by Marina Adair
“No way,” Frankie blurted out at the same time.
“If you manage to make it to summer without giving me one more sleepless night or gray hair, I will let you get a tattoo for graduation,” Jordan said. “It has to be small and able to be hidden underneath clothes. What?” Jordan said glaring at Frankie. Ava, who was diligently paying attention to the instructor as though she was in the running for Daughter of the Year, ignored them. “Don’t look at me like that and don’t you dare judge me.”
Frankie put her hands up in surrender. A hard task when she was supposed to be balancing on one leg like a stork.
“No look. No judgment,” she said loudly, then leaned in and whispered to Jordan. “Are you drunk? Is that what is going on? Jesus, first Mommy and Me, now a tattoo. Have you completely lost it?”
“Maybe, but at this point I am willing to do anything to make it to graduation without killing my child. Do you know how little sleep I get, how many nights I hide outside her window with my taser gun waiting for Mr. Sex on Wheels?”
“I thought Mr. Sex on Wheels had been effectively shut down.”
“He was. But do you know how many horny high school boys have cars? Bikes? Scooters? Legs?” She practically shrieked the last word. “A limitless amount of possibilities to come to my house and impregnate my daughter? Possibilities that a 500-volt zap to the nuts eliminates.” Frankie opened her mouth to say that maybe Jordan was being a wee bit paranoid, when she added, “I know what you’re going to say and before you do, just take a look at the rack on my kid.”
Frankie did and saw Jordan’s point. Sixteen going on bombshell. When had that happened?
“And if the promise of a discrete tattoo and a ride on your bike will get me even a single night’s peace, it will be worth it.” Jordan now studied her with the assessment of a worried mother-slash-best friend. Frankie leaned forward, reaching toward the front of the room, but couldn’t help feeling that she too was another reason Jordan had lost sleep as of late. “Now, tell me why you were considering lighting Nate on fire.”
“Not Nate, his car. And the rat fink cork-blocked me with Susan Jance.”
“Oh,” Jordan froze, leg in the air. “You were trying to land her new client that everyone is all abuzz over?” Frankie shrugged and Jordan’s face went soft as she sat back on her knees. “Sweetie, Nate didn’t cork block you, not on purpose.”
Frankie willed her eyes not to roll. The DeLucas had taken Jordan and Ava in when Jordan had lost everything and she was to this day a loyal, if not misguided, advocate in her DeLuca support.
“Yeah, well purposely or not, he gets the added bonus of screwing with my life.” Again! “Susan was so excited to talk about my wine last week and I was so sure that her client had already decided on me. Then Nate came in with his Italian swagger and impressive heritage and wooed her away.”
“The man does know how to woo. You know what’s impressive? His butt. Nate has the best backside in the Valley. I think it comes from all of the bending and squatting while he works his vineyard.” Jordan smiled and Frankie could have sworn that she actually swooned a little. Great. “And to clarify, Susan came to him.”
“I’ll bet,” Frankie mumbled. He probably flashed his Prince Charming smile and his even flashier credentials, and the woman came fluttering. They always did. Hell, even she had.
One kiss and she had sold him the farm.
“I can’t believe I let him talk me into changing my planting schedule. If I had stuck to my original plan”—instead of losing my mind over a stupid, calculated and totally incredible kiss—“this wouldn’t be so bad. But I was counting on that sale to pay for the tanks and irrigation that Tanner’s already installing.” Her stomach heated with anger. Anger at Nate for playing her, and herself once again being played. “God, it was like I walked right into Nate’s trap.”
“There’s no trap, Frankie. Not with Nate, that isn’t his style. Besides I took Susan’s call.” Which still didn’t mean that Nate hadn’t approached her first. Or that he hadn’t known about Frankie. “She said that her client was looking for a name in the valley that had some history behind it.”
“Yeah, she told me the same thing. Said that she needed a brand that had some heft, credentials as impressive as her black book.” Frankie shrugged. “I just figured that after tasting my wine, which by the way she said was the best she’d had in years, she’d be willing to take a chance.”
