Page 18 of Bordeaux Bombshell (Sunshine Cellars #3)

Sydney

seven years ago

Getting to Bordeaux was the easy part. Telling my family I was following Nate to France after he’d ditched us all in the middle of the night was not an option, so I hadn’t.

Concocting a believable story about visiting a college friend in London, with enough detail not to make my parents and Kel suspicious, sitting between a bored businessman and a nervous teen who had to pee every single one of the nine hours it took to fly from Portland to Paris, and stumbling through enough rudimentary French to find the train station had been the hard part.

But I’d planned for those problems. Payton was on standby in case I needed an alibi. My neck pillow was tucked into my backpack, and I’d carefully written down the translated sentences I needed to find the train.

What I hadn’t planned was how to find him on the large estate. An estate closed to the public.

Vignobles Hermouet.

The train station was near the town square, tempting me to explore for a few minutes while I gathered the courage to go find him. Tall trees curved above the street I walked down, shading me from the hot August sun.

It was exactly as picturesque as I could have hoped, but my stomach was too twisted into knots to appreciate it.

Trudging along the sidewalk, I rehearsed my speech one more time. Every time I recited the words, the conviction that I was doing the right thing stiffened my spine a little more. Or maybe it was the long flight.

Nate, I know you said not to wait. But I love you.

I’ve loved you for a long time. Don’t lie and say you don’t love me too.

Just because your dad sold the Ridge doesn’t mean we can’t still have our dream.

Maybe it will be different, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still have it. But you can’t just run away.

Reciting it to myself on the plane hadn’t been enough—I needed it to be perfect. I couldn’t risk sounding unsure or childish. The inexperienced kid Nate saw me as had been left behind in America. This was the new and improved, grown-up Sydney.

My parents always said that when you know, you know. And I’ve known that we were meant to be together since I was eleven. That night we were at the arcade and found that Zoltar thing. He said I would marry you…

A woman who was capable of choosing where her life went and who she spent it with and how. Just because one door closed didn’t mean that life was over.

It doesn’t matter that he didn’t say your name precisely. He said I would marry someone who would grow with me, my soulmate. How could it be anyone but you? We would literally be growing things together. It’s destiny.

A woman whose white blouse was rapidly turning tie-dye brown from the hot, dusty air kicked up by the roller suitcase dragging behind her. And who was regretting the choice to change into a pair of cute sandals.

All the guidebooks said that wearing sneakers in France was an instant faux pas, and I was determined to look as put together as possible while I declared my love. It felt like necessary armor at the time.

I dropped my voice an octave to try out an impression of Zoltar again, still unsure if I should do it or not, when I turned onto the main road.

Joining the crowd of pedestrians walking down the street, I spotted a café at the end of the block and headed that way.

A coffee and a pastry were exactly what I needed to muster up the courage to face Nate.

“Watch it, asshole,” I muttered at the teen who strolled by, his head bobbing to whatever was playing in his headphones. He paused, eyebrow raised, and I waved him off, embarrassment curdling in my belly.

He did nothing wrong, but my pent-up nerves needed a release valve. “Fucking French.” The manufactured irritation helped hide the anxiety that had been building since the plane took off, so I held tight to the emotion.

Clearing a couple of grandmotherly types blocking the sidewalk, I froze at the sight in front of me.

A young couple was sitting at one of the outdoor tables, wineglasses in hand.

The woman faced me, one long leg crossed over the other, a flash of red-soled heels showing as she chatted.

I stood, transfixed at the way her short bob swung with her movements, shiny like a fucking shampoo commercial.

The black pencil skirt she wore hugged every curve of her slim hips and waist, a chic scarf tied unironically around her long, slim neck.

But as much as I wanted to obsess over the quintessentially fabulous woman, it was the too-familiar shoulders and messy brown hair of her companion that kept me rooted to the spot. And when he leaned close for a kiss, the sound I heard was the cracking of my heart into a million pieces.

Eyes blurred with tears, I spun on my heel and marched back to the train station without a word. The confused woman working at the ticket booth asked me repeatedly in broken English if I was injured before finally selling me a ticket back to Paris.

Changing my flight home was a bitch but worth it to escape the heartbreak and embarrassment of nearly baring my soul to Nathaniel.

By the time I landed at home and climbed into Payton’s car, I’d talked myself into being relieved that I’d found out how he felt without ever having to admit it out loud.

Maybe if I faked the lie was true, I’d eventually be able to believe it.