CHAPTER 8
Nate pulled a little pink ticket from the dispenser and took his place in line at Picker’s Produce, Meats, and More—if one could call a single person standing in front of him a line. But since that person happened to be Mrs. Craver, co-owner of the store, and she was arguing with Mr. Craver, Nate figured it could take a while.
Not that he was in any rush. In fact, Nate was in such a great mood, not even one of the Cravers’ notorious blowouts could ruin his day. The sun was shining. There was a crisp autumn breeze. He’d snagged a parking spot two strides from the front door. His cart was full of groceries—ones that didn’t come in a box and have a red dye number five warning on the back. He had some kind of fancy dessert, which Marc’s fiancée had whipped up on special request, waiting at the bakery. And he’d managed to check off nearly every item on his DAILY TO DO LIST. One more errand and he was free for the weekend.
Yes, sir. Nate was in the mood to celebrate. It had taken three days—three long, hot, sweaty days—but the water tank was installed, the pump was up and working, and Tanner and his crew were finally gone. Gone as in, Nate and Frankie would have the entire place to themselves. They’d managed to go an entire seventy-two hours without a single fight and, even though there’d been enough chemistry sparking between them to toast s’mores, they’d also gone an entire seventy-two hours without kissing again.
Something he was seriously considering changing tonight. If he ever got his steaks.
Marilee Craver stood a good three feet from the butcher counter, waving some kind of legal document in Biff’s direction. Her voice was hushed, but it bounced off the glass of the display case, making every word crystal clear and nearly impossible to ignore. Although Biff didn’t seem to have a hard time tuning her out. He diligently rearranged the rounds of deli meat as though this were an everyday occurrence. The only sign that the man was even listening was that sweat had started to bead on the top of his bald head when Marilee starting talking divorce and papers.
Nate grabbed the handle of his cart, ready to come back later when Biff skewered him with a look. Nate knew that look. Gabe had sent him that look many times as of late.
Right, never leave a man behind. So he distracted himself watching Biff restack the pork ribs right through Marilee’s division of assets lecture, watched him place the new cuts of rib-eye in the correct case when she claimed full custody of their potbellied pig, Boss Hog. Even watched as Biff sucked in a big breath and closed his eyes as she threatened to shove his meat-grinder where the sun don’t shine while taking an aggressive step forward.
One step and Biff straightened on an exhale that seemed to originate from his feet. He took in where his wife’s shoes had ventured and his brows shot up in reprimand, wrinkling his cue-ball head. “Watch yourself, Mari-girl. You know what happens when you cross that line.”
That was all it took. A few simple words, spoken calmly and directly and delivered with a weighted wink, and the woman who was rumored to take out a shoplifter with a casaba melon and a bag of fava beans from fifty feet away covered her mouth with a pudgy hand.
Now there was nothing but silence, and Nate decided that was worse than the arguing. At least the bickering was driven from frustration and anger. Silence, well, that held all kids of emotions that Nate didn’t want to witness. It felt too private, as though he were somehow intruding. But to walk away now would be awkward, so he just stood there, staring at the smoked pig’s head in the display case.
“I’m sorry, Biff,” Marilee finally said. “I didn’t notice. I was so busy…” But it wasn’t her husband, though he was built like a slab of beef, who had her hands trembling or her words trailing off. It was the big white line painted down the middle of the floor that she had, in her state of fury, crossed.
“That’s all right, honey. No harm,” Biff said, maneuvering his massive body around the counter so he could take his wife’s hand. After a little kiss on her cheek, he took the papers from her fingers and set them on top of the display case next to the cocktail sauce. “How about you let me help our customer and then I’ll take a look at the papers?”
Marilee nodded and—holy Christ—the woman was actually blushing. All the way up to her curly grey roots. “You promise you’ll sign them?”
“Never going to happen. But I promise I’ll look at them. You can even cook us up one of your pot pies I love so much, and while we eat, you can point out every clause if you want to. Then after you’re done showing me how hard you worked, I’ll give you every reason why I’ll never sign,” he said, smiling, and Marilee smiled back.
