Unbelievable. Abby looked at them and shook her head. “I don’t want easier. I don’t want to be coddled. And I sure as hell don’t want you guys treating me like a child,” she shouted, very childlike. “I’m not that same scared person I was when Richard left or when Mom and Dad died, so stop treating me like I am.” That got their attention. And then she brought out the big guns. “So as of today you will no longer manipulate my life.”
Abby reached into her briefcase and pulled three envelopes out and slid them across the table. Inside were personalized contracts ensuring they would butt the hell out. But what had Abby smiling were the three swirly signatures at the bottom, which from the looks on her brothers’ faces were more terrifying than the actual contracts, titled THE BUTT OUT AND PUT OUT RESOLUTION. Because they were handcrafted and signed by the women who shared their respective beds.
“What the hell is this?” Trey asked, pointing to the third clause on his resolution, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. “No dance skirts after seven p.m.?”
“If you participate in a level three meddling violation, then Sara will only wear her dance skirts during studio hours.” Something Trey’s fiancée had so creatively devised. “If you think that’s bad, then check out the ‘No Tent Making’ clause.”
“Jesus, if I commit a level two or higher meddling violation, no sampling the cream puffs for a week.” Marc flipped through the contract frantically. “What the hell is a level two MV?”
For the first time since Abby moved into her new house and was given the Good Neighbor Code handbook, she decided rules were beneficial. Inspired, even.
Effective.
“Mine has one sentence,” Nate said, shifting in his seat. “How can it have one sentence?” He flipped the page over a few times, then read, “Because meddling is a pussy word for saying you don’t believe in someone, any meddling violation of any kind ranks as a level one violation, which results in your wife going for your nuts.” Nate pointed to his one-page, one-line resolution and finished, “And not in a good way.”
“It’s simple, fellas.” Abby clapped her hands, feeling mighty proud of herself. “I need time to fix this mess without you guys making it harder. So the women have chosen sides, and it seems they are tired of your constant meddling too, because they took a firm Team Abby stance. In fact, we’re getting shirts made. So if you want any action, then stop meddling in my life because if I’m pissy, then they’re pissy. Which means your lives will be miserable.”
Marc’s face went pale. Trey choked on his beer, and Nate looked at her in utter horror.
With a smile so big her cheeks hurt, she patted each shocked face and kissed each puckered forehead. “Now, can someone tell me where I can find Jack?”
“Jack?” Marc asked, his voice going all authoritative. “Why do you need to find him?”
“Since I need a contractor and Jack happens to be one. And,” she leaned over and pointed to the top of the page, “according to Lexi, an MV involving my career is an MV of the second degree. She told me how much you love her cream puffs.”
Marc narrowed his gaze on her. “I wasn’t talking about your job, I was talking about the way Tanner stares at your ass every time you wear those jeans.” He pointed to the offensive jeans in question and Abby smiled, because really? He stared? “I should have kicked his ass the second I saw that picture Nora put up, the one of him on your porch. Who looks at his buddy’s sister like that?”
“You married your best friend’s ex-wife,” Abby challenged, resisting the urge to ask exactly how Tanner was looking at her, but only because it probably wouldn’t help the situation. Marc looked ready to follow through on his threat, and Trey and Nate were on board to join in the fight.
“Ex–best friend, and Jeff is a total tool. Not to be trusted. Just like Tanner.”
“Well, it’s my call and I trust him.” About as much as she trusted herself around him. Which wasn’t saying much. “Oh, and Marco, be careful, according to Lexi, an MV involving my love life would be a level one violation.”
Marc scanned his contract, and she knew the minute he found the punishment per Lexi’s specifications. The whole bar knew because he stood, knocking over his beer in the process. “The apron! She burns her apron?”
“Not just any apron, the lavender one, I believe.” Abby ran a finger down and stopped at the detailed list Lexi had put together. “Yup. See, right there.”
“This is bullshit,” Marc shouted, his charm and easy smile gone.
