Recalling the moment, she frowned at him. “Wait a minute. I paid you ten bucks for that and only had a twenty. I think you still owe me the change.”
He froze, then spoke slowly. “Or maybe I just owe you another kiss.”
9
Edenville’s sidewalks were crowded on Thursday late afternoons. Tourists and Edenvillians gathered alike for “Market Day” when local wineries, restaurants, farms, and other businesses set up booths in and around the town square. Handmade soap was available to sniff then buy, as well as fresh bunches of basil and clusters of cut flowers. Small cheese squares anchored toothpicks, Overpriced Ollie’s offered up samples of their crème brûlée in table-spoons, and behind the booth headlined with the Tanti Baci logo, Alessandra smiled as she and her sisters poured tastes of their chardonnay and cabernet sauvignon.
Stevie sent her a sidelong look. “What’s with the smile? You get lucky or something?”
Alessandra’s stream of wine faltered, and some splashed onto the tablecloth instead of into the glass. “Oops,” she said, then nudged the wine toward the woman wearing an I BRAKE FOR GRAPES T-shirt. Still wearing her beaming grin, she spoke through her teeth and under her breath. “I’m projecting financial stability.” It was the whole point of having the sisters pour today, rather than the interns and cellar rats who usually manned the booth. They’d decided Edenville needed to see the sisters out in force, united and strong under the Tanti Baci banner.
“Financial stability with a touch of senility thrown in,” Giuliana added. “Really, Allie, you look a bit loony.”
“I’m still thinking lucky,” Stevie said.
Allie poured a smidge of cab into a clean glass and sipped. The dark plum flavor burst on her tongue, changing to blueberry as she swallowed it down. Fortified, she glanced from the jewel-colored liquid to her sisters. “Lucky to have you both beside me,” she told them honestly. “I’ve missed this.”
“The Three Mousketeers,” Stevie said. “Remember when we’d run around with our Disneyland ears on and Mom’s aprons or tablecloths tied around our necks like capes?”
Giuliana looked away, and if Alessandra didn’t hold the position as family crier, she might have thought her usually strong sister was on the verge of tears. She reached out to touch one slender shoulder. “We should go through the linens, Jules. We’ll split them up and you can take your share back with you to L.A. You can make your place feel more like home that way.”
“Or you can just stay home,” Stevie said, uncorking another bottle with expert moves. “You’re working in the wine business down south when you should be doing your thing here, near to us.”
Giuliana stared across the street, as if the display window at the deli held a special fascination. “Near to other people as well.”
Their taller sister groaned. “I swear to God, I can’t believe how long you hold a grudge. What’s it been? How many years since you and Liam went to Tuscany together for the summer and came home bitter enemies?”
“Ten. And I can hold a grudge until the day I die.”
Yeeks. Alessandra and Stevie shared a look. Alessandra knew she could be temperamental and Stevie’s mad came on like a wildfire, but Giuliana’s anger burned with a blue-white eternal flame.
“Jules . . .” she ventured. “Liam . . . he didn’t, you know, actually hurt you, did he?” Their sister had always remained mum about the source of their feud.
Giuliana’s straight, silky hair swished around her shoulders as she shook her head. “Liam will never hurt me.”
Never again, Alessandra thought to herself.
“Then move back home,” Stevie urged, “instead of hiding from the man.”
Alessandra took a hasty step back, thinking once again of Giuliana’s icy temper. “She’s not hiding,” she hurried to say. “She—”
“Even agreed to meet him tonight,” Giuliana finished. “All of us are going to be there . . . a partners’ meeting at the farmhouse.”
Alessandra’s house. “All of us?” she echoed, dismayed. Please, that wouldn’t mean—
“The three of us,” Giuliana clarified. “Then Liam, Seth, and Penn, of course.”
“Of course,” Alessandra repeated, her mouth drying. This was going to be awkward. She’d never made it to the cottage yesterday after their, uh, encounter in her office. Today, she’d busied herself elsewhere with a thousand tasks that didn’t really need doing.
