Blame it on the Champagne (Blame it on the Alcohol #1) - Fiona Cole Page 0,110

yourself in her shoes and figure out what you can do for her in spite of yourself. Put your pride aside and be vulnerable enough to let her hurt you. Otherwise, you’ll never know.”

His final words followed me the whole way home. I thought about it all night, another bottle of bourbon for company. For the hell of it, I even grabbed my phone and sent the message I’d typed and deleted a thousand times.

Me: I’m sorry.

I typed at least ten more.

I miss you.

I fucked up.

Call me.

Can I call you?

I miss your body.

Stop being so stubborn.

I love you.

All of them deleted. Especially the last one. If Vera ever let me speak to her again, I’d be sure to say it to her face, make sure she heard me. I even considered calling my driver, going to her right then, and telling her, but I did as my grandpa suggested and put myself in her shoes.

She’d assume I was lying again, and I couldn’t blame her.

But it didn’t mean I couldn’t start a plan to make it better. Unfortunately, I had to admit that I didn’t know my wife as well as I wanted to, and maybe some outside assistance would help.

Knowing she’d probably threaten my manhood, I braced myself and hit send.

Me: I need to talk to her. But I need her to hear me.

Raelynn: Fuck off.

Me: Please.

Raelynn: I may be listening but no guarantees. Maybe if you beg more.

Me: I fucked up—with her. Not you. I’ll happily beg for her.

Raelynn: Girl code states if you fuck up with her, you fuck up with the friends. Honestly, I’d be more scared of Nova than me right now.

Me: I’ll make it up to you all, but I can’t if she won’t even listen to me.

Raelynn: Oh, you mean she didn’t respond to the most curt message demanding a time to talk. Wow. I’m shooketh.

Me: Jesus.

Me: Like I said, I fucked up. I won’t explain to you because it’s between us, but I want to make it better for her. Even if it’s not better for me.

Me: But I can’t do that if she won’t talk to me.

Raelynn: Do you love her?

Me: That’s between Vera and me.

Raelynn: …

Raelynn: Fine. Maybe I can help orchestrate a time to talk.

Raelynn: But if you make it worse. I’ll rip your eyes out.

Me: Noted.

One of the four-hundred bands squeezing my chest snapped loose. It still hurt to breathe without her, but I’d take the iota of release reaching out to Rae gave me. She laid out when I could come over the weekend and said she would help keep Vera there to hear me out.

It didn’t guarantee me anything, but at least it was a start.

I went to work the next day, barely focusing on the new project that Vera should have been heading under Domenic, hunting through every bit of knowledge I had to come up with what I would say this weekend. When Ryan delivered the thick file holding the official contract for Mariano Shipping Inc for me to sign, I couldn’t even bring myself to open it.

I took it home and finally opened it up for review when the twinkling stars of the night were my only company shining through the large windows Vera had loved so much.

Mariano Shipping had been hurting for longer than I’d assumed. Lorenzo had run the company to the brink of destruction all on his own. The clauses in the contract outlining their traditional views had been the only thing that had almost saved him. But it’d only been a matter of time before he lost it all on his own.

Maybe if Vera saw this, she’d be more understanding. She’d see her father had ruined it all before I stole it.

Yeah, show her how her family company was on the brink of destruction—the thing she’d worked so hard for and loved, if only for the connection to her mother. That’d go awesome.

I shook my head and growled at nothing.

A vision of Vera lounging topless on the deck, smiling as she told me about her mom and how much she’d loved the company but loved the traditions more. She’d admitted she wanted them both to feel the connection to her mom and hated that her father cut her out without even trying.

And I’d stolen it—the last part of her mom—and never made a bigger effort to let her know she could have it. She’d probably spent the week mourning the last piece of her mom she had left—and I’d