“Excuse me,” Grace said. Though her voice was almost timid, it halted the guy on the other side of the bar. “We’d like to order some food.”
Kohl stared at her. We? “I’m not hungry.”
She acted as if she didn’t hear him. “Potato skins, I think,” she said. “And nachos and . . . some buffalo wings.”
“Who the hell is going to eat all that?” he asked as the bartender hurried off.
Her big blues found his face. “You don’t like buffalo wings? I could change the order to calamari . . .” She half rose.
“No.” He put his hand on her shoulder, then jerked away as something hot sprinted up his arm and toward his chest. “I’m allergic to calamari,” he mumbled.
She settled back on her stool. “Is that right? I get a weird rash from contact with the skin of mangoes—though I can eat the fruit.”
“It’s the urushiol in the skin—the same oil that causes people to react to poison oak and poison ivy. They’re all part of the sumac family.”
“Really?” She sipped from her wine. “Do mangoes do that to you, too?”
“No. I just learned all I could about poison oak after it gave me six weeks of hell in sixth grade.”
Sympathy crossed her features. “On your face?”
“I wish.” He snorted. “On my balls, and the surrounding environs.”
A pink flush camouflaged all the pretty freckles. “Oh.”
“Camping weekend in the mountains. The only thing worse than eating food from foil packets is eating food from foil packets someplace without an outhouse and where you have to use leaves as toilet paper.”
She looked at her wine instead of at him. “I would have thought that Boy Scouts 101 covers dangerous plants.”
“Kohlrabi Friday was no Boy Scout. My folks didn’t have the money for scouting—and were suspicious of . . . what I’d guess you’d call institutionalized joining.” They’d been really freaked when he’d enlisted—though youthful rebellion hadn’t surprised two hippies who’d met at Woodstock.
“I always wanted to be a Brownie,” Grace admitted. “All those pretty colored badges. A group to belong to.”
The little confession dug a hole in his belly that he found himself filling once the food arrived between them. They were silent for a few minutes as they shared the appetizers. On Grace’s other side, a woman he’d once had a good time with pawed through her purse. She was laughing too loud as she dumped out the contents and Kohl realized that her blouse was fastened with so few buttons that her big breasts were nearly exposed to the nipple line.
“Where the hell’s my cell phone?” she asked her companion, another bosomy female. She looked fairly familiar, too. “Have you seen it?” As she shook her purse, a snake of foil-wrapped condoms fell atop the tissues, lipsticks, and breath mints.
An uncomfortable burn climbed Kohl’s neck as he noticed Grace’s big eyes were taking in the sight. He ignored the urge to blindfold her with his palms and tried redirecting her attention with a question. “Uh, um, do you have any hobbies?” Shit, he sucked at small talk.
Grace put one of her small hands on his forearm. “Excuse me just a moment.” Then she turned back to the bawdy woman on her right. “Your desk. Could you have left it on your desk at work? Beside your keyboard.”
The woman blinked. Clearly she was thinking back. “Why . . . why I . . . I think I did!” She stared at Grace from under sticky black lashes. “How did you know?”
The little rabbit shrugged. “Just a good guess.” Then she picked up another potato skin and smiled at Kohl. “Hobbies, you were saying?”
“Yeah.” He glanced over her head to the neighboring lady—Dawn, he remembered was her name. She was still gazing on his companion in bemusement.
“Do you, uh, sew? Cook? Grow vegetables?” he asked Grace.
“Well, I’ve done all of those, but I think those fall more under activity than amusement.” She smiled self-consciously and he found himself hypnotized by the puffy pinkness of her mouth. “I’ve always wanted to sing, though.”
Dawn leaned over her shoulder. “Then you have to sign up tonight! For karaoke. As a matter of fact, you can have my spot—I’m going second. As a thank-you for nudging my memory.”
Kohl almost groaned. That’s how deep his bad mood was—he’d been so immersed in it he’d forgotten to avoid this particular joint on this particular night. Fridays and Tuesdays were karaoke. He looked behind him, and sure enough, in the far corner of the tiny dance floor, a guy was setting up the equipment, which included a squat portable stage.
