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“He’s not married.”
My brain stumbled and tripped over itself to make sense of the words I was hearing. “Wait. You’re saying that Vito isn’t married?”
“Correct.”
I dragged in a deep breath and tried not to toss a table or two. I couldn’t lose my shit in here. “Is he divorced? A widower? Why else would he wear the ring?”
Mikey winced and rubbed the back of his neck, a quirk when he had something he didn’t want to tell me. “Spit it out,” I said. “It’s obvious you know.”
Slowly, my brother reached across the table and started to slide my butter knife out of reach. I frowned and grabbed the piece of cutlery. “You’re not funny. Just tell me already.”
“He wears the ring as a defense against women who might want relationships with him.”
I huffed indignantly. “And he thinks I want a relationship with him? God, that man’s ego. What an asshole.”
Mikey lifted his palms out toward me. “No, he doesn’t. I told him you were as anti-relationship as they come. But he didn’t want you to know about the ring because he said it made it easier if things were strictly business between you.”
Strictly business. Did that include subtly flirting with me? Making me eat breakfast with him?
Jesus Christ, how I hated that man.
Now that I thought about it, Vito hadn’t been wearing the ring when he first opened the door this morning. But he must’ve put it on when he went upstairs to change his shirt, because I definitely remembered seeing the ring as he dried his hands on a towel.
Interesting. Had he put the fake wedding band on to ward me off . . . or to remind himself to keep it in his pants? Because his reaction after the staff meeting, when I’d touched his collar and whispered in his ear? It was not the response of a man who was interested in “strictly business.”
Vito isn’t married. Wow. I stared through the front glass of the diner and let this sink in. At least the guilt of being the other woman was gone.
“Are you mad?” Mikey asked as our pancakes arrived.
“No. I already knew he was full of shit. This just confirmed it.”
“Here you go, honey,” our waitress said as she sat a plate of chocolate chip pancakes in front of me. “And all men are full of shit.”
“Hey!” my brother said as she walked away. “I’m sitting right here.”
“Yeah, but you’re full of shit, too,” I told him. “Any other secrets you’re holding onto?”
“No, that’s the last one.” Mikey began cutting his pancakes vigorously. “You won’t tell him I told you, will you?”
“Nope.”
“Really? You won’t throw it in his face the next time you see him?”
I ate a piece of buttery, fluffy pancake. “No, we’re strictly business, remember? And I don’t want Vito thinking I’m pining away for him. He wants to pretend he’s married? Fine. More power to him.”
“You really don’t care?”
“I really don’t care. I have better reasons to hate Vito than this.”
Mikey chuckled. “No doubt. But I say we bleed him for every penny he’s willing to spend on the winery. We should ask for everything, you know? The irrigation you wanted to do, the solar panels, another guest cottage. Let’s see how far he’s willing to invest.”
More money meant more strings. I didn’t want to burst Mikey’s bubble, though, so I changed topics. “Did you know he’s bringing in an oenologist to consult with us?”
Mikey drizzled more syrup onto his half-eaten stack. “No, but is that a bad thing?”
“No idea what an expert from Italy can tell us about our regional wines, but sure. Why not?”
“Don’t get all worked up. I think Vito means well. And he does want to improve things.”