If Noah had hated all the times he’d had to don a tuxedo, Naomi had gotten the worst of it, as her parents’ youngest child and only daughter. All of her mother’s hopes and dreams for social success had been pinned on Naomi—her debutante ball had been larger and more grandiose than any they’d seen before or since. That Noah had been her escort for that horrible affair had cemented their friendship forever. Here they were, almost twenty years later, still enjoying each other’s company. These days, though, they didn’t keep it quite as innocent as they had back when they’d been sixteen.
Not that he and Naomi were a couple—much to his mother’s chagrin. Aside from her “advancing age,” Naomi was exactly the type of woman his parents would love to see Noah settle down with. After all, she had the right name, pedigree, education, and family connections. But that wasn’t the type of relationship they enjoyed. The two were friends first and foremost; they just happened to enjoy each other’s bodies every now and again as well. That they’d been able to maintain such an unconventional friendship for all these years astounded the rest of their mutual friends, but it worked for them and he’d been looking forward to mixing a little business with pleasure with her this afternoon.
Unfortunately, now Noah had other business to attend to. Namely, driving up to the dilapidated home next door to see if the new owner, this Angelica Travis person, was around so he could give her a piece of his mind. With a groan, Noah hefted himself into his truck and turned the ignition. He definitely should have stayed in bed today.
Chapter Two
“Angelica, that place is a dump.”
“It isn’t.” Angelica Travis turned her phone away from the building and stared into the exasperated brown eyes of her agent, Jai Carter. “It’s just… dilapidated. No, weatherworn.” That was a good word. Pleased, she smiled fondly at phone and new home alike.
The house nestled comfortingly at the end of a long, swooping gravel drive lined with grapevines. Its front porch was sagging, and the roof over it drooped a little, but the columns that supported it were strong. A pair of ancient oak trees flanked the sprawling two-story building, which had clearly been added to the structure at different periods in its long life. The main section was classic Colonial, with faded white shingle siding marching determinedly past green-shuttered windows. On the left, some former owner had gone Swiss: a stuccoed addition featured chalet-style timber framing and a wooden roof with decorative gables. Appropriate for her former home in one of L.A.’s more creative neighborhoods, maybe, but not so much here in wine country. The addition on the right side of the house was older, and whoever had put it up had at least made more of an effort for it to blend in. But Craftsman-style woodwork and harsh Frank Lloyd Wright angles didn’t give a wine country vibe any more than the chalet addition did. It was no wonder she’d gotten this place so cheap.
“It has bathrooms for every bedroom,” she told Jai. “And the property is surrounded by vineyards. You’ve got to come out here. It’s incredible.”
“You know what’s incredible? The view from my condo.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Judging by what I just saw, a hell of a lot of work.” His voice softened, and she knew he was trying his best to stay positive—for her sake.
She and Jai had been friends for years, through her entire career really, or what there was of it. He’d signed her early on as a starving model fresh out of New York and helped her build a name for herself in romantic comedies as she’d gained confidence as an actress. And weight. Which was why all of her roles in the last few years had been relegated to “curvy best friend” status. Some sassy, some serious, although none of them lead material. But he’d gotten her great money for them, and he was the person she trusted most in the world.
“Are you sure about this, Angelica?”
She nodded. “I can do this.” She aimed the phone at her waist. “Look, I even have a tool belt.”
“It’s pink.”
“Tool belts can be pink.”
“Honey, anything can be pink. That doesn’t mean you know how to use it.”
“Jai, please try not to be a dick.”
“I’m not—”
“Remember my first place?” she asked quickly. When he nodded, she squinted into the phone. “Did I, or did I not, renovate it?”
“Angelica, you had the kitchen redone.”
“And I did a damn good job of it.” She’d sold that place for nearly twice what she’d paid for it, and the new owners had scored a feature in some architectural magazine later.
“Your contractors did.”
“I did some of it.”
He sighed. “I’m not saying you didn’t. I'm just staying you don’t have a lot of experience with…” he waved his hand. “Structural stuff.”
She looked back at her newest investment. It did look somewhat… unstructured. She felt her chin firming in determination. “I can do this.”
“Can I at least send you the name of the guy Greg used to take out that wall in the condo?”
“Jai, what good is an LA contractor going to do me in Sonoma County?”
“I don’t know, honey, I don’t know anything about contractors.”
“You should probably leave the hard work to me, then.” She paused, distracted by a distant rumbling. “What is that?”
“What’s what? Hey! Stop spinning the phone! You know I get seasick.”
“Yes, it’s too bad,” she said absently. “That yacht in Cannes last year was pretty epic.”
“Sure, rub it in.”
Was that a truck? It was. A beat-up Ford was barreling down her beautiful new-old driveway, spraying gravel as it went. More vindication that she’d been right to ask the sellers to clear space to widen the drive so it could be paved, she thought. She’d gotten a call this morning from their real estate agent saying the company they’d hired was finally getting it done. She loved grapevines, but it wasn’t like the ones on her property were producing anything like the ones next door. Clearing a few wasn’t going to hurt her aesthetic values.