Penn hadn’t come looking for her.
She’d been glad about it, she’d told herself. It made it easier not to recall what had happened on her desk. She didn’t want to think about that, or him, because the whole episode had not only been scandalous—her office! her desk!—but it had also been one-sided.
Which made it more embarrassing, more confusing, and put Alessandra more completely out of her element. She wasn’t practiced at how to handle a situation like this—or a man like Penn who had barreled right through her defenses. One minute she’d been annoyed with him, and the next . . .
A broad chest covered with a blue shirt bearing the words Build Me Up! walked into Alessandra’s line of sight. Oh, God, Penn. Her stomach jumped and heat blossomed on her nape as her gaze leaped to the man who . . .
. . . wasn’t the one she expected.
“Kohl,” she said in relief. It was the Tanti Baci vineyard manager, dark and silent Kohl Friday, a veteran of the Iraq War. His somber expression usually spooked her a little, but today she found herself giddy to see him. She’d rather face a dozen taciturn ex-soldiers than the man who’d made her come with hardly more than a kiss.
She hastily closed down the screen of her memory and sent him a smile. “Is there something you need?” she asked.
He grunted in answer, standing in the position of parade rest in jeans, battered straw cowboy hat, and that T-shirt. Handsome, huge, and nearly wordless. The silence between them strung out.
“Are you a fan of the show?” she asked finally, gesturing to the big Build Me Up!
“Fan of Penn,” Kohl said.
Stevie’s elbow poked her ribs. She looked over at her sister, eyebrows raised. They shared the silent thought that Kohl had never appeared to be the fan of anything besides bar brawls and busty women.
“Does work with a vet organization,” Kohl continued. “For amputees. Revamps their homes. Ramps, resizes countertops. You know.”
“Uh, sure.” It was the most she’d ever heard the man speak at one time, though she didn’t know if his usual quiet was due to his time as a soldier or because of childhood misery. It couldn’t have been easy growing up with the name his hippie parents had given him—Kohlrabi. His sisters, Marigold and Zinnia, had fared only slightly better. “Penn’s a real prince.”
Stevie passed behind Alessandra, whispering. “Get Kohl out of here. He’s scaring the customers away.”
Peeking around his big shoulders, Alessandra saw her sister was right. Though the large man was good-looking, people were hanging back, as if he might be a ticking explosive. That wasn’t the impression they wanted to project. Tanti Baci was a stable, family winery, not something ready to blow apart.
With quick footsteps, she came around the corner of the booth and delivered to Kohl her most winning smile. “Hey, shall we tour a bit and see what the competition’s doing?”
Frowning, he shuffled his feet. “I don’t know . . .”
Lifting her chin, she stared into his eyes and lowered her voice. “Please, Kohl.”
His harsh expression softened around the edges. “Uh . . . okay.”
She heard Stevie’s snicker as they started off. “Bad little sister,” she called after them.
Alessandra pretended not to hear, chatting with the near-silent Kohl as they walked among the booths and tables, pausing to sample a wine or two. They even ventured down a couple of side streets, where people were selling homemade jewelry and hawking cellophane-wrapped baked goods. The short block of Fir Street dead-ended, but a crowd was gathered there. As they neared, a big splash s
ounded and the audience roared.
Alessandra glanced at Kohl, who was tall enough to see over everyone’s heads.
“Penn,” he said.
“Huh?” She wanted to avoid that man, but how could she avoid this? Curious, she hurried forward to discover that the kids from the high school marching band had set up a dunking booth for the afternoon, complete with a celebrity climbing into the hot seat. He’d obviously fallen into the tank at least once before.
Could Penn sense her presence? Because as he settled onto the platform, hair dripping, shirt—another Build Me Up! of course—plastered to his body, his gaze found her at the back of the crowd. One brow lifted in challenge.
And just like that, her skin flamed with lust.
