“Morning, Roz,” Abby said with a smile so big it hurt her cheeks. When Roz’s greeting was to keep clicking away on her computer, Abby pulled out the bright orange application form and held it up. “I’m here for the Historical Preservation Council’s meeting. I am nominating one of our town’s most historical and unique buildings for the Memory Lane Manor Walk.”
“Well, how exciting for you,” Roz mumbled, but hit the buzzer all the same.
The door buzzed, and with a little wave, which went unreturned, Abby made her way through the glass doors.
Confidence bubbling, Abby strode down the long hallway, smiling as she passed photograph after photograph of over a hundred years of the town’s architectural history, knowing someday soon her name would be added to that small but prestigious club. She was going to walk into that meeting, wow them with her preservation-conscious designs, and by the end of her speech, have the full support of the HPC behind the project.
“You got this,” she said quietly, pushing through the antique gothic door salvaged from one of the original wineries in the valley, waltzing right into that room, and—
She so did not have this. Not even close. In fact, she wondered just how unlucky one person could be. Because no one’s karma could be this bad. No one’s.
“Abigail.” Nora Kincaid stood from behind the conference table, her eyes glued to the nomination application in Abby’s hand. “Perkins was just explaining your situation. Said you asked if we could make an exception and allow you to nominate a residence so late into the selection process. Imagine that.”
Yeah. Imagine that.
“Why do I have to always be so stubborn?” Abby asked, fiddling with the label on her beer bottle as she sat between Tanner’s legs on the lounger. Her head rested against his chest as she stared past his patio to the setting sun. “They’re never going to approve the plans now.”
“You don’t know that.” Tanner tightened his arms around her, wishing there was something he could do to make this all better.
“I have a naked statue on my front lawn, Jack.” She gave him a look. “A naked statue that stares into the windows of the most honored Memory Lane Manor of the Year Award recipient, who happens to sit on the council deciding who gets approved and who doesn’t. I can already tell you what group we’ll be in.”
Tanner wanted to point out her decision to leave the statue in her yard was selfless, and if anyone had the right to complain, it was her. Learning to manage people’s expectations while still maintaining a healthy balance of personal happiness was something Abby struggled with. Bottom line: Abby hated confrontation almost as much as she hated disappointing others, so she tended to let her people-pleasing side dominate.
“Darling, they accepted your nomination application, so now it is just a matter of reviewing your plans. And trust me,” he said gently, tilting his head down so she had to look at him. “Your designs are more powerful than an angry neighbor.”
That got a small smile out of her, so he stole the beer and took a swallow. Only when he handed it back, she was frowning again. “Then why haven’t they called? Perkins said end of the business day.”
“It’s not quite five, you’ve still got a few minutes.”
“He said end of the day Monday. It’s Tuesday,” she clarified, as though Tanner wasn’t well aware they’d been at a standstill for two days while the HPC took their sweet-ass time making a decision that, if you asked him, should have been a slam dunk. But instead they lost another twenty-four hours from their proposed project plan, which would create all kinds of scheduling issues.
Sure, they’d managed to finish stripping the walls down to the original brick and his crew had prepped the floors for the limestone. But they couldn’t alter anything original to the building until they received the okay. So retrofitting and covering the conveyor belts was pushed, bumping the metalsmith to Thursday. Except the metalsmith had another job on the books that day, but could possibly squeeze them in on Saturday. The same day Tanner had planned on taking Abby to an antique festival in Santa Rosa. Followed by a nice dinner in the city and dessert in his hot tub.
Setting the beer on the patio table, he ran his hands down her arm, linking their fingers and giving a reassuring squeeze. “Maybe they were so impressed that he wants to tell you in person.”
“Or maybe Nora sunk me.” She turned around to face him and, as though unable to meet his gaze, lay down with her cheek right over his heart. “I should have let you haul the statue away that first day when you offered.”
He tucked a finger under her chin and nudged her until she met his gaze. “You weren’t ready.”
He could see in her eyes he was right. And he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
It was hard enough when she was married to the douche bag, but now Richard was gone yet somehow still here, and Tanner wasn’t sure where that left him and Abby. Competing with Richard wouldn’t be hard. Competing with the wreckage he left behind, though?
Abby still needed closure. And that was the one thing Tanner couldn’t give her.
“Does that make me pathetic?” she asked quietly.
“No.” He cupped her face and brought it up to his. “It makes you human.” He gave her a gentle kiss. “You’re letting his grandmother come and pay her respects when it would be easier to take a sledgehammer to it. That makes you special, Abs.”
Then he gave her a not-so-gentle kiss, and when he pulled back, her hands were shoved up his shirt, his were on her ass, and Wreck was sitting on the end of the lounger watching.
“Come on, man,” Tanner said. He pointed to the floor. “Down.”
Wreck lay down—on the edge of the lounger.
“Off.”
“Woof.” Wreck wagged his tail and panted some. Tanner rolled his eyes and went back to kissing Abby.
“I think he likes you,” she said between kisses.
