by Xavier Neal
After a chortle and a sip, he asks, “So foster care? Never….got adopted?”
“No.”
“Ever close?”
“No.”
Brice clears his throat. “Ever want it?”
My eyebrows furrow. “No.”
He presses his lips together as silence wedges itself between us.
Unlike me, he continues to push, “Why not?”
“What?”
“Why didn’t you want to be adopted? Did you like moving?”
“Fuck no.”
“Then what?”
His innocence over the situation deepens the ache. “I wanted to find you.”
Brice’s jaw cracks open.
“I didn’t want to be adopted and moved far away from where I last saw you because I thought you would come looking for me one day; the same way I constantly ran away looking for you.” My voice chokes, “I remember the horrors of our birth mother. The beatings. The bruises. The starvation. I wanted to know you were safe and would never go through that shit again, so I constantly ran away searching for where they took you to. I was promised you would keep in touch and then you didn’t. Now I know why.”
He struggles to speak but nothing comes out.
“It’s fine.” The tightening in my chest is mimicked with my fingers. “All I wanted was for you to be safe, Brody-” My head quickly shakes, “Brice. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
“I get why your parents did what they did. Truth is you did almost have a dead brother. More than once.”
“But?”
Our onion rings land between us like an echoed reminder.
“But the woman who brought us back together, fought like fuck to keep me alive. To rescue me from the world and myself.”
Brice reaches for one as he states, “She sounds incredible.”
“She is.”
He slowly chews while I simply stare at the proof of her supporting me even though she’s not in the fucking building.
“The two of you married?”
My back hits the chair, and I let my eyes settle on the ones that match mine. “Not yet.”
“Planning on it?”
I answer truthfully. “Yeah.”
It is the fucking truth. Her not speaking to me is just a fucking hump to get over. Which we will. We always do.
“What about you?” I have a sip of my water. “Are you married?”
“Elena,” he answers quickly. “She’s fucking amazing. High school sweethearts.”
French and I are fucking close…
“Freshman year some asshole made her cry, I made him lick her fucking shoe in front of an audience, and let’s just say the rest is history,” Brice chuckles and I join.
Alright, so maybe we more than just look alike.
“We’ve got two kids. Two boys. Three and four. Irish twins.”
His joke grabs another laugh.
“What can I say? As soon as I got the green light I gave it everything I had.”
Our laughs fill the table over the dirty remark instilling a brotherly bond I never thought I’d have again.
Yet I do. And all because of a woman I lost faith in for an entire fucking afternoon. Because I was fucking too insecure to believe she could ever love someone as broken and damaged as me…
Brice has another onion ring. “You two have kids?”
“No.”
“Want ‘em?”
I give my scruff covered cheek a slight rub. “I don’t know…Fucked up childhood, so I don’t know that I’m the best candidate for a parent.”
“You’ll get plenty of practice with mine,” he casually informs. “Trust me. After you spend a couple weekends with them you’ll know if you want them or would rather get clipped.”
He laughs yet I ask, “You’re gonna let me meet them?”
Brice’s surprised expression mimics mine. “Of course! You’re my fucking brother, why wouldn’t I?”
My mouth bobs in shock.
“Look, we may have two decades or something to catch up on, but we will. And you are welcomed in my life. With my family. Hell, even my parents want a chance to meet you and connect.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Having only experienced wide open arms like this once before causes tears to clog my ability to do more than nod.
French. French fucking took me in like I was a person instead of a dog in the street. She welcomed me. She gave me hope. Kindness. Fucking love. She did all that and more. How could I fucking let an asshole make me forget that? How could I be so fucking mislead and jealous? God, I can’t wait to get home and make this shit up to her…But a little more time with my brother first. Fuck…I have a brother again. Can you believe this shit?
French
The car Rhys sent pulls through the gate of his estate, and I admire the gorgeous greenery that is cartoonish bright in color. With the early morning sun shining over his manor the entire thing looks like something Disney drew up.
Why are you looking at me like that?
When the car finally stops at the front of his home, I’m not surprised to see him standing at the top of the steps with an obnoxious grin.
Shut up. It is obnoxious.
The driver shuffles around to open my door and I take a deep breath in, preparing for what will, by definition, be the longest weekend of my life.
I slide out of the vehicle expressionless.
“You are earlier than expected, Poppet,” Rhys greets warmly. “The arrangement only required you arrive by tonight.”
Rather than explain my lack of desire to sit through another one of Brock’s ludicrous tantrums in which he makes accusations that churn my stomach, I simply state, “Perhaps because I arrive early you will let me leave early.”
