Be Mine Forever (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel)

by Adair, Marina

  “Five thousand dollars?” Sara sat up straight, neutrality going out the window. With five grand she could afford to hire another dance teacher to take over some of the evening classes. It would give Sara more time with Cooper at home. Something they both desperately needed. “Who am I to get in the way of Cupid?”

  “Wonderful,” ChiChi said with a clap of her hands as Sara grabbed the application and signed her name to the bottom. The older woman folded the paper and slid it into her purse. “Now that that’s taken care of, my grandson has agreed to escort me to the Gala. He needs to brush up on his dancing and I need to glide across that floor, so I told him to ask you about booking some private lessons.”

  Sara swallowed. She knew exactly which grandson ChiChi was referring to. “I told him that Heather can help him with that.”

  “The one who dresses like she puts out?” Lucinda asked stroking her cat.

  “She does not dress like she puts out,” Sara defended. Heather couldn’t help it that she had a knock-out figure and oozed sex appeal, two of the main reasons her studio had such a large senior male clientele.

  “Tell that to the men who come to tango with her. She takes all the good ones. Or at least the ones with working limbs and real teeth.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” Sara chided.

  “She’s right, dear,” Pricilla said apologetically. “When you’re here, we only get half the turnout for Swinger’s Night. The female half.”

  Lucinda leaned in and whispered, “Maybe if you started dressing like you put out, you’d have higher numbers.” Then she stood and walked toward the mirror to practice her swivel hips. Mr. Puffins sat regally on the bench and watched.

  Sara wanted to laugh at Lucinda. Taking fashion advice from a woman who wore a pinstriped zoot suit with red wing tips was ridiculous. But as she looked at herself in the mirror, all her humor faded.

  She was wearing strappy dance shoes, a yellow-and-white polka-dotted knee-length skirt, which had the perfect flare radius when she spun, and a fitted, cream long-sleeved top. Her hair was secured back in a ponytail with a yellow flower and she looked polished, professional, and perfectly boring.

  Then again, she was the instructor and speed-dating mediator, not one of the singles who’d come to mingle and dance with the hopes of finding Mr. Right—or even a Mr. Tonight.

  With a sigh, Sara grabbed a glass fishbowl and a stack of dance cards off the counter and walked over to place them on the table by the dance floor. She folded the cards in half and, dropping them in the bowl, mumbled, “What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

  “From where I’m standing, not a damn thing,” Trey said striding in the front door.

  His eyes locked on her and even from across the room, she could feel the heat arch between them. The way he took his time, sizing her up as though liking what he saw had something deep within her belly tightening. What really got to her was the easy smile he sent her way as he walked toward her. That tired and scruffy guy from yesterday had vanished, and in his place was the relaxed and charming Trey she’d spent a wonderful afternoon—tasting.

  Oh my God, did her face just flush?

  “Although I’m partial to the ballerina look, this fifties housewife thing you’ve got going on is sexy.” He brushed the flower in her hair with his knuckles and they came away damp with rain. “To think, just a minute earlier, and I might have gotten to help you out of your slicker.”

  “ChiChi said that you wanted to talk to me about privates, but—”

  He held up a hand. “I know, you only do privates for special customers. So how about you and me go play hooky again so I can work my way up to the special package?”

  She looked around the studio, and thought of a night spent playing geriatric matchmaker to the senior sector, referee to Deidra and ChiChi, and making sure Harvey’s hand stayed north of the equator. She looked back to Trey and what he was offering. An escape.

  Then again, he was the number-one escape plan for women everywhere. She was a single mom who married her college sweetheart and lacked the necessary experience to tango with a guy like Trey. It was obvious he liked them tall, curvy, and blonde—everything she was not.

  “I can’t,” she said, proud of how confident she came off. She didn’t falter, didn’t elaborate, didn’t explain. Cut and dry. Then to her horror she added, “But maybe Tammy or Kayla is free.”

  Trey shot her an amused smile, one that showed all of his teeth and released a lethal dimple. “I don’t want Tammy or Kayla. I want to get lost with you.”