“I’ll be sure to tell your wife that,” Abby said, eyeing the Seahawks jersey hanging from the ceiling. “Now, where is everybody’s favorite hammer for hire tonight?”
CHAPTER 9
The Seattle Seahawks jersey, Abby admitted, was probably a mistake.
Almost as big as her decision to come right here after confronting her brothers. One step inside Tanner’s house and it was obvious she was overdressed and apparently didn’t meet the height requirement for such an event. Even in her five-inch heels, all she could see was a crowd of pecs and shoulders—all adorned in Niners red.
“Did you bring some legs with the wings?” an older man with bushy brows and spiky silver hair asked, eyeing the tinfoil-covered plate in her hand. Even though he hunched a little, relying heavily on a cane to stand, he still came in at a whopping six two. “I can’t let you in unless you show me the wings and the legs.” He waved an impatient hand.
Not sure if it was a reference to her mascot of choice or some kind of come-on, Abby clutched her wine cake to her chest. “No wings. No peeks. Just here to see Jack. Is he around?”
“Jack, huh?” The old man patted down every one of his pockets, and since he was wearing a pair of faded contractor pants with a dozen pockets and a couple of tool loops, it gave Abby a chance to sneak a peek inside the house.
She couldn’t help it. She’d moved back to St. Helena nearly two years ago, yet this was the closest she’d come to stepping foot inside Tanner’s house.
The overembellished foyer with its vaulted ceilings, dual staircases, and elaborate chandelier was not what she’d expected. In fact, she tried to reconcile the laid-back, no-nonsense guy she knew with the flashy surroundings and came up short. More than short. She was baffled.
Until what looked like a linebacker in a home-team jersey, dusty jeans, and oddly bare feet walked by, one hand curled around his beer and flashing a Super Bowl ring, the other around a stacked blonde with mile-long legs, a red miniskirt, and matching bikini top. And Abby got it. Tanner had built himself his very own Playboy mansion.
The guy looked at her jersey. “Is this a joke?”
“Obviously not a good one,” she said, wishing she had just stuck to her jeans and blouse. “I’m looking for Jack. Do you know where he is?” she asked again, because Mr. Show Me Your Legs was still fumbling around in his pockets.
“He’s around.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward a set of veranda doors, or maybe he meant the pair of circular stairs.
Suddenly, an explosion of angry shouts erupted from the back of the house, and Abby hoped he meant the stairs, especially when he added, “Although I wouldn’t recommend going through the house dressed like that.”
“I can handle myself,” Abby assured him.
The guy shrugged. “Your life. Oh, and leave your shoes by the door.”
Abby faltered midstep. She didn’t wear heels for the fashion of it, although she loved how her navy peek-a-boos matched her new jersey. Nope, she wore them because at five one, it was almost impossible to be taken seriously when people were literally looking down at her. And since she was about to face the biggest man she knew, she was counting on her extra five inches of courage.
“Sorry, house rules.” He didn’t look sorry at all, even wiggled his bare toes for effect, then disappeared into what she assumed was the entertainment room.
“Don’
t mind Meat Grinder,” the old man said. “Always been a bit of a kiss-ass if you ask me—aha!” The patting stopped and he extracted a pair of glasses from his shirtfront pocket. Sliding them on, he looked directly at her jersey and a big, bright smile took over his face, shedding ten years and exposing a very handsome man. “Not your fault Tanner picked the wrong team.”
That’s when Abby saw the resemblance. Beneath the nooks and crannies sat the most intense blue eyes and a familiar crooked smile.
Abby stuck out her hand. “You must be Mr. Tanner. I’m Abigail DeLuca.”
“Call me Gus. And is that wings in there?”
“No, it’s a cake.”
“Huh.” The old man took a closer look and licked his lips. Maybe the cake was her ticket in. She lifted the Tupperware lid and let some of the aroma of sherry and nutmeg seep out.