“Perhaps.” There’s a glimmer in Rhys’ eyes. “Why don’t we stroll around back while Angela retrieves your vanilla latte with almond milk and your fresh cut strawberries with just a pincée de sucre?”
His excitement about the information rolls my eyes. “Lead the way.”
The walk around the exterior of his main manor is longer than I expect. We stroll along the stone path where I admire fields upon fields of wild colored flowers, windy trails that lead to a different part of the property hidden behind thick trees, and pass by a small bridge across what appears to be a river.
Well it’s not a damn moat. Those go all the way around a castle. And it’s not a castle even if it has a similar look. It’s…an estate. A very large, very storybook large, lock a princess in the tower, sized estate. No. I’m not saying that because I think only I should live in something called a castle. Shut up.
Rhys opens a side gate, which gives us access to a small seating area, nestled in the corner between rustic colored stone walls. There’s a small rectangular table, a couch, a love seat, and lamps on the end tables. While there’s a small pond to enhance the peaceful ambiance, there’s also a breath-taking view of rolling hills and miles of vineyards.
I have a seat on couch at the same time I ask, “I didn’t know you owned your own vineyard.”
Rhys settles himself on the loveseat. “I do. Have a small local winery. We sell bottles around the country. Nothing too outrageous.”
“What’s it called?”
“Vin de Fille Perdue.”
The title drops my shoulders. “Seriously?”
A puzzled look crawls onto his face. “You…know what that means?”
“The Lost Daughter Wine.”
He nods as if impressed. “Was aware you knew a few basic words and phrases. Wasn’t aware you were so fluent in French, Poppet.”
“It’s my name,” I sneer. “Not like I had a choice if I didn’t want to be ridiculed further.”
Seeing the hurt fill his blue eyes builds unforeseen guilt in my gut.
You know why I’m not good at being nice to him! Don’t act like I’m the bad guy here.
I sit up straight. “Es
t-ce que vous l'avez appelé pour exprimer vos sentiments à propos de moi?”
I’m assuming you don’t speak French? I simply asked, did he name it to express his feelings about me?
“Oui.” Rhys allows one leg to rest on the other. “Lorsque votre mère a refusé de me permettre de visiter ou de faire une relation avec vous, c'est comme cela que j'ai ressenti. C'est aussi lorsque j'ai commencé à boire mes souffrances. Cependant, après quelques mois, je croyais qu'il serait plus avantageux de le transformer en quelque chose qui créerait un bénéfice qu'un jour je serais en mesure de vous accorder en cadeau.”
Another round of guilt grips me.
What? Oh. I’ll tell you what he said and then convince him to return to English…He said, ‘When your mother refused to allow me to visit or have a relationship with you it is how I felt. It was also when I started to drink my pain. However, after a few months I believed it would be more beneficial to turn it into something that would create profit that one day I would able to bestow upon you as a gift.’
“So… you’re saying… it’s my vineyard.”
He smirks as his maid wheels over our breakfast. “Whenever you’re ready for it, Poppet. Oui.”
“Vanilla latte,” the older gray-haired woman announces before placing down the beverage on the table in front of me. “And a bowl of fresh cut strawberries. Pincée de sucre.”
“Les fraises sont fraîches et bien coupées. Merci.”
Her face lights up. “You speak French beautifully.”
My smile reappears, and I offer her a nod. “Merci.”
“De rien. Better than your father who was raised here,” she scolds and places a cup of coffee along with a pastry down on the table closest to him.
“Excusez-moi!”
I skip the instinct to correct her and snicker, “My tutor was a foreign exchange student whose entire family had never left the country before him.”
And he was to die for looks wise. Also very open sexually. He didn’t need my how to guide on making someone come, he needed directions on which American boys were available when they were pretending they weren’t.
“I’ve known many families like such.” She returns to her cart. “C'est un plaisir de t'avoir madame.”
“Merci.”
“Oui, merci, Angela.”
The woman disappears back the way she came, and I pin him with a smirk. “I like her.”
“I bet you do,” he lightly laughs. “She’s given me hell since I was a garçon.”
My grin helplessly grows.
“She’s family. Really the only family I have left aside from you. Both of my parents passed away early in life. I think it’s one reason I partied so hard and got tangled in many webs I could not get out of.”
“Like the one created by the woman who gave birth to me.”