  His tone was light and easy, his swagger dialed to smooth, and even though it was obviously a line, it didn’t feel like one. Not this time. Which was ridiculous since the man was so practiced and polished he had no doubt broken many a girl’s heart. More proof in the ever growing pile of evidence supporting why “he” was a bad idea.

  So she channeled her best teacher tone and said, “I have a class to teach.”

  He shrugged, as though he could work with that. “All right, when is it?”

  “You want to take a class. With me? Tonight? ”

  “Sweetheart, if you’re teaching, I’m interested.” There went the other dimple. “Plus, ChiChi’s been after me to get some lessons from you.”

  “Lesson one.” She held out the fishbowl trying to bite back a smile, and failed miserably. “Pick a blue card and when a lady calls your number, you’re up.”

  Trey knew once he saw the fishbowl that tonight was not going to go as he’d imagined—which started with Sara dancing in his arms and ended with her naked in his bed. Nope, not only was the naked bed-hustle not looking good, but the class, which focused on swing—the only style he’d never taken—was almost over, and he hadn’t managed to snag even a single dance with Sara.

  Instead she was dancing with Roman “local hero and all around badass” Brady, whose body was swaying a little too close for a simple student-teacher relationship, and the smug-ass grin on his face said he knew it. Just like Trey knew by the way Roman moved, that this was not his first time swinging with Sara.

  To make matters worse, Trey was stuck holding Mrs. Potter, the woman who, prior to killing his nonna’s prized flowers, used to dress up as Mother Goose and lead story time at the elementary school. Tonight she was dressed in a sailor’s hat and some weird Navy-inspired dress that displayed enough folds of cleavage that he was afraid with one misstep, he’d fall in.

  The only thing that remained of the grandmotherly lady he remembered as a kid was the goose part, which happened every time he wasn’t looking—meaning every nine seconds since he was trying to listen in on Brady sweet-talking Sara.

  “And I don’t like long walks or the beach, not anymore.” Mrs. Potter stopped to lift up her skirt—exposing fishnets and a garter that should be illegal on women past menopause—and tapped her knee. “Titanium.”

  Trey didn’t hear anything else because Sara was twirling closer. And laughing at something Roman said. Roman leaned in and so did Trey, but Mrs. Potter was going on about her stamina and all Trey could catch was, “Just the night and a million stars.”

  “That sounds amazing,” Sara responded with a laugh—which, if you asked Trey, sounded forced. When he made her laugh, it was rich and husky.

  Then she said something that sounded an awful lot like, “Would hate to miss it,” followed by, “I have to check my schedule,” when Trey twirled Mrs. Potter—right into Roman.

  “Sorry, man,” Trey murmured and Sara looked up at him. He took the moment of direct eye contact to silently plead with her to change the song and call time—so they could have their dance.

  She sent him a sweet smile and pointed to his feet in return.

  “Triple step, triple step, rock step, Trey,” she clarified. And yeah, yeah, he got it. Only every time he rock stepped, Mrs. Potter came in faster than expected and pressed herself against him.
r />   “Mrs. Potter was just showing me her new knee,” Trey deadpanned.

  “The titanium one?” Sara asked, fixing Roman’s hand grip as though this was a normal conversation. “How’s it working out?”

  “Much lighter than the steel one.” Mrs. Potter leaned in, as close as she could get, and whispered, “And we’re both adults now, Trey. You can call me Deidra.” There went her hand. One more pinch and Trey wouldn’t be able to sit for a week.

  Mercifully, the song switched and Sara clapped her hands.

  “All right, time to switch partners. Since this is the last dance of the night, it’s open call and ladies’ choice.” She pulled out a flashcard, her eyes darting over the page before she looked up. “Pick your partner and share your favorite color, favorite hobby, and what your dream date would be.”

  “Thanks for the dance,” Trey said, taking a step back, desperate to get some air that didn’t smell like a perfume bottle, when Deidra pulled a card from the little purse that hung across her body and slipped it in the waistline of his pants—right next to the five dollar bill Mrs. Moberly had stuck there earlier.