Grace glanced at Dawn, shaking her head even though her eyes lit up. “Oh. Oh, I couldn’t take your spot. Thank you so much for the offer, though.”
Another groan welled up inside him. He hated karaoke, but with Grace wearing that expression—like a girl offered a turn as queen of the Brownies, which included a handful of merit badges—he couldn’t very well run them both out of here before the music started. He edged her wineglass toward her hand.
“Take the offer, honey.”
Her head whipped toward him. Pink cheeks, those blue eyes startled. He remembered her memory of him calling her “honey” when she was a little girl. Were casual endearments so few and far between for her? Another hole dug itself in his belly. He glanced at the waiting shot of tequila but ignored it in favor of shoveling another potato skin into his mouth.
“Do you think I should really try it?” she whispered.
No. “Yes.” Already the first singer of the night was approaching the stage. “You’d better get on over there. I think you have to look through the songbook and choose your piece.”
At that, she appeared more abandoned than the damn mangy dog of hers that he’d stolen away. With a sigh, he slid off his stool. “Come on,” he said, holding out his hand for hers.
She stared at his open palm. Then, like the rabbit was expecting a trap, she slowly, slowly, extended her own hand. Before it even touched down, he grasped her securely.
Her fingers quivered.
Something deep inside him did, too.
Clenching his teeth, he ignored all that and led her toward the karaoke area. The songs listing was in a fat binder set atop an elbow-high bar table. She turned the stained pages gingerly, as if touching them more fully might commit her fully as well.
But Kohl found himself determined to have her go through with it. How much pleasure had she had in her life? While the Friday household couldn’t afford luxuries, and living down the name Kohlrabi with sisters dubbed Marigold and Zinnia had held its own challenges, there’d been more love than lumps.
The striking fists had been his own.
Truth to tell, now that he thought of what she’d endured at the hands of her father and former husband, he felt a little ashamed of his careless brawling habits.
“Pick a song,” he urged.
She bit her lip. “What if I’m terrible?”
He fully expected it. Ninety-nine point nine percent of people he’d ever heard grab the mike and belt one out were terrible, except they didn’t know it. It was why he avoided this particular night at this particular joint.
“Just have fun.” And he’d force himself to applaud, though he suspected that she’d set the dogs in town wailing when she chose one of those songs that all the girls did, like Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” or Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” or anything by Kelly Clarkson. That would send the cats screeching, too.
“I don’t know . . .” She was gnawing on her pouty pink bottom lip.
He couldn’t watch. The first singer was starting his turn. Kohl winced as he launched into something by the Boss. When it came to guys, it was always the Boss. Grace was still dithering over the list. “Just close your eyes and point to one,” he suggested to her.
Hell, he thought she just might have followed his advice. But his mind wasn’t working too well because she shuffled to the side, relinquishing the song book to another patron, and now was clutching h
is forearm to bring him with her. She was hanging on to him like a starfish glued to a rock.
He was just that hard with her hand on him.
The wannabe Boss wound down. There was clapping. Grace’s hand tightened on him so that he was forced to pry her fingers loose. “Your turn,” he said against her ear.
When she turned those big, nervous blue eyes on him, he was sunk. “Good luck,” he said, and kissed that perfect, plump mouth.
He might have still been kissing it if the master of ceremonies hadn’t shoved the microphone between them. Grace’s fingers curled around it, and, face dazed, she climbed onto the platform.
Kohl’s heart was pounding. He figured it would go with what his head was going to be feeling any second. Cindi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” he bet. Look attentive and encouraging anyway, he reminded himself.
Then the music started and there was pounding, yes. From the beat. The rap beat.
Grace was singing “Baby Got Back.” No, she was rapping. That Sir Mix-a-Lot song. Good God. And her own “back” was shaking, her booty going from side to side, keeping up with the beat. For the first time he realized she was wearing a pair of tight jeans.
