Page 70 of Code Name: Atticus

“Atticus.” I put my hand on his arm. “It will.”

He managed a genuine smile. “Right. There’s a florist in St. Helena.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

He’d put the car in gear, but then shifted back to park. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“It seems like something’s on your mind, and I know it isn’t Emma’s favorite coffee.”

He sighed and brought my hand to his lips. “I just hope they don’t overdo it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how your mother asked about wedding reception food?”

“Yeah?”

“That.”

The drive north took us through the morning fog that clung to the valley floor, burning off as we climbed into wine country. Atticus pointed out landmarks from his childhood—the creek where he’d learned to fish, the oak tree he’d fallen from andbroken his arm, the old general store that still sold penny candy that now cost a quarter.

“We usedto bike here every Saturday,” he said, gesturing to an ice cream shop. “Nicole would buy us cones with her babysitting money.”

“That’s sweet.”

“She held it over my head for years. Every argument ended with, ‘Remember all those ice cream cones I bought you?’”

I laughed, but noticed his smile didn’t reach his eyes. At the florist, while I selected a mixed bouquet of dahlias and roses, he stood by the window, typing on his phone again.

“Those are perfect,” he said when I showed him the arrangement, though I doubted he’d really looked at them.

The final stretch to his parents’ winery took us off the main highway onto a winding road lined with olive trees. My nervousness, which had been simmering all morning, reached a full boil.

“What if they aren’t happy about this?”

“Impossible.”

“I’m serious. I’m your old roommate’s younger sister. It’s weird.”

That got a real laugh from him. “Trust me, that doesn’t scratch the surface of weird, sweetheart.”

I groaned. “I don’t think I even want to know.”

“You’re right. You don’t. Let’s just say the embassy had to issue a formal apology, and I’m still not allowed in several parts of Budapest.”

“Actually, I think Luke told me that story.”

“Figures,” he muttered. “Anyway, they’re going to be just as happy about you and me being together as Luke and your parents are.”

“Promise?”

Atticus rested his hand on my thigh. “I know this won’t help, but I’m the one who loves you, Brenna. Me. I know my family already loves you, but even if they didn’t, I do.”

Before I could say anything else, we turned through the stone gates marked “Finch Ridge Winery.” The driveway curved through rows of grapevines before opening to reveal a craftsman-style house with wide porches and views across the valley.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed.

“Fifty acres, mostly Cabernet and Merlot. After Dad retired from the Air Force, he and my mom took over this place. It’s been in my father’s family for three generations.”