Gus took a step closer just as a big ball of wiry silver hair with enormous paws and a deadly tail ambled between them, his wet nose immediately going for Abby’s crotch in a big doggie hello.
She gave his buttery-soft ears a little scratch, which must have translated into a green light for a kiss, because he went up on his hind legs and licked her from chin to forehead.
“This here is Wrecking Ball. Sit, boy.” And the dog sat, but his eyes stayed locked on Abby’s crotch. “He wants the cake. Why don’t you let me take this off your hands. It’ll be safer.”
“I made it for Jack,” she explained as he put the cake to his nose and took a whiff.
“He’s watching his figure, always harping on and on about sodium and saturated fats. Don’t want to tempt him.”
“That’s very nice of you.” Abby would bet the strict diet was more for Gus than Tanner, but if Gus stealing Tanner’s cake got her inside, then Tanner would just have to deal with it.
“Yeah, well, I do what I can.” He looked at Abby again and his brow raised in surprise. “Well, now, you’re that girl who stole St. Helena High’s mascot and hid it in my backyard.”
Oh boy. She could kiss her invite in good-bye.
“Actually, I put it in the cab of Jack’s truck, in the passenger side, wearing his Napa High jersey.” That was after she broke into her school and stole it—only to hold it hostage for the week leading up to the biggest game of the year. “It was supposed to be a prank.” Actually, it was supposed to be her way of letting Tanner know she was mad—that he’d hurt her.
He’d used her, broken her heart, then just walked away like he hadn’t shattered her world.
The day after the most amazing night of Abby’s young life, Tanner hadn’t called. He hadn’t called the next day either, and come Sunday, Abby had convinced herself he hadn’t called because he was as shaken by their night as she’d been. That he needed time to process what had happened between them.
Only come Monday, Abby’s biggest competition for homecoming queen, Kendra Abrahams, announced to the entire student body that she and her overspirited pom-poms were taking Tanner to homecoming. Abby had been devastated. Even worse, she had been played. Tanner was the first person she’d let in after her parents died, the only one who made her feel like she wasn’t so alone, and in the end she’d fallen—hard.
Only Tanner hadn’t fallen. Nope, he’d taken her virginity, then taken off for perkier pastures.
So Abby did what any sane teen girl would do. She got even. Since Tanner went to the rival school, Napa High, Abby pulled the greatest mascot prank in the history of wine country—placing the kidnapped mascot in his truck after a series of random notes ignited a citywide hunt for the Saint statue—praying it would get him banned from her school’s dance.
Mission accomplished. He’d been banned. And brought into the sheriff’s station for questioning. What she hadn’t counted on was that it would cost him a full ride to Alabama University.
“Got him benched from the biggest game of his high school career. Ended up playing at the community college for a while before he had a chance to impress the big guys again.”
A choice Abby never fully understood. Tanner had proof she’d done it, took a picture of her breaking into his truck with the golden statue, which if he’d handed it over would have exonerated him, yet he hadn’t said a word. Not until after homecoming weekend—not until after the scouts had left and Abby was crowned homecoming queen.
“I don’t know if you read it, but I sent your family a letter of apology. I was too embarrassed”—and heartbroken—“to say it in person. But I truly was and am sorry.”
“Sorry?” Gus’s laugh sounded rusty. “Best thing that could have happened to him. He gained two inches, twenty pounds, and shaved two-tenths off his forty that year at the JC. Not that it kept him from wearing those pussy colors.”
That was when Abby noticed Gus wasn’t wearing Niners’ pride—he was sporting an Oakland Raiders shirt.
“If you ask me, that year was the reason he beat out a slew of upperclassmen and played first string when he transferred to USC. That season of swinging hammers and playing ball taught him a lot, and it got him in the NFL.”
“I don’t know if he’d see it that way.”
“Everything comes easy to my son, especially ball. The kid needed something to work for, something that would challenge him, get him riled up. Still does.” Gus took in her shirt once more and there went that Tanner smile—equal parts charm and trouble. “I think you’ll be good for him.”