The little rabbit had a cute, heart-shaped ass.
And she was getting into the song, in just the right kind of way, stumbling a little sometimes as the words rolled by on the screen, but obviously having fun. So everyone else did, too. Her joy moved through the crowd until the people in the audience were wiggling their hips or nodding their heads, their gazes glued to Grace Hatch, scruffy little nobody from the ’hood.
The crowd cheered when it was over.
She fist-pumped the air, relinquished the mike, then leapt off the stage, grinning like a seven-year-old. “Well?”
Well . . . He just laughed. “Grace . . .” Shaking his head, he laughed again.
Her grin didn’t die. “I’ve never seen you do that,” she said. “I’ve never heard you laugh.”
So he did it again. For her. All the while realizing that though he’d been tasked with taking care of her, it hadn’t gone that way at all. Shy Grace Hatch had fed him. She’d made him talk. She’d made him laugh. She’d pulled him out of his sour mood.
The only hangover he suspected he’d have tomorrow was the memory of that startling, might-be-addictive kiss.
Kohl ushered Grace back to their stools at the bar. Dawn and her friend gushed over the performance and he bought the ladies a round of drinks. Nice ladies, he thought, ashamed again, but this time of his earlier censure. He realized he was smiling, wide enough to hurt cheek muscles that were unused to such an action. Damn, but he was still under the influence of a drug he didn’t recognize—almost a kind of . . . happiness.
Grace’s high spirits were contagious. The bartender was grinning, too. Who was Kohl to release the helium from their collective balloon?
“This may be the best night of my life!” she said.
Prepared to follow with some sort of agreeable remark, he was surprised when her delighted expression collapsed. Her hand squeezed his forearm again. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry.”
Sorry? Who died? His brows drew together.
“Liam and Giuliana.”
He tensed. “Do we have to go there?”
Her gaze met his, eyes serious. “You don’t really want to kill either one of them, do you?”
It shamed him, that she had to ask. “I was a soldier, true, but what I do now . . . I’m a farmer.”
She blinked.
“Babe, I’m the vineyard manager at Tanti Baci. I’m in charge of the vines, the grapes. It might as well be carrots or cauliflower. Anyone who says differently has bought into the mystique . . . and lost the best part of what we do. I’m in charge of a crop.” It was so simple—and he was a simple man. Dressing it up with artistic labels and deciding on price tags was someone else’s job. His was watching over the land and its product.
She still appeared worried. “Kohl . . .”
He surprised himself by how much he wanted to reassure her. “It means I grow things now . . . not damage them. And if there’s anyone I’m angry at, it’s me. Jules and Liam . . . they’ve had a thing for years. I should have seen it.”
Her boy-howdy face, her sweet freckles, her laser eyes presented such an arresting package that he found himself staring at her, his thoughts freezing on one truth. I’ve scared her. She actually believes I might hurt Jules or Liam.
So much for hero worship.
He moved slowly so as not to frighten her. “I should take you home now.”
“Maybe so.”
He wouldn’t let her see the pain that caused, not when he didn’t understand it himself.
Before they could move away from their seats, the bartender placed a flute of sparkling wine in front of Grace. Only in the Napa Valley, he thought. There was a burger drive-thru in St. Helena that served nothing more sophisticated than burgers and onion rings but also offered dozens of different wines by the glass, half bottle, and bottle. Even the bubbly kind, like was in Grace’s glass. It shouldn’t surprise him that you could get something like that here, too.
But they hadn’t ordered it. “That’s not ours,” he said.
“It’s hers,” the barman answered, indicating Grace with a nod. “Compliments of the guy at the other end of the bar. He said he knows firsthand that baby’s got back.”
Cold steel replaced Kohl’s spine. Shit. His gaze cut right even as he leaned closer to Grace. She was staring in the same direction.
A guy was watching them from twenty feet away. Military cut. Muscles. “Who the hell is that?” Kohl could flatten him in twenty seconds. Kohl wanted to flatten him in ten.
