The battered old desk was both comforting and familiar. The stack of mail and messages needing response gave her a sense of purpose, even though she still felt as if she were moving under water. Everything was slow and out of sync. Still, she sorted her phone messages into tidy piles. There weren’t any from Nic. Had he not called or was she not being told?

Did it matter? Why did it matter? The man had used her in every way possible while lying to her. Did she really care if he’d called? Was she that weak and spineless?

Yes, she thought sadly. She was.

But she was also really, really mad.

It wasn’t just that he didn’t love her back. She could accept that. Feelings existed for reasons no one could explain. So Nic not loving her wasn’t anyone’s fault. But the man had screwed with her future. He’d played with the one thing she’d loved even longer than him and there had to be something like a suitable punishment. Nobody messed with her wine and got away with it.

There was only one problem—the money. Circumstances being what they were, she doubted Nic was going to let her have access to her barrels. Which meant she couldn’t produce wine, which meant never paying him back. She was trapped, all because she’d trusted Nic.

Worst of all, because there was something uglier than the situation with the wine, she didn’t know how to stop loving him. Oh, she hated him with every fiber of her being, but for how long? And when she got over hating him, wouldn’t the love return? It had lasted through ten years of separation; why would she be lucky enough to have it end now?

Her grandfather appeared at her open door. “You’re here,” he said as he entered. “Better?”

“Some.”

A white lie, she told herself. Telling him about her pain would only make him hurt, too, and what was the point in that?

He took the seat in front of her desk and pointed to a pad of paper. “I want you to make a list for me. Outline everything you have at Wild Sea. How many barrels, what is in them.” He frowned. “You’re through fermenting, aren’t you?”

“I assume you mean the wine and not me personally.”

Her grandfather smiled. “Yes. The wine. Also, give me your copy of the loan.”

“Why?”

“No Marcelli will be beholden to that man.”

His kindness eased some of her pain. “You’re being really sweet, Grandpa, and I appreciate that. But we’re talking about over a million dollars.”

“I know.” He shrugged. “You’re my granddaughter. The loan will be paid back with interest, and your wine will be moved here as soon as possible.”

He couldn’t have shocked her more if he’d broken into a chorus of “Oklahoma!”

“Why?” she asked. “I’m happy and thrilled beyond words. But this isn’t your responsibility. I’m the one who messed up. Nic will probably just dump the wine anyway. Not that it matters now.”

He glared at her. “Don’t tempt God to strike you down. The wine must be saved.”

“I think God’s a little busy with more important matters.” She tried to explain. “I may not have a choice about the loan. Nic will have to be paid back one way or the other, and without Four Sisters, I don’t have a prayer of doing it myself. As for my plans…” She looked at him. “Grandpa, I love you and you’ve been terrific through all of this, but you hate everything I do. Why would you want my experiments here?”

“I don’t hate what you do.”

She smiled for the first time in days. “Oh, please. We argue about everything. The blends, the day to start harvest, the temperature for fermentation. Label designs, pay raises, if it’s going to rain tomorrow.”

“I’m usually right about the weather.”

She gave a strangled laugh. “You think you’re right about everything. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to start my own label. I wanted to make all the decisions.”

“Were you happy doing that?”

She thought about the long nights and the endless hours of work. “Yes. Happier than I’ve ever been.”

“Then you have succeeded.”

“Not exactly the word I would use.”

“Not with your winery. The success of that will be measured later. I mean here. With me.” He watched her as he spoke. “You have passed the test.”

Brenna didn’t understand. “What are you talking about?”

“I wanted to be sure. When you were little, I knew you were the one. You loved the vines as much as I did.” He tilted his head. “By the time you were six, you could tell the type of grape by taste alone. I was so proud. You worked hard. Always up early, especially during harvest. When you were eleven, you were directing the men.”

Brenna remembered that summer. She’d been in charge of the Chardonnay grapes, and she’d felt so grown-up. The foremen had patronized her until they realized she knew what she was talking about, and then they’d treated her as someone to be reckoned with.

“When you married Jeff, I was pleased,” he said. “You would have a good man at your side while you worked the land.”

“But it didn’t turn out that way,” she reminded him. “I went away.”

He nodded. “I waited for you to return, for you to realize where you belonged, but you didn’t. Year after year I watched your husband bleed the life out of you until the granddaughter I had been so proud of disappeared. Then one day you came home. Not because you longed to be here, but because your husband had left you. You wanted to come back. To work here. But I asked myself, for how long now?”

Understanding clicked in her brain like a light going on. “You wanted to make sure I was staying,” she whispered.

“Yes. So I tested you to see if I could drive you away. I wanted to make sure that this time you wouldn’t give up. Not for anything.”