  “It’s a coupon for a free floral consultation. But for you, I’ll just say a free consultation of your choosing.”

  Lovely. “I think Roman is waiting for you.”

  Deidra wiggled her fingers and with a wink sashayed away, her hips working that knee overtime. A group of ladies stood in the wings ready to grab him, so when Sara went to walk off, he snagged her by the hand and drew her in close.

  “I’ve been waiting all night to dance with you,” he said, loving how she smelled. Fresh and bright, and like—he dropped his hands to her hips and pulled her in a little closer—the beach?

  “You’re just scared of Mrs. Moberly.”

  “She’s the librarian. Has been since before I was born. She used to check Disney books out to me, now she’s checking out my butt.” Something that he wouldn’t mind doing to his new dance partner, so he gripped her hips lower.

  “This is the swing, which means that we hold both hands when we dance,” she corrected, but he noticed that she didn’t pull back.

  Taking that as a green light, he slid his fingers around her back, stepped into her and, damn, she felt good. Warm and soft beneath his fingers. She must have liked it too, because after a moment, she rested her palms on his chest and leaned into him. She hadn’t done that with Mr. I Carry a Hose.

  “After that last dance, I think my swinging days are over. No more wild fishbowl parties for this guy.”

  “I would have thought that this was right up your alley,” she said innocently. The effect was ruined by the humor sparkling up at him in her eyes.

  He gave her a wry expression that made her laugh, but she didn’t look away.

  He liked that about her, the way she always held his gaze. He also liked the way her mouth turned up at the corners and parted slightly when he brushed up against her. So he did it again and, oh yeah, that got to her.

  A flush tinted her cheeks, working its way down her elegant neck and right under the deep V of her shirt, which of course drew his full attention because…how could it not? The woman was beautiful.

  “Groping aside, I think it was wonderful the way you charmed them. You made their night, Trey.” Her fingers absently played with the fabric of his shirt. “Did you at least have fun?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. The strange thing was, he had.

  He’d come here tonight because it sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ordering room service and working in his suite until sunrise. Yet being here with Sara, even when he’d been propositioned by his grandmother’s friends, had somehow been the most fun he’d had since—he looked at her lush mouth—their wine tasting excursion last week. Even though he would have liked more time with her in his arms and to throw Roman out on his ass for touching her. But just seeing her had made the stress from the day disappear.

  “I’m glad.” She pressed her lips together as though to stop herself from grinning. “A few of the ladies wanted to know if you’re coming to the ballroom medley class on Saturday.”

  He should say, nope, sorry, won’t be around. He never hung around longer than one night. Ever. And Sara was clearly not a one-night-stand kind of girl. A spontaneous kiss and some harmless flirting, sure. But a casual fling?—not the type. Not to mention, his sisters-in-law would kill him if he hooked up with Sara with less-than-honorable intentions.

  Then why did he find himself asking, “Are you teaching it?” and when confirmed that, yes indeed, she would be here Saturday night in some other fantasy-inducing outfit, adding, “Then count me in.”

  Which was stupid enough in itself. Especially since they weren’t dancing or even swaying. They were just staring at each other in the middle of a crowded dance floor. Only, he couldn’t stop there. No, he had to persist. “Okay, no more stalling, favorite color, favorite hobby, dream date.”

  He made sure to put extra emphasis on the last one, hoping to hell she didn’t say anything about a night under the stars.

  “Color, red. Hobby, hmm. Let me think.” She paused and bit her lush lower lip, as though thinking long and hard about the next question. Of whose answer he didn’t hear, because he was too busy staring at her work that mouth of hers with her teeth, which only made him want to work that mouth of hers with his tongue.

  “And for the date, I don’t know.” Her shoulders rose on a deep breath, but when she exhaled it sounded more like a huff than a sigh. “I never really thought about the questions when I wrote them, but they’re hard to answer.”

  “Yellow-and-white polka dots, playing hooky, and anywhere with you,” he rattled off then smiled. “Nope. Easy. Your turn. Dream date. And be specific.”