Which ignited her temper, too. A single look from him could set her simmering, a feeling she was wholly unprepared to handle, particularly since he hadn’t been breaking down her door to get his share of the heat. As a matter of fact, yesterday he’d practically raced out of her office.
“Build me up!” a woman yelled from somewhere at the core of the crowd. A teeny tank top was thrown high into the air.
From the throng, another roar. She saw Penn’s attention shift away from Alessandra and a devilish grin take over his mouth. A kid ran to the dunking booth, tossed Penn one of the TV show’s promotional T-shirts, and he balled it between his hands, all the while obviously appreciating the charms of some half-naked bimbo out of Alessandra’s view. Some half-naked bimbo who given the opportunity would, not unlike her, beg him for just what he’d delivered in Alessandra’s office.
Mortified all over again, Alessandra retreated down Fir, leaving Kohl behind. She and Penn were better off staying apart, something his absence said he’d decided, too. She wasn’t going to succumb to his appeal again.
Dusk was falling, and she wandered, not yet ready to go back to the Tanti Baci booth. Deep breaths of still warm air and the familiar streets brought her some comfort, just as the semidarkness gave her anonymity. It was going to be all right, she told herself. The Three Mouseketeers had poured wine together today, just as her father had always wanted. They’d find a way to keep Tanti Baci going. They had to.
Minutes slipped by and she only felt more certain that they would pull it off. Tanti Baci would survive and that would be happy ending enough for Alessandra.
Old-fashioned street lights blinked on, their low wattage lending only ambience, not true illumination. She sighed, feeling like she’d stepped back in time. Not centuries, just a few short years ago. Any minute now she’d turn a corner and Tommy would be there.
My Darling Allie . . .
Her smile died, her buoyant mood sank as she turned onto Cedar—and then walked straight into the arms of a tall, hard, man. Her mind short-circuited. Her will fled.
She clung to him.
He held her tight.
As their mouths met, she realized he was still wet. And, now, so was she.
Bad little sister, indeed. Because she just couldn’t keep her promises about steering clear. And particularly because if anyone saw the carnal manner in which her arms and mouth were clinging to Penn Bennett, her saintly image would be shot to hell.
Gil fingered the ten dollar bill in his pocket as he waited for Clare on a bench in the Edenville town square. It was Market Day, and downtown at dusk was crowded, but he refused to use that as an excuse to put off coming clean with her. Though they had reservations for four at a nearby bistro in sixty minutes’ time, he’d phoned and asked that she meet him alone first.
The number one item on his agenda was giving her the ten bucks he owed her. The shock—horror?—that had overtaken her face when he’d suggested a kiss as payment made clear what she thought about being mouth-to-mouth with him. Then, he’d backpedaled like crazy, laughing like it was a big joke. Now, he was going to give her the money and also give her the truth: he hadn’t been kidding.
Not only that, he was also going to tell her there was no other woman he was seeing, no woman he wanted to date. Not when he was in love with her.
With the lies between them out of the way, she’d understand exactly why he needed distance from her. She’d free him from his Man of Honor promise; he’d be free to be miserable from across town on the day of her wedding.
“Hey!” Suddenly she was there in front of him, standing out in the near-dark in a short lacy skirt and a top that had small fabric roses edging the neckline. Both ivory-colored, making her look bridal again.
His chest hurt.
A little kid riding a toddler-sized two-wheeler wobbled behind her. Every Edenvillian took their training wheels off in the square for the first time, and just like all before, this rider took a tumble. Clare spun, her skirt rising, and bent to rescue the bicyclist. The floating hem kept moving upward, affording Gil a brief glance at the curves of her bare bottom, revealed by a blue thong.
His cock hurt.
Maybe he groaned, because she spun back, her hands clamping the skirt at her sides. “You didn’t see anything, did you?”