“Daniel.” The syllables came out clipped, as if her tongue was dry. “My ex.”
Kohl was on his feet. He didn’t remember standing, but he was ready to attack. Only the trembling he felt in Grace’s body stopped him. He couldn’t leave her when she was shaking like an E-1 private facing his first firefight.
Then it was Daniel’s move. The SOB was sauntering down the line of the bar, ignoring the chattering around him. His gaze was focused on Grace.
If she was a leaf on a tree in the wind before, now there was a hurricane blowing through. Kohl held himself still, his hand on her shoulder, but trying to do nothing that would contribute to her anxiety. “He’ll have to go through me, honey,” he assured her. “You’re safe.”
Daniel wasn’t, as far as Kohl was concerned. Especially when the asshole stopped in front of his ex, an ugly smile on his face. “Hello. I didn’t know you could sing, sugar.”
Kohl ground his back teeth together. Sugar. No way could her ex appreciate how sweet Grace was. “You didn’t give her anything to sing about. Now move along.”
The other man’s drawl deepened. “I’m just giving the lady a compliment.”
It looked like a threat to Kohl, and it made him nuts. He dropped his hand from Grace’s shoulder. His fingers curled into fists. “Let’s take this outside.”
Grace sucked in air. It nearly halted him.
But the primal part of him was firing his blood. He stepped toward Daniel, leaving just inches between their beating hearts. “You’re going to leave her alone.”
Daniel didn’t flinch. “You’ve got it all wrong.” He looked around Kohl and gave Grace another of his chilling smiles. “See you, sugar.” Then he pursed his mouth in a kiss . . . and strode away.
Kohl was on his heels, but Grace caught his elbow. “No. Don’t.”
Nothing could stop him. He wrenched from her, familiar rage burning his skin. Again he felt like the Hulk, muscles going rocky, features turning to granite. He could be green for all he knew.
Then she recaptured his arm. He paused, glancing back. Her eyes were an impossible blue, brightened by a sheen of emotion. Shit.
“Stay with me,” she said. “Be with me.”
She shouldn’t ask it of him, damn it. Sure he’d claimed to be a farmer, and he was trying to b
e a good one, but that wasn’t the same as being a guardian—or a peacemaker. Still, he was stymied.
She’d fed him. Made him talk and laugh. Lifted him out of the mood that the news about Jules and Liam had left him in. And then plunged him into a thornier place.
“I’m no hero,” he muttered, sliding onto the stool beside hers. His hands ran through his hair as he took several deep breaths. He could manage containing himself . . . for now. “Don’t ever believe I’m any good.”
As the sun set, satisfaction, and an odd sense of relief, twined within Liam as he drove Giuliana toward his home. She was silent in the passenger seat of his Mercedes, and at her feet sat three grocery bags stamped with the Edenville Market logo, containing a few items of clothing and a smattering of toiletries. Her gaze was trained on the house they approached via the long drive delineated by three-foot-high walls built of locally quarried rock and mortar.
He looked at it through her eyes. It was a showplace to be sure, built by his grandfather and Tuscan-inspired. The Bennetts had always held a fascination for all things Italian, despite, or because of, the ongoing feud with the Bacis. His mother had never cared for it, though, and once his father died she’d wasted no time vacating to colder climes and happier memories in her native upstate New York.
Liam, on the other hand, couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. The estate property was nestled against a knoll covered with darkly green firs, the trees providing a contrast with the exterior stucco walls colored the shade of caramelized butter. Arched doorways on the second floor opened onto Juliet-styled balconies. A third-floor square-topped tower drew the eye up, then down to the front door that was a massive breadth of aged, distressed wood. Rather than pulling around to the garages located beyond the house, Liam parked the car in front of the shallow entrance steps.
The slowness with which Giuliana gathered her things made clear she was dawdling. He would have offered to bring in her “luggage,” but that would have pointed up how meager were her possessions. Tomorrow, he’d take her shopping, even if he had to kidnap her to make it happen.
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