“Of course she said it was the best, because it is, which means the hard part’s over. She has tons of clients, so you aren’t the perfect fit for this particular one. So what?” Jordan shrugged. “All you need to do is give her a reason to recommend you and her clients a reason to say yes.”
“Even if she could find another collector in time, I would face the same problem.” That was why she had been banking on this client. He was the only collector who had shown interest in Frankie despite her winery’s lack of heft. Without Susan’s public stamp of approval she would have a hard time selling. No sale meant no loan, and it could quite possibly cost her the first few years of grapes.
“Collectors want credentials, right? Then give it to them.” Jordan pulled her shoulder-length red hair into a haphazard knot at the back of her head and with the flick of the wrist managed to look effortlessly sexy. Frankie would need a stylist and a gallon of hair goop to get the same effect. “The Cork Crawl is two weeks away. Enter your wine.”
“Already thought of that, but Charles is entering with Kenneth and Tom.”
“Creepy Kenneth, your slug of a cousin?” Jordan made a sour face. “What about finding a sponsor?”
The Cork Crawl was established as a way to allow local wineries to shine in the presence of wholesalers and collectors. In order to keep the festival small and exclusive, the only way a new winery could participate was under a veteran vineyard’s stamp of sponsorship approval. So in the event that a winery didn’t have a team to enter or must, for whatever reason, forfeit their spot, the winery could use their entry to sponsor a new winery into the competition.
“Yup but since the opening ceremony is a week from Saturday, I doubt there are even any sponsorships left.” Frankie tried to laugh, but lying flat on her stomach with her feet tucked behind her ears made it hard. Or maybe it was because she just couldn’t seem to find any humor in the situation.
“I know of one.”
Frankie held her breath. “Really? Who?”
“I happen to know the exclusively female winery I sometimes work for is not competing this year.”
“Are you serious?” Frankie said. Feet firmly back on the mat, heart lodged in her throat, she turned her head to look at Jordan.
She couldn’t be serious. The only one-hundred-percent pro-chick winery in the Valley besides Frankie’s was Ryo wines. Relatively new to the scene and already with awards up the wazoo, Ryo was owned and operated by none other than Nate’s sister Abby and their grandmother. Which was too bad.
Being crowned king of the Cork Crawl was exactly what she needed. It would give her credentials, reputation, and something tangible for her to point at when looking for buyers—or a loan.
Competing under the DeLuca sponsorship, however, was just what Frankie needed to avoid. Another tie to the DeLucas was one other surefire way to piss off her grandpa and give him another reason to never speak to her again.
Then again, she was already sharing toothbrush space with Nate, Charles had already given away the farm so to speak, and that kind of endorsement would prove to the town that Frankie got that sponsorship on her own merit. Because to convince Abigail, the DeLuca Darling, to sponsor her was going to be impossible—well, impossible for someone without Frankie’s talent.
Jordan smiled and… no way, she was serious.
“ChiChi is already a fan,” Jordan said, exhaling and going into a lotus position. “She was raving about your wine last week at the board meeting. Said it was better than Nate’s.”
Better than Nate’s? Frankie couldn’t help but share her own secre
t smile. She’d been trying to get her grandpa to change things up for over a decade. It was why year after year they lost the Cork Crawl to the DeLucas. Because Charles was determined to keep with tradition, which was fine, but sometimes the most beautiful things could come from shucking tradition and saying screw you to science and going with the unexpected. Sometimes it led to something really amazing. It was how she’d created her Red Steel Reserve.
“She did?” Not that it mattered. There was no way Abby would agree.
It wasn’t as though Abby disliked Frankie and she certainly didn’t care about the feud, but she and Frankie—they were just different. Growing up, Abby was a cheerleader, prom princess, and hugged her friends like seventeen times every passing period. Frankie didn’t like cheerleaders on design alone, never went to prom, and hugging gave her chest pains. Whereas Abby couldn’t take a step without one of her brothers dutifully by her side, Frankie was always one step away from her brothers dutifully strangling her.
Frankie shook her head. “Abby would never do it. Sponsoring my winery would piss off her brothers.”