She both understood and resented his methods. “What about Joe? You offered him everything.”

“I did, but he would never have run things. I hoped…” He sighed. “An old man’s wishes. I wanted him to stay, and I thought with the winery, he would. But he would never have been the one. It was always you.”

She shook her head. “You were never going to sell.”

His expression turned sly. “You think not?”

Brenna covered her face with her hands. “Of course you wouldn’t. Oh, God. One more place I’ve been an idiot.” She put her hands back on the desk. “If worse came to worst, you would have left everything to Dad and had him hire a manager. After all, one of your granddaughters could have a child interested in the winery.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. But that’s not necessary. You have proved yourself. You wanted it so much, you started your own label. You fought for what you believed, and you have earned your chance. You will carry on the tradition of Marcelli Wines and in time pass that tradition on to the next generation and the one after that.”

Brenna didn’t know what to say. She rose and circled around the desk. Her grandfather stood and held out his arms. She stepped into his embrace.

“Marcelli is yours,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll be here to watch over you, but you can start to make a few changes.”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk. It was too much.

“So we’ll argue a little,” he continued. “The difference is now you get to win some of the time, eh?”

“Oh, Grandpa.”

He stepped back and held her at arm’s length. “This makes you happy?”

She nodded because it was still difficult to speak. There were details to be worked out. While she would be in charge of the winery, she knew it would be owned jointly by her sisters and Joe. But regardless of logistics, she would be the one shaping Marcelli Wines.

Bittersweet joy swept through her as relief mingled with pain. She finally had what she’d always wanted. She should be content…whole, even. So why did Nic have to be the first person she wanted to tell?

The rumble of several trucks interrupted Nic’s meeting with his sales managers. Despite his interest in the report being discussed, he found his attention straying to the window where the first large vehicle came into view. For several minutes he did his best to ignore the noise, but finally he was forced to excuse himself to check on what was happening.

He already knew, he told himself. Ever since his conversation with Mia, he’d been waiting for something like this. Confirmation had arrived that morning in the form of a cashier’s check for the amount Brenna owed him, plus accrued interest. The debt had been paid in full.

She’d come clean with her grandfather, and the old man had come through for her. Nic had never doubted his love and devotion, even if Brenna had questioned Lorenzo’s feelings. The Marcellis were family, and for them, the word meant something. Sacrifices were made. Acts of rebellion were explained and pardoned. In the end, no matter what, they had each other.

Nic crossed to the old fermentation building. A dozen or so men carefully loaded barrels of wine into the trucks. A man with a clipboard checked off the inventory. He saw Nic but didn’t speak to him. Nic was about to return to his office, when he heard a familiar voice. He froze.

Brenna?

He hurried toward the sound. Was she here? Could he explain?

“Brenna,” he said as he circled around one of the trucks.

Then he saw her standing beside several barrels, directing the men. Strong and sure and still not aware of him. She spoke with a firmness he recognized.

She looked tired, sad, yet beautiful. She’d always been beautiful.

“Brenna,” he repeated, and this time she heard him.

She turned and stared at him. There was no expression on her face, no way for him to gauge what she was thinking.

“Brenna, I—”

“Don’t,” she said coldly. “Don’t try weaseling your way out of all of this, Nic. I’m not interested.”

“I need to explain.”

“No, you don’t. There aren’t enough words in the world to excuse what you’ve done. There is nothing you can say to ever make me understand or forgive you.” She laughed harshly and without humor. “Big assumption on my part. That you’re here looking for absolution.”

He stepped toward her. “I am. I’m sorry. About everything.”

She shrugged. “I don’t care. Not anymore. Not ever again. Take your cheap apologies somewhere else. You’ve lied to me for the last time.”

With that she walked to one of the trucks and climbed into the passenger seat. The driver had already secured the wine barrels. Now he closed the back gate, climbed into the cab, and started the engine.

Nic stood there, watching them drive away.

He waited through the rest of the loading, and when the last truck disappeared down the driveway, he stood alone in the old building.

He’d known it was over—had realized that there was no way to undo what he’d done—but until her wine had been taken away, he’d thought maybe she might be willing to listen. If he could speak with her, explain, maybe he could make her understand.

Or was that just an ego-based fantasy? In truth she was gone because he’d never been willing to acknowledge she was important to him. She’d been a means to an end, not a person. Not a woman he loved. Had loved.

Hell, who was he kidding? Brenna was as much a part of him as his fingerprints. She’d stolen his heart a lifetime ago, and he would never get it back.

He crossed to one of the chairs still in the building and touched battered wood. They’d sat in these seats, talking, arguing, rediscovering the possibilities. She shared her dreams with him, he’d relived their past. Somehow ten years after the fact, they’d made peace with what had happened before.