Before Abby could clarify she was here in a strictly professional capacity, Gus added, “Anyway, he’s out on that back patio of his, disappeared in there a little while ago, grumbling about too many damn people in his house leaving water marks on the table or some nonsense. Make sure you tell him the pizza and wings never came, and we’re getting hungry. Oh, and ditch the shoes, he’s like a damn woman when it comes to scuffing up his floor.”
Gus and her cake hobbled down the hallway, scuffing his big work boots—that were not by the door but on his feet—the entire way. Wrecking Ball looked at Abby’s crotch longingly, then barked and tore off after his master, knocking over a few empty bottles and a potted plant on the way.
Determination set, Abby slipped off her shoes and waltzed into the house, right through the middle of the red sea, when the blonde in the bikini top gasped at her jersey, and the party—well, that came to a standstill.
Shouting halted, television watching stopped. It was as though the game ceased to exist.
Good Lord, the place was packed with bikinis and bulging pecs. But what had Abby surprised was, while a good portion of the partygoers most likely worked at Hooters, an equal percentage would qualify for a senior snip at the Prune and Clip. Even more surprising was that everyone was silently staring—glaring—in her direction. All over a little bird’s head on her shirt.
She hesitated slightly, even considered turning around, returning home, and calling Babs. Considered explaining that she couldn’t find a contractor, that she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to pull this off. In order to keep the Titanic from sinking, she needed Tanner, which meant she’d have to beg him to take the job. That was the only way he’d agree. And begging the man who had ripped out her heart would be almost as difficult as working side by side with him and not giving in to the chemistry.
Then she remembered how Richard was still on her lawn, how her brothers had believed they needed to bribe an old lady to get her a job designing a doghouse, and how tired she was of people underestimating her ability to get things done.
Inner resolve in full effect, she offered up an energetic, “Go Seahawks!” with a coordinating fist pump, then gave a small little wave and just kept walking toward the back of the house, making sure she stood at her full five foot one. Because wrong jersey or not, Abby was determined to get a win today—just one.
Tanner didn’t have to open his eyes to see who was hovering over him. He’d heard her huffing and mumbling even before she’d stepped out onto the
patio off his office. He also had a pretty good idea of why she was here—Colin’s words echoed that Abby had already committed Tanner to be the GC—and for the first time in this whole situation, Tanner felt as though he actually had the upper hand.
He just wasn’t certain he wanted to use it.
“You here to pick me up for our date?”
“Date?” Abby said crisply, then laughed. “I can see how you might get confused with all of the half-naked party girls on display, but I think you have the wrong girl.”
Huh. Maybe instead of killing Colin for inviting the Stanford cheerleading team, he’d actually thank the guy, because if he didn’t know any better, he’d guess Little Miss Not Interested was a wee bit jealous.
“You sure?” He cracked open one eye and bit back a smile. Wrong girl his ass.
The only reason Abby would wear that god-awful jersey was if she was into him. Not that it mattered. The jersey obviously wasn’t hers. It was probably borrowed, because it was at least a size too small for her chest, showing off those tight curves. And her skinny jeans—hot damn—they fit like a glove, hugging her toned legs and, he’d bet, hugging her ass to perfection.
Impatient and stubborn as ever, she tapped her bare feet . . . and, well, look at that, shiny red toenails.
“Yup. Right girl.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Wrong jersey, though.”
“I like my jersey and I don’t remember agreeing to a date with you.”
“You didn’t agree, darling. You offered. I fix your pipes, we go out. Remember?”
“Actually, you said you’d fix them in exchange for a night that ended in a kiss.”
Was she serious?
He opened his eyes and, yup, dead serious. “We were changing a broken pipe in your garage—”
“And there was a kiss.” She smiled, thinking she’d won.
“A very hot kiss,” he agreed softly and found Abby staring at his mouth. He smiled to let her know he was thinking about that kiss too.
From the Moment We Met Page 13