“Which is exactly why she would agree,” a peppy and princessy voice said from behind.
Frankie turned, and there, two mats to the right and one back, balancing on her forearms with her body completely vertical and her feet flexed, in some pose the instructor called the feathered peacock was Abigail DeLuca.
The woman was an odd combination of magical pixy meets Vegas showgirl next door. When she wasn’t “being the pretzel” and stood upright, she came in at maybe five-one with big chocolate curls and even bigger chocolate brown eyes.
“I didn’t know you were, um,” Frankie zeroed in on Abby’s zero-fat waistline, “qualified to be in this class or I wouldn’t have openly admitted to wanting to dismember Nate.”
“I thought it was torch, but no biggie.” Abby untwined herself and went into lotus. “Hey, if you do decide to, you know, dismember one of my brothers, can you go after Trey? Or at least wait until after next week? If all goes well, Thursday will be my last wedding anniversary before I am officially a divorcée and Nate promised to come bearing tequila.”
Abby looked at Frankie expectantly, as though waiting for her to say the right thing. A confirmation of some kind, maybe a heartfelt word. But the only thing Frankie felt was her hands go clammy. “Oh, I’m, uh…”
This was the part of the conversation where most women knew what to do, where the topic required a certain kind of finesse, a firm understanding of female subtext. Three skills that Frankie had never mastered. Because tequila straight from the bottle with a lemon would imply a sob-fest. But served frothy with Cointreau, lime juice, and one of those little umbrellas, could be a happy thing, right?
God, Abby was looking at her. Waiting for her to—what?—give a high-five because her soon-to-be-ex was a total douche? Or should Frankie lie and say she was sorry when, again, said husband was a total douche?
She settled on, “I’m sorry.” But when Abby’s lips pursed, she quickly added, “If you are.”
Abby laughed and Frankie felt herself smile. “Sorry it took this long? Yes. That it is finally going to be over? Nope. That’s why Nate’s bringing the SUV and the pre-party. He’s the designated driver, so Lexi and I can get trashed.”
Of course he was. Nate was the sweet, stand-up kind of guy who went out of his way to make other people’s lives easier. Well, other people except for Frankie.
“And I’m not in this class,” Abby went on. “Jordan called me this morning and invited me. Right after ChiChi explained that your wine—how did she put it?—was a spiritual experience.”
Frankie shot a look at her friend who was breathing deeply and innocently studying the instructor as though it was the most important pose of her life. They’d set her up.
“Then Regan called two minutes later, imagine that, just begging me to check out this class to see if it would be good for her and the girls,” Abby mused. “Only to find you here. And why is that again?”
“Okay,” the instructor called out, cutting off Abby with two sharp claps. “Hydrate time. Then onto Doggie Disco.”
“I’m going to fill up my bottle. You guys need anything?” Jordan asked.
Frankie turned her head to say that, no she was an adult capable of handling her own shit when Jordan not-so-slyly jerked her head at Abby and mouthed Ask her!
No!
Chicken. Bock. Bock!
Fine! “So, I was—”
“Yes,” Abby said with a perfectly sweet smile. “Ryo Wines would love to sponsor Red Steel Cellars for the Cork Crawl.”
“Really?” Frankie blinked. Then reeled back in her excitement. This was a DeLuca. “Why?”
“Why would I sponsor you?” Abby’s tone implied that Frankie was being a tad bit paranoid. And maybe she was, but she’d been burned enough to know to always proceed with caution. “ChiChi believes your wine will win and I do love winning. Plus, we sold out of inventory two days after being crowned Cork Queen last year, allowing Ryo Wines to pre-sell the next five seasons of futures before we’d even had our official grand opening. No product, therefore no reason to enter in the Cork Crawl. So if my nonna is set on you as our flagship, I have no choice but to be supportive.” She raised a brow. “But shouldn’t you be selling yourself to me, making me feel confident in my decision?”
“Not when you could be messing with me.” Frankie eyed her skeptically. Selling five years of futures sounded too good to be true—which in her world meant that it was. “And especially not when I know how it would piss off your brothers.”
