At Wits' End - Kenzie Reed Page 0,10

relationship is shaky at the best of times.

“Try again. I have ‘Never trust a Witlocke’ laser-tattooed on my inner eyelids to ensure I don’t forget.”

“Doubtful. But just in case that’s actually possible, can you text me the name of your guy? I want to get ‘Sienna Ribaldi has a great ass’ tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.”

“Be serious.”

“You’re right, I don’t need a tattooed reminder. Like I said, I have an excellent memory.”

I smirk down at her. Yes, I’m referring to the time that the entire junior high class got busted skinny-dipping in the reservoir. I wasn’t the one who called the cops, but you can for damn sure bet that my cousins and I were watching from the bushes.

“I know you’re up to something,” she huffs. “And I’m not going for it.”

“What, you think I want to steal your aunt’s wine formulas or something?”

“Maybe.” She glares up at me.

That actually makes me kind of angry. Yes, I’ve been drawn into the stupid feud between our families more times than there are stars in the sky, but I do not indulge in industrial espionage. I don’t have to. I’m that good.

“Sienna, be realistic. My family has no interest in your aunt’s vineyard or her wine-making process. It’s hardly a threat.” Her eyes blaze in anger. I hold up a conciliatory hand. “That’s not an insult. We do things on a completely different scale and we have completely different goals.”

Sienna’s aunt has her little organic hippie vineyard which sells maybe a couple of thousand cases in a good year, and Witlocke Wines are sold in every supermarket and liquor store across the country.

“I am not marrying you,” she huffs. “You’ve been a thorn in my side and a pain in my ass my entire life, and there’s no way I’m living in the same house as you.” The fire in her eyes lights her from within. She glares up at me, angry and so very beautiful.

I favor her with a benevolent smile. It’s easy when you hold all the cards. “You are, in fact, marrying me. You are moving into my family’s guest house with me and staying married to me until this land deal is signed, sealed and delivered in September.”

“Please. What’s in it for you?”

“Well, for one thing, this stupid feud will be over once and for all and I’ll never have to leave a vitally important business meeting with a multinational conglomerate to come home and testify about an incident involving attack geese, which I may or may not have witnessed.” Oh, there were attack geese, all right. There’s no limit to the depths to which the Ribaldi family will sink.

Those geese were trained. And they pooped all over my sister Toni’s wedding.

“And for another thing?” She jabs me in the chest with her finger.

Words rush to my lips, then wither and die.

Tell her.

I can’t. There’s too much history between us. Too many fights and lies.

I shake my head. “Nope, that’s it.”

She shakes her head slowly from side to side. “It’s not happening, Donovan.”

I look down into her eyes. “Actually, it is. This is your family’s last chance. It’s no secret that Rocco’s dairy farm and your aunt’s vineyard are both on their last legs. Selling off the excess land that you’re not using is an absolute no-brainer, and it will save the family farm for generations to come. You don’t have a choice.”

A growling sound distracts me. I look into the depths of her purse, and angry yellow eyes glare up at me. A scarred black cat flattens his ears against his skull, hissing pure hatred at me.

“That isn’t the cat that your aunt claims is the reincarnation of her dead husband, is it?” He’s a legend around town. Something about him showing up right after Nuccio Ribaldi died. Nobody has dared to openly question Fernanda about it. Before she had her stroke a couple of weeks ago, she was a formidable woman, even at the age of sixty-nine.

“I said don’t start. And how do you know he isn’t?”

“Well, for one thing, he hasn’t scratched my entire face off yet.”

Sienna smiles, eyes alight with malice. “The day is young.”

Down the hallway, Carrie’s yelling at April about something, and Rocco just shoved my father.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing my reluctant bride by the arm. “The pastor’s not going to hang around all day.”

And we run right into my mother, and my sister Jamie, who are blocking the hallway.

“You are not marrying her,” my mother says in a