“Oui.” Rhys reaches for his cup. “That’s a web I wouldn’t trade for the world. It gave me a daughter who might not call herself that, who may always hate me, but nevertheless, who I adore and am proud for becoming not only a better person than her circumstances wanted to allow, but a better person than either of us were at your age.”
His compliment reddens my cheek, and I reach for my beverage.
“Do you speak other languages?”
“Spanish. Multiple dialects within it. Italian. A small bit of Russian. Tiny bits of a few others…”
You don’t deal with the mafia or mobs without knowing a few key phrases to avoid getting fucked over.
“Impressive.” He breathlessly sighs.
I have a small sip. The perfect creation causes me to hum my approval louder than intended.
Can we take her home with us? I feel her and Gabrielle would get along splendidly.
Suddenly Rhys blurts out, “Vous êtes libre de rentrer à la maison quand vous le souhaitez, Poppet.”
The statement gains him my attention and darts my eyebrows down. “What?”
He places his coffee mug back down. “You’re free to go home whenever you like.”
“I always keep up my word.”
“And you did.” His hand motions towards me. “You’re here. You arrived. As far as I’m concerned you met your end of our bargain.”
“But-”
“This ordeal was truly not to hold you hostage for a weekend. It was just an excuse to allow me to get to know you better.”
His words furrow my eyebrows further.
“I’ve learned more about you in the past few months in ‘preparation’ for this visit than I have about you in your entire life. And that’s all I truly wanted. The opportunity to speak with you about more than poor tasting fish or how terrible your mother and I were at being parents. I wanted to know ma petite fille and you finally gave that to me. Though…had you not, I still wouldn’t keep you here against your will. You are my daughter, Poppet, not my hostage. I wouldn’t treat you that way even if I merely appeared I would.”
Indignation and intrigue swirl together. “You…conned me.”
He lifts a finger. “No. I merely played your game. You treat your entire life like a chess match. I merely thought a few moves ahead.”
Don’t agree with him.
Crossing my leg, I cradle my cup closer to me and smirk. “Je resterai …At least through the night. I am already here.”
Rhys tries to hide his surprise. “If that’s your choice, Poppet.”
“Oui.”
Beats the hell out of being at The Castle dealing with brooding Brock and his cheating whore finger points. Yes, I may be slightly concerned with the rest of the Princes, but I’m sure they’ll survive without me. At least one night. I would’ve never agreed to this if I didn’t believe everything could truly be taken care of while I’m away. If I didn’t…trust him despite the fact he’s announced he doesn’t trust me, to handle The Castle as if it belongs to him too.
After we finish our coffee and enjoy a wine versus champagne discussion, Rhys gives me an in-depth tour of the property. While the main manor is where he sleeps, hosts guests, and has parties, there are four other guest homes on his land along with a horse stable, multiple pools, a tennis court, and an exquisite rose garden I spend over an hour in. We pass most of our time walking by discussing places we’ve traveled, comparing our wanderlust impulses. I freely explain my preference for staying home unless it’s work related and he cheerfully expresses the opposition for himself. It starts slow but eventually I allow myself the liberty to enjoy his company the way I’ve always denied because it wasn’t deserved. It wasn’t earned.
But slyly learning about my likes and dislikes to steadily prove he wants a real relationship with me outside of the fancy shit he can buy definitely opened my eyes to the man he is now versus the man he was so many years ago. I know people change. I’m typically part of the process. I’m just used to them changing and leaving me behind...
Brock
“I know you’re fucking in there, French!” I pound heavily on her office door again. “Open!”
No. She still hasn’t spoken to me since…well since I was an asshole. Last night, my brother and I…fuck I can’t believe I can say that again…Anyway, last night after sharing onion rings, a couple rounds of pool, and eventually burgers at the place next door to the hall, I couldn’t wait to tell her everything. Brice and I spent most of the night catching up on the basics like the fact he’s a real estate broker, and I’m a fucking stripper who has no idea what he wants to do with the rest of his life besides protect his girlfriend. Surprisingly enough, he told me to take that into consideration whenever I decided to switch careers. Not just desired protection of her but people in general, like him when we were kids. Like the other foster kids I grew up with who needed to be blocked from belts or being touched against their will. Brice also told me about his kids, his wife, and what growing up was like. Once he caught on to my own past being darker than it should’ve been, he changed topics to sports. Turns out we’re both basketballs fans and we both love to fucking read. That shit alone ha
d us talking basically ‘til the burger place closed. When I got back to The Castle I banged on French’s penthouse door for a while. Eventually, I caved and tried my key. Code was changed. Fuck. I know. I know.