“That’s the best reason for me to sponsor you,” Abby said, her mouth curving with mischief. “Did I forget to say that my brothers were crowned King to my Queen? A fact that I am reminded of often.”
“Yeah, that would suck.” Frankie hated it when, at every family get-together, Dax brought up the one time he managed to beat Frankie in a game of quarters.
“They know I can’t enter and since Trey will be in Monaco for some wine conference, they are down a member for the Pick Till You Punt. But did they ask me to fill out their DeLuca team of four? Nope,” Abby said, popping the last syllable hard. “They asked Jack Tanner.”
The Pick Till You Punt was a pre-qualifier for the Cork Crawl. It pitted wineries against each other in a cut and carry relay race, which determined booth locations for the Cork Crawl. And in a crowded festival, with hundreds of wineries all vying for the attention of buyers, table location could make a difference—hundreds of thousands of them in fact—when it came to selling.
Frankie sighed. Ridiculous or not, she had always wanted to compete for her family, but her grandfather had opted to use her brothers or vineyard hands. She had always manned the Cork Crawl booth.
“I thought only family and vineyard employees could compete.”
“Apparently Tanner isn’t just our exclusive contractor, now he’s Head of New Development, which in Italian means he’s practically family. Nonna even makes him lunches on days when he’s at the vineyard.” Abby’s lips went thin. “The worst part is that my brothers didn’t even call to say, ‘Hey we’re making a deal that totally affects your business and your life. Oh, and it’s with the biggest tool in the Valley. What’s your stance on that?’ ”
Frankie bet by Abby’s tone that her stance was closer to Hell no than Where do I sign?
“Now, not only am I giving that jerk Tanner piano lessons three times a week, but I am forced to see him every time I go to the office or my family gets together. So yeah, I might be helping you out, but you’d be doing me a huge favor.”
“Brothers can suck.” Frankie couldn’t believe she was relating to Abby. Maybe the DeLuca Darling’s life wasn’t so perfect after all.
“Yeah, sometimes they can. And if we aren’t careful they’ll bulldoze right over us, which is when we have to draw the line, give them a little reminder of just where they stand. Which is why part of the deal is I get to be on your Pick Till You Punt team.”
“Are you serious?” Frankie didn’t mean to sound shocked, but Abby weighed less than Frankie’s leg, and although she did have dainty, nimble hands—perfect for picking without bruising the grapes—Frankie doubted she’d spent much time in the fields.
“Dead.” Abby gave a decisive nod. Just one. But it was enough to convince Frankie that Abby was fierce when effed with. “Don’t let my size fool you. Nonno Geno bought me my first set of secateurs when I was four. By seven I was faster than Gabe with those clippers.”
“Count me in, I’m on Ryo’s board,” Jordan said, tightening the cap to her water bottle and flashing her meticulously manicured hands. “And no, I have never cut a vine in my life, but when I was married to that rat bastard, I kept one of the best rose gardens in Napa County.”
“Great. Now all we need is hired muscle. You think one of your brothers would do it? Oh, I know,” Abby said with a smile, and she no longer resembled anything close to darling. Frankie made a mental note never to screw with Abigail DeLuca. “The hot firefighter one who was in the calendar last year.”
“Adam?” Frankie blinked. Abby hadn’t dated, shown interest, or even looked at a man since her soon-to-be-ex walked out on her. “Um, I could ask?”
“Good, because we have to win. I’m still burned that I lost out to them by eleven corks. Eleven lousy votes. And the only thing better than my brothers losing to a girl will be the look on Tanner’s face when we beat his arrogant, over-muscled, egotistical backside.” Abby wrinkled her pert nose. “Teach them to stick their nose in my life and screw things up.”
“So, you’re really offering to sponsor me?” Frankie asked dumbfounded.
“Only if you promise we’ll kick my brothers’ butts.”
“Consider them kicked,” Frankie said over the kiddy pop music that erupted from the speakers.
“Good,” Abby said. Then with a smile added, “Now take a deep breath and bend over.”
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.