The Winemaker's Dinner: Entrée (36 page)

He owes her.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

“Almost there Ms.—I mean, Jaden. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Almost there? She looked at her watch. What seemed like moments had been a thirty-five minute ride. “Yes, Adam. Thank you,” she said confidently.

That confidence was shaken as the car rolled to a stop at the scene of the romantic homicide that had taken place a little over two weeks ago. Neither occupant of the Town Car moved as Jaden finalized her thoughts and worked to bolster her courage. Minutes passed as they sat. Finally Adam spoke.

“Jaden…It will be all right. You don’t—”

“Thank you, Adam,” she interrupted, not letting him give her the option of not going in. Every muscle in her body tensed, but the most important one flexed hard and gave her the strength to forge on: her heart.

She stepped out of the car, and the world seemed to move in slow motion. The sun danced off the concrete sidewalk, and shadows crept along the ground, forming shapes only the birds flying high above could decipher. The scent of cut grass filled the air, and her heart beat in her ears. Her feet carried her up the steps to stand before the wooden door, and in one fluid motion, she knocked.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

Part of her wanted to turn and run, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She needed this.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

Anticipation and anger coursed through her body as she heard him approaching within. The doorknob rattled and shook, as did her knees, and the deadbolt released. When the door swung open, the demon stepped into her narrowed line of sight.

“Jade Thorne. I always knew you’d come back someday. What can I do for you? Another go?” His words raked over her, along with his eyes. “Jesus, you look terrible.”

His insults fed her fire, and the look on his face unleashed her inner beast. This man had fucked her world, her career, and her relationship in one fell swoop. An eerie calm swept over her.

“What happened that night?”

A smile crept across his face. “Curious, are we?”

“What happened that night?”

“I told you already. What do you
think
happened?”

“What happened that night?” she asked a third time. She clenched her jaw and stood her ground, unmoved. She’d shut him down by not reacting. This was a game he wouldn’t win.

Frustration furrowed his plucked brow. “You know, this is why I can’t stand chicks like you. You’re so fucking enamored with idea of perfect relationships and cuddling and
feelings
and puppy dogs and ice cream—always looking for that fucking prince charming. News flash: He doesn’t exist.”

Still receiving no reaction, he continued. “You were a fucking game, Jade. I saw how amazing you thought you were with that asshole boyfriend of yours. The perfect couple. A storybook romance, right? Wrong. You’re just like every-fucking-body else out there. Welcome to the club! The grass is greener on the other side, right?”

She could feel the heat rising within her, but willed herself to keep still.

“Your problem is you got too goddamn drunk to do anything, let alone remember it. We got back here, and you started sobbing and crying about how much you missed Ivan.
I love Ivan. I can’t do this cause I wanna marry Ivan.
Boo hoo! You passed out on the bed in your bra and panties like a college slut. So disappointing. I would have loved to hit that—loved to get my dick wet and prove you aren’t as perfect as you thought you were. Well, fuck you and your ridiculous boyfriend. I think I proved my point any—

Pop!
Her clenched fist, without considering the ramifications of such a primal reaction, had connected with Damian’s face, splattering a trail of spit and blood on his door. She’d taken a piece of herself back and learned the truth about that horrible night. She’d always loved Ivan, and this proved it. In her most drunken state, in the presence of temptation, she had ultimately made the right choice. However lonely or confused she’d been in the moment, she’d held true to the man she loved, her soulmate.

Nevertheless, she soon realized, no matter how right she’d made
her
situation,
their
situation remained lost. Though she’d technically remained true, she’d wronged Ivan in so many ways. The moment she’d started down this path with Damian, and the longer she concealed it, she’d been careless with his heart. Then when he’d offered it to her, she’d refused him with no real way to explain why.

Without a word, she left Damian whimpering and cursing on his porch and ran for the town car. She prayed she could run fast enough to catch what she’d left behind.

I’m coming, Ivan
, she told him silently.
I have the answers now. You have to listen.

Would he forgive her? She could only hope.

Acknowledgments

Dr. Ivan Rusilko

What is hope?

Is it the ambition of discovering for the first time what the carnal definition of physical love is without understanding the concept of true passion? Or is it imagination running wild and free fueled by the dream that tonight will last forever and tomorrows will always come as you are blinded by the brilliance of another’s smile?

Is it a theory of inevitability that relies on fate or destiny bringing two souls together for their one shot at true and unbridled happiness? Or is it plea to erase a past that used to hold the potential for limitless smiles and endless laughs.

I define hope as a narcotic.

It courses through our veins, igniting ideas and feelings and emotions that all work in collaboration to produce a better tomorrow, while leaving today but a distant memory. The essence of its unknown and unseen promise is beautiful and addicting to those who are in need of its satiating grace.

The dependence on the idea of possibility can become a crutch however; an excuse for ignoring the here and now. It can swiftly morph from a therapeutic escape to an addictive obsession that somewhere over the rainbow lies the answer that will make everything right again.

I am thankful to call myself a true addict to hope’s mind altering panacea. Its blissful nirvana can seem both inconceivably irrational yet entirely fathomable to anyone lost in a sea of uncertainty. Just as age brings wisdom, experience brings the understanding that no matter what pot of gold lies at the end of your hopeful rainbow, the relief it casts over tragedy and heartache is the power behind its true magic.

To the hope that resides in the depths of my being, thank you.

Acknowledgments

Everly Drummond

When Ivan and I embarked on this little journey of ours over a year and a half ago we had no idea where The Winemaker’s Dinner was going to take us. And now, here we are, writing the acknowledgements for book two. We’ve had the privilege of working with the amazing team at Omnific publishing: Elizabeth Harper, Micha Stone, Traci Olsen, Lisa O’Hara, CJ Creel, and our editor, Jessica Royer Ocken. But what I am most grateful for is the response we’re received from you, the reader. Your kind words and thoughtful messages do not go unnoticed or unappreciated. Thank you.

Over the past year I’ve also had the privilege of working with and talking to some amazing book bloggers, some of which have become close friends. A huge shout out to Delilah Rains at Riverina Romantics, Kathy Womack at Romantic Reading Escapes, Tamie at Bookish Temptations, and all of the other awesome book bloggers that have read, reviewed, and promoted The Winemaker’s Dinner. Thank you for taking the time to read our books.

With the help of Lyss Stern, Jen Boudin, Cakes Jagla, and all the other members of Diva Moms, the launch of the series in NYC was a huge success. Thanks for making our time in New York so memorable and for going above and beyond anything I could’ve ever expected. Y’all are an amazing group of women. And thank you to Sparky and Sarah Marquis and the good folks at Mollydooker Wine for not only allowing us to use the name of Mollydooker in the book, but for being an essential part of the NYC launch.

Thank you to my mom and all of my family and friends. I am truly blessed to be surrounded by so many loving people. Your unfaltering love, support, and encouragement keep me going. And Ivan, what can I say about him that I haven’t already said? I’m honored to call you my friend and colleague.

About the Author

Dr. Ivan Rusilko