“You’re a stubborn old fool,” Marilee whispered, sounding all twitterpated.
“Only for you. Now, go on,” Biff said and Nate turned—too soon. Because Mr. Craver was goosing Mrs. Craver and she was batting her lashes and playfully swatting at his hand.
“Make sure you save some of the chicken thighs.” Marilee said over her shoulder. “The free range kind.”
“Already have them packaged.”
Biff watched his wife waddle away, not taking his eyes off her until she had rounded the produce department and situated herself behind the register. Marilee turned her checker-three light on and gave Biff a sweet little wave, and damn if the man didn’t flush.
Biff cleared his throat. “Sorry about that. Today’s our anniversary and she always gets a little excited.” He shook his head in wonder and when he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion. “Fifty years. Can you believe it?”
“You’ve been married fifty years?” Nate knew the Cravers were old as dirt, but to live with that for half a century, Nate wondered if the man was a masochist.
Biff laughed. “No, fifty years ago today was the first time she filed for divorce. I said no. And every year she comes back demanding her freedom, when really she’s just trying to give me an out.”
Nate wondered why the hell he didn’t take it. Then he saw it, the way Biff looked at his wife, the way she looked back when they thought no one was watching. What everyone else in town saw as them bickering was their way of flirting. Of saying I love you.
“You ever hope she’ll stop asking and accept that you aren’t going anywhere?” Nate said, thinking of another stubborn woman.
“And miss getting the chance to tell her all the reasons why she’s made me the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet?” Biff shook his head. “Now, what can I get for you?”
“I need a couple of steaks,” Nate said. He crossed the white line and, making sure to keep an eye on Marilee’s throwing arm, looked in the display case. “What’s good today?”
“Let’s see.” The butcher took in Nate’s cart. “You’ve got wine, candles. Strawberries? Looks like you’re entertaining a lady friend.”
“Just dinner. And she’s just a friend.”
“That Showdown picture Nora Kinkaid’s got on the Facebook looked like a whole lot more than friends.”
It felt like a whole lot more too. Truth was, Nate didn’t know what Frankie and he were or even what he wanted them to be. She was unpredictable and stubborn and argumentative. And every time he thought about how her lips felt beneath his or the way she clung to him while moaning into his mouth, he seemed to forget that she was the last person in the world that he should be contemplating cooking for.
But after witnessing how two people who were so obviously mismatched could go from driving each other bat shit crazy to twitterpated in a single conversation, Nate began to wonder if maybe the Cravers were the ones who had figured it out.
“I was going to suggest a couple of private reserved porterhouses. Got them in this morning. Nice and marbled on one side, tender as veal on the other. But maybe something more delicate would be better.” Biff lifted a rack of lamb and held it out for inspection.
Nate enjoyed good food almost as much as he enjoyed sex. As an eighteen year old college freshman interested in getting laid, Nate read a study in Men’s Health that said women were sixty-six percent more likely to have sex with a man after a home-coo
ked meal, so he immediately enrolled in a culinary course for his elective. Over the years, he had impressed many a woman with his culinary prowess, and lamb always ranked high on the panty-dropping scale. But Nate had a hard time picturing Frankie, with her nail gun and work boots, nibbling on a little frenched lamb chop. “I think she’s more of a porterhouse kind of person.”
“You sure? Because judging by the ball of fury headed your way, a sharp knife on the table might not be in your best interest.”
Nate’s gaze rose from Biff’s beefy hand to the woman storming through the front door. He watched as she moved through the produce aisle at an alarming rate. Her hair was down and hung lose around her shoulders, just like it had been the night he broke in, and she was wearing her trademark black tank but with a pair of black stretchy pants that caressed every amazing curve of her body.