“I think he is checking out your ass.”
“That would be you.”
Yeah, that was him all right. His hands were plastered to her butt, partly to scoot her higher so kissing her would be easier, but mostly because she had an amazing ass. That was buzzing.
“Oh!” She sat up, nearly planting her knee in the family jewels as she scrambled to fish her phone out of her back pocket. She pulled it free, looked at the screen, and froze.
It buzzed again.
“You going to answer that?”
“What if they say no?”
“What if they don’t?” He leaned up and kissed her. “Either way, you’ll know.”
That got her moving, because Abby loved knowing. In fact, she lived to be in the know on everything.
“Hello, this is Abigail,” she said. “Hi, Perkins. What? No, no problem at all.”
After several Uh-huhs and Yes sirs and a very professional, Thank you, she hung up the phone and just stared at him. Then smiled. Big and beautiful and hot damn, he knew that smile.
“You got the approval.”
She knelt on the lounger in front of him, her eyes wide with excitement. And pride. An emotion he hadn’t seen on her face in a long time. An emotion that looked damn good on her. Hell, she was practically vibrating with it.
“We got the approval.” She brought her fingers up to her lips, as though that alone was the one thing stopping her from spilling the rest. Because, oh yeah, there was more. “And Perkins apologized for the delay, but finalists are notified last.”
Now it was his turn to smile. “You finaled?”
“The Jackson Bottlery, once owned by the renowned olive farmer and winemaker Randal Jackson himself, is an official finalist of the Memory Lane Manor Walk. Do you have any idea what this could mean? Not just for the Pungent Barrel, but for my firm?”
He knew. And God he wanted her to win. It would take her from small-town closet organizer to industry-celebrated designer in one p
ress release. “It means you did good. Better than good. You inspired them.”
“We did good,” she whispered and launched herself at him, wrapping those arms and gorgeous legs around him.
He nuzzled her neck, taking in the way she smelled, how she felt, every aspect of this moment. Because he wanted to savor it.
Remember it.
“Abby, you know the bottlery didn’t final.” She pulled back, an adorable crease in her brow. “Your plans finaled.”
“Yeah,” she whispered in awe. “They did, huh?”
“Yeah, they did.” He kissed her. “And you can win this.”
“I want to win this so badly. And with you on my team, I think we can. But,” she dragged out the word, long and sweetly, locking her ankles behind his back and her arms around his neck. She was buttering him up. Not necessary since the “with you on my team” part pretty much sealed the deal. “The HPC announces the winner on August twenty-seventh.”
Tanner choked a little. “Darling, that’s a week and a half away.”
“I know.” She winced. “Trust me, I so know. And I know what I’d be asking of you and the crew, but we’re talking Architectural Digest and Martha Stewart. Martha freaking Stewart.” She smiled up at him and was literally beaming with excitement. Everything she was feeling was right there on her face for him to see. “Is it even a realistic goal to think we can do it in time?”
Tanner could do anything if it meant she’d keep looking at him like that. But a week and some change was going to be tough. It would require bringing on another crew to work the swing shift, his being at the shop around the clock—but yeah, he could do it. For her, he’d make it happen.
“I might need to hire an assistant,” he said, eying her cleavage.
She snuggled closer. “What kind of assistance are we talking?”
“I don’t know, why don’t you start assisting and I’ll let you know what I need.”
By Friday afternoon, the warehouse was looking less like a bottlery and more like a high-end cheese shop. The conveyer belts had been retrofitted and the reclaimed limestone had been delivered that morning from an old mission Abby had found near San Luis Obispo.
And, the best part of her day? She’d found a glassblower in Sonoma who was able to take the thousand or so vintage wine bottles Gus had discovered in the old carriage house and turn them into lighting fixtures, including the two massive chandeliers that would hang on either side of the arch.
Wiping a bead of sweat off her brow and most likely smearing cobwebs into her hair, Abby stretched her arms as far as they would go around a case of bottles and, ignoring the way her shoulders and back protested, staggered to a stand. She used her foot to kick open the doors, a blast of summer heat causing her tank top to shrink-wrap to her body like a second skin, and the farther into the sun she walked, the sweatier her hands became.
Afraid of dropping the bottles, she waddled as fast as she could, wondering how much longer her arms would hold out. Not long enough to make it to the truck, she imagined, since each case weighed over thirty pounds and this was her fifteenth box of the day.
She was nearly to the shipping truck when her fingers started slipping. Not wanting to drop the box, she sped up and hobbled right into Tanner.
“Whoa, let me get that,” he said, his arms coming around the box and lifting it effortlessly right out of her hands and placing it in the back of the truck in two strides—the big showoff. “What are you doing?”
“Getting the wine bottles on the truck,” she said, her breath coming out in harsh little out-of-shape puffs.
“I can see that.” He brushed something off the side of her face.
“Is it a spider?” She closed her eyes. “Don’t let it be a spider.”
“It’s a harmless dust bunny.” As far as she was concerned, nothing dwelling in that carriage house was harmless. “Why didn’t you ask one of the guys to do it?”