The truck slid to a stop and she smiled as she saw the cheerful tongue of a brown lab peeking out the passenger side window. Maybe this was a local contractor who’d heard she’d bought the place and wanted to be first in line to try to sell her his services. Well, all right. She probably was going to need some help, at least with the porch and the roof. And maybe covering the stucco.
And then the driver got out, and her mouth went utterly dry. The single most beautiful man she’d ever met, including four years modeling and ten in Hollywood, had just come straight to her new home. And he was pissed.
“Who the hell are you?” His gaze traveled from her face down to her waist, where it stopped on her pink tool belt. His heavy brows drew even further down. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
Well, that was enough to break the spell. Angelica scowled. “Excuse me?”
“Please tell me you’re not the new owner,” he said.
She shoved her phone in her pocket and put her hands on her hips. “And if I am?”
“If you are, you and I have a problem.” The dog scratched at the window of the truck, and the man made a sharp motion with his hand. “Not now, Molly.”
“A problem?” Angelica glanced at the dog. She could hear pitiful whining. “You should let her out.”
“You should mind your own damn business,” he snapped. “And get a handle on your fucking contractors.”
She hoped the dog peed on his seats. “I don’t have any contractors.” She stepped forward, ignoring the fact that he had a good foot on her. “You want to tell me what you’re doing on my property, mister?” She’d had enough of dickheads talking down to her during years of casting couch interviews. No way in hell was some asshole with a cute dog going to come to her house and start making demands.
He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. It was a nice nose, she noted. Sort of elegant and patrician. Too bad it was on a psyc
hopath’s face. “You do have contractors,” he said. “Some landscaping company. I took a picture.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and swiped a few times. “Here. Jesse, or somebody he knows.” He held out the phone.
She peered at a picture of a van she’d never seen before. “I don’t know who that is,” she said.
“Well, they think you do,” he snapped. “And they just pulled out more than a quarter million dollars’ worth of vines about half a mile that way.” He pointed back down the driveway.
Angelica frowned. “Wait, this is about pulling out the vines?” His exaggerated sigh annoyed her further. “Those vines are on my property, you moron.”
“No, they aren’t. They’re on mine. And don’t call me a moron.” He loomed over her and she found herself staring at a nicely muscled chest that wasn’t much hidden by his t-shirt.
Unimpressed, she poked him. “Step away.”
“Ow!”
She smirked. She’d had her nails done yesterday, wanting to look extra nice for her first day of ownership. They matched the tool belt, of course. “I don’t know who you are, but you’ve got it wrong.”
“I’m Noah Bradstone. Your neighbor. And no, I don’t.” He flipped through his phone again and aimed the screen accusingly at her. “See?”
“They tore out the vines so that the driveway could be widened and paved,” she explained patiently. “The sellers arranged it as part of the contract. I’m turning this place into a B&B.”
“Yes, I know.”
“So there’s no problem.” She smiled up at him, the kind of smile that usually made men remember it came from somebody with killer curves.
He seemed unmoved. “There is a problem. They tore out the wrong vines.”
She blinked. “What?”
His face might have been carved of stone for all it moved. Really handsome stone. Handsome, angry stone. “They. Tore. Out. The. Wrong. Vines.”
Shit. “Where? Can you show me?” The glow was starting to come off of her sparkling first day here.
He nodded. “Pictures, or in person?” He held up the phone.
“How far?”
“The end of your drive,” he said. “Where it splits off from my back road.”
She sighed. “Let me get my car.”
“Just hop in.” He gestured toward the truck.
She raised her eyebrows at him, and he actually reddened a little. “I’ll let her out.” He crossed over to the passenger door and opened it. The brown dog leapt down and wiggled her way around him in a happy circle. Angelica hid a smirk as he surreptitiously patted the seat down before ordering the dog to go pee in the bushes.
The dog—Molly—ignored him and came straight for Angelica, who knelt to greet her. “Well, hello, beautiful,” she said, scratching a pair of floppy ears and dodging an enthusiastic tongue. “You can come hang out with me anytime you like.”
Molly’s owner snorted. “Yeah, right.”
Angelica straightened and scowled at him again. “Let’s get this over with.”
He nodded, then gestured Molly into the back of the truck with a whistle. The dog gave Angelica’s hand one last lick and trotted over to him. Angelica followed and was surprised when he opened the passenger door for her after giving Molly’s scrabbling back legs a quick boost.
“Thanks,” Angelica said automatically as she seated herself.
“You’re welcome,” he murmured absently as he frowned at her house. “Here you go.” He shut the door as she clicked her seatbelt on, and she frowned. Rough and ready farm types didn’t usually open doors for women, did they? Not that she was complaining.
The truck rumbled to life underneath her, and she stole a few glances at him as they sat in awkward silence for the five minutes it took to drive to the end of her lane. He had dark hair and dark eyes in a tanned face, some of which was hidden by facial hair that she couldn’t quite determine the intent of. Was it a short beard? Or was he just scruffy? Either way, she could feel herself warming as she looked him over. Not good. No time for that, she told herself sternly. Especially not with somebody who might sue you.