  “I haven’t had a lot of time to date, let alone think about what a dream one would be. But an empty tasting room with a charming,” she looked up at him, “wine sounds pretty dream-worthy.”

  Before he could have her elaborate, or ask if she was interested in a replay—like now—the music stopped. She stepped back, signaling that the dance was up and so was his time.

  “How about that private?” he asked. “Tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said and, oh yeah, he was in. The smile on her pretty face told him as much.

  CHAPTER 6

  With Italian families, there’s a fine line between being brotherly and being blackmailed. Trey was being blackmailed. Plain and simple. The embarrassing part was that his blackmailer was a five-foot-nothing of a sister-in-law and her baby bump.

  “Those are your choices, Trey,” Regan said for the third time, as though he were the one not listening. “Either take me to Lamaze orientation or pick up Holly and drive her to dance.”

  Pregnancy made women crazy. Period. That was the only explanation he could come up with. Three minutes ago, Regan had plopped down next to him at the pub in Marc’s hotel, a carton of rocky road in hand, Baby Sofie strapped to her front, asking him for a favor. Only when he’d regretfully passed, she got hostile. Then she ate all of his fries.

  “Shouldn’t Gabe be going with you to um…Lamaze?”

  “He’s in Italy with Abby,” Regan said, placing the palm of her free hand on her lower back and exhaling.

  Abby had negotiated the terms of the deal, everyone was in agreement, then they’d hit a snafu. So she called in the big gun—aka Gabe.

  “Maybe Lexi could take you,” Trey said in a soothing voice he’d heard Gabe use. He even set his burger down to show Regan she had his full attention.

  “Lexi offered to watch Sofie while I’m at Lamaze. With you. Unless…” Regan looked down at the drool monster, who was babbling at a level that would scare off rabid dogs, “you want to switch and be on diaper duty and handle breast milk?”

  Trey pushed back his plate. He was done. Lunch ruined. Day ruined. His innocence ruined. “What ab
out Frankie?”

  “In a class with babies? Are you kidding me? They’d kick me out and never invite me back.”

  Trey saw her point. Frankie was worse with kids than he was. Last time she was left alone with his niece, Holly ended up with a new haircut. “I’ve been on the waitlist for this class since we discovered I was pregnant. With Sofie.”

  “Plus, Frankie can’t,” Lexi said, flopping down next to Regan, her eyes narrowing in on Trey’s plate. Whereas Regan looked like she was carrying half-a-basketball under her billowy blouse, Lexi appeared to be concealing an entire NBA team in her belly—a team that obviously needed feeding because she wouldn’t take her eyes off his burger. Or her feet off the chair next to him. “She’s taking everyone to the airport.”

  “Everyone?” Trey shoved his plate toward his sister-in-law. “What the hell do you mean ‘everyone’?”

  “She and Nate picked up Marc about an hour ago.” Lexi snatched his burger, poked it, sniffed it, and then put it back. Her face went a little green and she started wafting her hands. “Oh, God, can you move…that?”

  Why not? It wasn’t like he was going to eat it now.

  “Dooz-dooz-doozzzzzzz,” Baby Sofie sputtered, her legs flapping and a whole lot of pissed-off female in her voice. Regan handed the ice-cream carton to Lexi, shoved her way to standing, and started pacing.

  “Marc went too?” Trey asked, that familiar pang of disappointment pushing at his chest.

  He wasn’t surprised that Gabe had left him behind. Could even understand the need for it since he controlled the family purse strings. Nate, the family grape god also made sense. But Marc?

  “Why the fu—” Regan covered Baby Sofie’s ears and raised a condemning brow that damn near singed his soul, “—udge did Marc get to go?”

  And why the—again with the fudge—hadn’t anyone bothered to invite him? Or even asked him if he minded being left out and, subsequently, left behind?

  “There is already another interested party, and if we want the land, we have to move quick,” Lexi said and Trey wondered when the fuck! “we” started including everyone but him. “And since Marc is heading up the facilities part of the deal, him going made complete sense.”