Incapable of speech, he shook his head. Clare’s butt had started this whole thing. His geek girl, his buddy-of-the-female-persuasion, hadn’t been on his radar as a woman until the fateful trip to visit her friend. Then, a little drunk in Daphne’s living room, they’d decided there was no reason to play rochambeau for the hard floor. He should have insisted on rock-paper-scissors anyway, though, because nothing was harder, he discovered, than his cock the moment that Clare snuggled her little ass into the curve of his groin.
Murmuring some bullshit about back pain, he’d put a tiny throw pillow between them, but it had been no help. For the rest of that night—and the next and the next—he’d been both tortured and pleasured by the closeness of his BFF’s slender body.
On their long trip home, when she’d asked him if he thought she was ready for marriage, he’d said yes, but that was before he’d considered whether he was actually willing to marry her.
Not soon after, he’d decided the answer to that second question was no. And so he’d said nothing about his feelings when she engaged herself to Jordan Wilson.
She eyed him now, suspicion bringing her brows together. “Are you sure I didn’t flash you?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “No flash.” It would only embarrass her otherwise and . . . God, he was going back on his promise to himself already. But wait, it hadn’t been a “flash” had it? His feelings for Clare had snuck up on him instead, after years of companionship and a camaraderie that his other friends never understood but that he hadn’t examined in any depth until she’d snuggled up beside him.
As close as she was now, he thought, when she plopped next to him on the bench. “What’s up?”
“I . . .” Her thigh was pressed to his, setting his brain to Spin again. Jumping to his feet, he didn’t even risk a glance at her. “Let’s walk.”
“Okay,” she agreed, even as he took off at a quick stride. Then he felt her small hand at the crook of his elbow. “Hold on. Wait up.”
Neither was acceptable. He wanted to hold on to her and their friendship so damn bad, but Clare Knowles as Mrs. Jordan Wilson would cut at him if he stayed too close. As for “waiting up,” it had taken him months to get this far. He could no longer put off the truth.
He stopped on the sidewalk, noticing where they were. The “far” side of town, which was only four blocks from the center. Small frame bungalows with tiny lawns marched down both sides of the street, while around the corner were metal buildings housing more commercial enterprises like a mom-and-pop flooring center and an upholstery business.
They were alone, except for the people he could see moving behind the lit windows of the little houses. He inhaled a deep breath.
“I told a whopper today,” Clare said, before his own confession could formulate on his tongue.
He blinked. “What . . . ?”
“I’m feeling really bad, but I didn’t want to get into it with Jordan’s grandmother.”
; “Clare . . .”
She rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead, exactly as she had when she was nine years old and the fourteens times table wouldn’t stay put in her memory. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this wedding stuff.”
He frowned. Surely she didn’t mean what he wanted her to mean? “That could be a problem, considering that at the end of the month you’re—”
“Oh, nothing will get in the way of the ‘I-dos,’ Mom would kill me if I put any kind of hitch in her plans—even if it’s merely changing the color of the ink in the guest book pen.”
She looked so frustrated that Gil had to smile. He let himself run a hand over her hair. “Kid,” he said, to keep it all light and easy, “you need to stand up to your mother.”
“As soon as I figure out a way to bring my brother back to life,” Clare said with a sigh.
He let himself caress her hair one last time. She caught his fingers before his hand could fall back to his side. “Absolve me, please, for the lie I told today.”
Shaking his head, he tried to retrieve his hand but she wasn’t letting go. “So what exact lie was it?”
“You know Jordan’s very stuffy, very upright grandmother.”
Gil winced just at the mention of the woman. Old San Francisco society, she wore pastel suits and diamond earrings as big as lug nuts. At the engagement party, she’d told him that he reminded her of the Italians she used to know, the ones who “barely made a living, yet made a lot of fat babies.”
“I hope you told her you were planning on a huge family of rug rats, all of whom plan to squeak by working with their hands.”
“And break the Wilson tradition of surgeons, stockbrokers, and CEOs?” Clare shuddered. “She asked me if we were planning on serving any alcohol at our afternoon reception. Apparently she finds it gauche at events scheduled before five o’clock.”
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