“Here,” he said, pulling to a stop.
She looked out the window. It looked … like landscapers had been there. She frowned. “Wait—”
“Have you figured it out?” His voice was snide. She shot him a frown as she opened the door and got out of the truck. Her feet crunched on the gravel and she put a hand onto the side of the truck’s bed for balance. No need for a twisted ankle today, thank you. A sudden wetness made her look up to see Molly’s cheerful face, tongue bathing her hand. “Gee, thanks, Molly.” She pulled her hand away and went to investigate the carnage. Specifically, the carnage on the left side of the drive. Not the right. Which was what she’d asked for, since the property line ran pretty closely alongside the driveway on the left.
Somehow, somebody had screwed up. And judging by Noah Bradstone’s expression, the buck stopped with her.
“They were supposed to clear that side.” She pointed.
“Yes, I know. The foreman had a diagram that was clearly wrong,” Noah said.
“How much—” she gulped. “How much damage is it?”
He pressed his hand to his forehead again. “It’s a lot.”
She closed her eyes. “Can you give me some time to come up with a solution?”
“What the hell kind of solution can you possibly come up with? These vines are irreplaceable!” His voice was rising again.
“Well, I wasn’t offering to replace them,” she snapped. “There’s been a mistake, but I had nothing to do with making it. I’m trying to help you, here.”
“Some help.”
“Forget it.” She stormed back to the truck and slammed the open passenger door shut. No way she was riding back with him. “I’ll call the sellers’ agent and find out how this happened, and then I’ll call the contractors and figure out who’s liable. In the meantime, you can get the hell off of my property.”
“With pleasure,” he said. “And you can stay off of mine. Rest assured, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” He got back into the truck and fired up the engine.
“You and your lawyer can bite me!” Her shout didn’t have much impact on the dust cloud his tires kicked up as he drove away. She looked back up the driveway. It was half a mile back to the house, at least. “Fuck.”
Chapter Three
“What crawled up your ass and died?” Max Vergaras asked, sliding his friend’s favorite cocktail across the copper bar top as Noah pulled a stool up to his favorite spot at his favorite restaurant, Frankie’s on the River. Frankie’s was Max’s pride and joy, the culmination of his career as a chef. Noah had been coming ever since his friend had opened the place.
Noah slammed the whole thing back, his throat working overtime, without stopping to savor the smoky undertones of Brennan’s Peated Irish Whiskey laced with plump, fresh blackberries from Max’s garden out back. “You would not believe the day I’ve had,” he replied, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “You know I love your cocktails, but I’m going to need the hard stuff tonight to wind down from the epic shit storm I’m drowning in right now.”
“That sounds ominous,” Max observed.
“You know the old Winthrop estate?”
“Yeah,” Max answered, wiping down the already gleaming copper bar. “What about it?”
“It finally sold.”
“No shit?”
“Yup. Which I couldn’t care about one way or the other, except the new owner decided to widen the driveway between our properties and the contractors she hired to remove those stupid fucking Concord grapes screwed up and pulled out three rows of my pinot noir grapes instead.” Noah shook his head solemnly. He could have lived without the viognier, but the loss of his prized pinot noir was a goddamned travesty.
Max dropped his rag and stared at Noah like he’d sprouted two heads. “You’re fucking kidding.”
“I wish I was, man. I really fucking wish I
was.”
“How does something like that even happen?”
“Best I can tell, old lady Winthrop’s grandkids fucked up when they drew up the plans, and when the new owner signed off on the work, she didn’t bother checking to make sure everything was correct.” Noah rubbed the spot between his eyebrows in an effort to forestall the migraine that had been threatening to form all afternoon.
“Idiot,” Max replied, his brows furrowed in anger. “Let me guess. She’s some bored, rich housewife who thinks the world revolves around her? She probably wanted you to thank her for the work. Or worse, pay her for it.”
Noah could forgive Max the assumption. He’d been involved with a woman going through a divorce a while ago, and they’d even talked about getting married once it came through. But the moment the ink was dry on the paperwork, she’d dicked Max over by running off with her ex-husband’s richer best friend, leaving Max with an expensive diamond ring and a broken heart.
“Nah, she’s not like that,” Noah answered, knowing in his gut he spoke the truth. He didn’t know Angelica Travis, but he knew women, and he was sure she didn’t fall into that camp.
When Max raised a skeptical eyebrow, Noah continued, “Don’t get me wrong. She’s trouble with a capital T, but it’s more the natural disaster, force of nature variety than the scheming, lying bitch one.”
“If you say so,” Max responded doubtfully as he shook up another cocktail. Even though Max owned Frankie’s—named for the its notorious first owner, a bootlegger named Frankie McShane who’d started a speakeasy on this site during the Prohibition era—he liked to leave the kitchen in the capable hands of his sous chef one night a week so he could hang out behind the bar and chat with customers. “You know my stance on the fairer sex.”
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