, and figure out how to salvage the business. And Mom’s health—I have no idea how to convince her to have a brain surgery we can’t afford.
“Didn’t I mention that when I proposed?” He kisses me gently then twirls the engagement ring around my finger. “Plan C?”
My current plans all require months of work—none of them immediate enough. We need money faster than a few summer markets and a fall wine pairing can get us.
“I’m working on it.”
“Listen,” he says, almost cautious. “I know you rushed into things with Bennie’s dad, and then he died.” My body physically tenses at this. “I know that you’ve done everything on your own a long time. But you don’t have to have everything figured out before we get married. I can help you. I want to. I’m good at fixing problems.” He smiles slightly before adding, “Which is why I think maybe it’s time to consider selling.”
I jolt upright so quickly my elbow bumps the glass on the counter and some of the wine sloshes over the rim.
“Old Vines?” Absolutely not. That place might be pushing me to a breaking point, but it’s home. Bennie would be devastated. I would be. Mom. “No way.”
“I played with the numbers—” He blows out a weighted breath. “I don’t see how else this works out, Rue. It might take you years to get that money back. The store was already losing money. Now this ...”
“I said I’m working on it,” I snap. Jonathan’s large kitchen shrinks to a snuffbox. I clear my throat to make a pathway for air. “What if we push the wedding back? So I don’t drag you into this, I mean. Give me a little more time to fix everything.”
He scoffs. “A wedding isn’t going to make or break a failing business. And I don’t want to push it back, do you?”
The last thing I care about is getting married right now, and a headache builds at the base of my skull from the thought. A June thirtieth wedding feels impossible. It’s just over a month away.
“No, of course not.” I rub my palms on my thighs. “But I need to fix this. Iwillfix this.”
“And your mom? Should she even be working?”
“Of course she should be working,” I argue. “The doctor said she’s fine—why wouldn’t she work?”
He gives me a skeptical look, silently reminding me she just gave all our money away.
“Either way, our wedding is next month.” He gives me a kiss that reminds me he has my best interests in mind. “Other than a loan—which I doubt you’ll qualify for given the circumstances—it’s a tough spot, Rue.”
“You don’t think I know this is tough?” I’m spiraling at his implication. He thinks it’s a lost cause. Sees the business as dead in the water and my mom as a bag of bones, and it’s only day one of the disaster.
He winces apologetically and it wracks me with guilt. This isn’t his fault.
“Sorry.” I close my eyes and rub my forehead. “I know you’re trying to help.”
