Blame it on the Champagne (Blame it on the Alcohol #1) - Fiona Cole Page 0,59

father. I trusted in the love I saw between them. Never in a million years did I expect someone like Camden. There was no amount of time that Camden could have grown into a decent husband.”

Nico scoffed and wore a grimace to match mine. “There’d never be any room for Camden to love you. He’s too in love with himself.”

He hit the nail on the head, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the accuracy.

“He’d probably take you on a golf trip for your honeymoon.”

“What if I like golf?” I asked just to be stubborn.

“Then he’d only talk about himself and forget you were even there. He’d probably drive away on the cart, not even seeing you standing there.”

“Oh, and do you plan on whisking me away on a romantic honeymoon and seeing me?” I pretend swooned and batted my eyes.

“Oh, I plan on seeing all of you.”

Again, another up and down perusal. This one more intense and filled with the unspoken memory of every illicit thing we’d done on the balcony. My core clenched, in complete opposition with my brain, wanting more—morals be damned.

I remembered being sore days later. I remembered the bruises, the bite mark—the intensity.

Dammit. I was melting again.

“And yes, I have a yacht booked in Italy with various stops for our honeymoon.”

“What?” Between the melting and the shock, I almost fell out of my chair. “You booked us a honeymoon?”

“Of course, I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because this marriage isn’t real.”

“I’ve already explained this, Verana. I want it to be a real marriage. And frankly, a vacation sounds nice.”

A vacation did sound nice. A vacation away from reality. Running with my hand in Nico’s as my world crumbled behind me. It would be stupid to argue.

“What about work? A trip to Italy sounds like more than a weekend trip.”

“I have people to handle everything I need while we’re away. And I booked flights for us to stay a little less than two weeks, but we can extend it if we like. You only get one honeymoon.”

Maybe not, a small voice whispered. “You can always get married again after five years. Find a woman you truly love—or at least like—and have it all again.”

“I like you just fine. So, we better do it right the first time, just in case.”

Something about the way he said it held an underlying current—like maybe he didn’t believe there would be anything beyond our firsts.

Maybe because the dim lighting brought out the specs of green in his eyes that always held me entranced. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the trip down memory lane and remembering asking my mother for a dark-haired and dark-eyed prince.

But I couldn’t help but wonder—would Nico be the man Mama always promised I’d find. Would he be the one I married and ended up falling for?

The only one?

Nineteen

Nico

“Are you sure you’re happy here?”

“I’m happy with my family, Nicholas.”

Grandpa laid his weathered hand on top of mine, and I stared at the frail fingers and wrinkled skin. These were the hands that tossed me into the air as a boy. The same hands that taught me how to shoot and throw a punch. While he’d taught my father everything he knew about the business, he taught me everything he knew about life.

He had so much left to give, and yet stress, a heart attack, and one too many blows from fate left him in a home, his mind slipping away faster than his body.

“Besides, my love is buried here.”

“We can visit her this week.”

His eyes slid closed, and a warm smile he reserved only for my grandma covered his face. “And as long as you take me to the ocean every once in a while.”

“Of course, Grandpa.”

“Good. Now, you said work was keeping you here. Tell me about the business. What’s going on that has you so busy?”

It’d been a hard decision to move my grandpa up here. We both loved Charleston so much. The ocean, the sun, the southern comfort—the lack of memories of what was taken from us at every turn. But when I’d explained why I wanted to move him, he agreed without hesitation.

But having him here was like looking in a mirror and facing how much had changed in the past few months—facing everything I was doing and the moral lines I toed. I grimaced, thinking about ways to get around the truth.

“Don’t give me that face. I know my mind isn’t as sharp as it used to be, but I taught