Nate hadn’t seen her since this morning, where she’d appeared in a baggy men’s shirt, those boy cut panties, and not much else. She’d eaten a Pop Tart while he’d sipped his coffee, she’d told him she still had to talk to Walt, he’d told her not to worry about it, she’d swallowed down her argument and promptly left.
Now with her body tense and ready to snap, Frankie rounded the cantaloupe barrels, her tennis shoes silent on the wide, wood planks of the floor, and past the artichoke display. Her head jerked right then left, scouring the dozens of patrons who made up the pre-dinner rush that filled the store, until those baby blues zeroed in on him.
“DeLuca,” she yelled over the elevator music playing in the background.
“Yup, I’d go with the chops. Nothing says ‘I’m sorry’ like lamb,” Biff advised and then went back to arranging the display case. Obviously the never-leave-a-man-behind pact was still in full effect.
The closer Frankie came, the less convinced Nate was that she’d stopped in to say she’d missed him or thanks for handling her uncle. The last thing he wanted to do right now was have a confrontation with her. By confrontation, he meant fight, which meant no round three of locking lips because based on the way her fists were flexing, the only lip action and heavy breathing he was looking at tonight was a verbal lashing.
Digging in for the duration, Nate leaned unconfrontationally against the glass display case and waited for her to start yelling.
“Do you have any idea what you are doing to me?”
He didn’t need any clarification to know she clearly wasn’t talking about their earlier kiss. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the handle of the shopping cart. “If it is half of what seeing you in those pants is doing to me, I think I have a pretty good idea.”
“Not what I meant,” she ground out, attracting attention from the one woman in town who could out-gossip his gossipy granny. Nora Kinkaid dropped her cantaloupe and shuffled over to study the avocados—which were a good five feet closer to the drama.
“You’re looking nice in that dress, Mrs. Kinkaid. Is it new?” he asked. Nora harrumphed and went back to squeezing avocados, but not before he noticed her flush under that scowl.
When he was good and sure that Nora was at least giving off the pretense of minding her own business, Nate reached into the basket and picked up the soy milk. “And this? This is me getting us some groceries.”
“There is no us!” Frankie grabbed the carton, marched her sweet ass over to the refrigerator section, slammed it on the correct shelf and marched back. Stopping so close he could smell her hair. She had really great smelling hair. “Got it?”
“Hey, Frankie,” Biff cut in, his voice low as he rested his trunks for arms on the top of the counter and offered up one of his rare smiles. “I’m going to have to ask you to either lower your voice or take a step back.”
Frankie looked down, saw the line was behind her and said, “Sorry, Biff. I was just—”
“I know. Not a problem. Just reminding you that only one woman is allowed to get all hot and bothered on that side of the line.” He winked. “And never during business hours.”
“Right. Sorry.” She took a step back. Realizing the produce section wasn’t buzzing with chatter anymore as everyone had stopped to see who would snap first, she grabbed his arm and tugged.
He could practically feel the anger vibrating though her body as she steered him, and in turn the cart, through the produce aisle, around the bakery where he was forced to say, “Excuse me,” when he bumped into Peggy from The Paws and Claws Day Spa, who was also Judge Pricket’s newest lady friend. A “Pardon me,” two more, “Nope, all my fault,” and a tour of the canned foods aisle later, Frankie pulled him to a stop next to the deli counter and spun to face him.
“There is no ‘us’! There never will be an ‘us,’ ” she said in hushed tones. Hushed, angry tones that made her breath heavy and managed to turned him on. “And stop staring at my mouth because we are never kissing again. Ever.”
“That’s a damn shame, sweet cheeks, because we’re so good at it.”
“Just stop.” She held up a trembling hand.
“Frankie, what’s going on?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I mean, do you make a habit of ruining people’s lives?”
“No.” Nate actually thought he’d done a pretty good job of making people’s lives easier.
His answer seemed to deflate her. All of the anger and spunk just vanished. “Then it’s just me?”