“They’re on lunch break.” He frowned at that, so she patted his arm—his really muscular, really sexy arm. “I told them to go. It’s stifling today, even hotter in the warehouse. So when it hit lunchtime I asked Lexi to make them a special treat to say thanks for pulling so many long hours.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
She shrugged. “No biggie. Plus the owner is sleeping with my brother, so I get a discount.”
“Yeah.” He moved closer, cupping her hips, running his hands down her sides, then back up. “I’m sleeping with you, so does that mean I get a special treat for lunch?”
“That kind of treat has to wait. It’s not five o’clock,” she said, but let her fingers do some running of their own—right over his chest and down every single one of his eight-pack. The man was built.
He flashed a grin that had her stomach flipping. “It’s five somewhere.”
Well, when put like that, who was she to object when he pulled her close and placed those very kissable lips right on hers? And he didn’t stop there. No, Tanner squatted down, his arms tightening around her waist like a vise, and stood, taking her with him so they were more evenly matched—and every important part was lined up with perfect symmetry.
“Are you sure everyone is gone?” he asked as her legs dangled above the ground. Tanner had been tall back in college, but the NFL had filled him out quite a bit, taking him from hunky hardbody to total beefcake.
“Yes,” she said against his mouth. “They’re all gone.”
“I’m giving them all a raise,” he said, walking toward the carriage house. He backed through the door, the room suddenly dark in contrast to the bright sky outside.
Abby hesitated for all of half a second before wrapping her legs around his waist. If there were any scary creepy crawlers in there, they were no match for her gladiator.
“I’m glad I wore shorts today,” she said.
His voice came out a low rumble of male appreciation. “Me too.” To prove it, his hands went right to her butt, his thumbs sliding under the hem. “Shorts, that shirt you think passes for a tank top, and those cute pink sneakers,” he growled. “They’ve been driving me crazy all day.”
She laughed. “Pink sneakers drive you crazy?”
“Darling, anything on you drives me crazy because all I can think about is getting it off you.”
“Funny, when I see you in those jeans and sweaty tee with the tool belt hanging temptingly low, all I can think about is getting you off.”
Oh my God. Abby felt her face flush. Had she really just said that?
The heat in his eyes told her yes, yes she had. And he was more than on board. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”
He kissed her neck, pressing his lips down to the base of her throat—and lower. His thumbs, however, were working diligently at climbing higher until he met lace. She knew because she felt him smile against her skin.
“I thought I was going to get a show first,” she said, tugging at his shirt.
“And here I thought this was a worksite,” Colin said from the doorway of the carriage house.
“Loading the truck, huh?” Gus said from beside Colin, only he was smiling. Colin? Not so much. “Is that what you kids call it these days?”
With an apologetic smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, Tanner lowered Abby to the ground and, always the gentleman, positioned himself in front of her. Abby had to force herself to step out from behind his body. They were grown adults and she was tired of hiding.
“I thought you went with the rest of the crew to eat,” Abby said to Gus, doing her best to avoid looking Colin directly in the eye.
“Nope, they were having tri-tip sandwiches and blue cheese fries. Plus I already had my lunch in the fridge.” He held up a plate piled high with baked chicken, a nice helping of green vegetables, and—
“Gus, is that quinoa salad?”
He shrugged. “Thought it wa
s rice. Tastes like rice.”
Yesterday it was a healthy stir fry, that morning he’d had a bran muffin instead of a doughnut, and now quinoa? The dish also looked like the ones she’d seen at Babs’s, but before Abby could comment, Colin stepped forward.
“Well, I just came to drop this off.” He tossed the day’s copy of the Sentinel on a stack of wine cases.
Abby picked it up and felt everything in her chest catch and tighten. There, covering half the front page, was a photo of the Jackson Bottlery, and next to it was a photo of Abby taken right after Richard had disappeared. But what had her blood rushing from her head was the headline that brought back every insecurity she’d worked so hard to overcome.
FINALIST CONTENDER OR CREATIVE FRAUD?
New findings have Jackson Bottlery on shaky ground with Historic Preservation Council. A walk down memory lane may provide answers.
And that wasn’t the worst of it. The more she read, the more painful that feeling in her chest became until Abby was sure it would crush her whole.
“Abby,” Tanner said quietly, resting a hand on her shoulder, and she realized she was shaking. “Are you okay?”
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “It says here a source close to former Memory Lane Manor Walk recipient and HPC council member Nora Kincaid alleges Jackson Bottlery was never a residence and therefore does not qualify. It goes on to say that accounts of the building’s history may have been embellished or even fabricated by a person close to the project.” She looked up from the paper. “It doesn’t say who made the false claims, but it’s not difficult to connect the dots when my picture is right next to the article, huh?”
She handed him the paper. “Do you think Nora did this because of the statue?”
Tanner looked up from the article and cupped her face in support. “She’s nosy and a stickler for the rules, but I’ve never known her to be mean or spiteful.”
From the Moment We Met Page 22