“Frankie.” He tried harnessing that same calm tone Biff used. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. You never do. That’s the problem.” She worried her lower lip, as though she was trying to hold it together. Not the response he was going for. “You know that Abby is more upset about the divorce than she’s letting on, which is why you offered to be her designated driver next week. You know that Nora has been dieting and hasn’t lost a pound, hence your line to her that she was wearing a nice dress. And that camel boy likes carrot tops, not the carrots just the tops.”
“He’s an alpaca.”
“Whatever,” Frankie drew out, stopping her eyes mid-roll as though horrified by the gesture. “What I am saying is that you pay attention to things, little things that everyone else is too busy to notice. And you say the right things, all the time, just to make people smile.”
He didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment. It sounded like a compliment, but he had a feeling that she didn’t mean it as one.
“And yet everyone expects me to believe you had no idea I was in the middle of negotiating a deal with Susan Jance? Which her client passed on, by the way.”
That was not what he wanted to hear. “I swear I didn’t know, Frankie.”
She made a disbelieving snort.
“Fine, I knew she was talking to other wineries. I even heard that your grandpa was trying to butt in on the deal, but I had no idea you were even in the running.” Okay, once again, that was not the thing to say. “That came out wrong.”
“You think?”
“What I meant was that you won’t have a product for at least two years. She needs supply now.”
“When did you become an expert on what I do or don’t have?”
“I’m not. I just assumed—”
“Yeah, well, can you stop doing that?” She threw her hands up. “Because every time you assume, you make an ass out of me. Not you, me! Get it, golden boy?”
Yeah he got it. He got that the tornado of attitude she usually wore like armor was gone and that you-can’t-touch-me thing she did so well with her eyes wasn’t anger. Today it was hurt. Maybe it always had been and he was too busy being busy like everybody else in her life to tell the difference.
He also got that Frankie’s life, although chaotic and complicated and not how he’d choose to live, had been going just fine until he photo-bombed it. Well, until he’d bullied her into sitting on the Tasting Tribunal. The kiss only made it worse.
And admitting that Trey had sold the woman Frankie’s grapes, grapes which at the time of the sale they had assumed would
be theirs, probably wouldn’t help anything right now, except make him look even guiltier. But Nate was all about honesty in business and in life, and Frankie deserved to know the truth.
“The grapes Susan contracted are yours.”
Frankie froze. “Excuse me?”
“When we bought the land, Saul led us to believe we were buying the entire twenty acres and all the grapes.”
“Which you pre-sold to Susan,” she finished for him and he saw his entire day turn to crap. “So the other day, the ‘we’re partners and we’re in this together’ bullshit, was that just a way to screw me out of my grapes? Make sure I have to sell them to pay off Tanner?”
“You know me better than that, Frankie. I don’t work that way.”
“I want to believe you, I really do. I want to believe you’ve always out-sold, out-performed, or out-shined me because it just wasn’t my day or because I hadn’t had my chance to show what I can really do yet. But now I am beginning to wonder if maybe I’ve been playing against a stacked hand this entire time.”
No way was he letting her believe that. “I know how this looks but I’m not your grandpa.”
It was as though he’d slapped her. Frankie took a step back, her eyes round with hurt, her face slack with humiliation. And his heart went out to her.
“I didn’t say that to hurt you, I said it because it’s the truth.” He took her hands and laced their fingers, surprised when she let him. “Our situation is tricky. We’re roommates, competitors, and I hope, after all of this, still friends. I am beyond sorry that you lost the contract with Susan, but I’m not going to pretend I’m not proud for landing it. That would be a lie and I would never lie to you. And I would never set you up to fail.”
When she didn’t speak, just stood there watching him, he tugged her closer. “I don’t know what you want me to do here. Susan’s client bought the DeLuca name, not those grapes. She wanted a brand with proven history and a winery with experience.” And one that could provide enough wine to fill the client’s cellar and his hotels’, something Frankie could never do with her ten acres. “So even if I could call Susan and back out…”
Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) Page 12