Autumn in the Vineyard shv-3

by Marina Adair

  He doubted that Frankie would give in, but he also doubted that she had slept much while he’d been gone. “How’s everything at home?”

  “Tanner started prepping for the big tank, the grapes are looking nice, and I followed your list to a tee, even cleared my schedule.”

  “I’m sorry I missed out on dinner. With the fire, planes couldn’t take off, so I had to drive home and decided to leave early this morning.”

  “Yeah, I got your message.” But she didn’t call him back. “Mittens missed you.”

  “Yeah?”

  Frankie nodded. Scooted a little closer. “He ate through the back porch rail and the tractor seat, and I can’t find the weed-eater.”

  Nate rested his hand on the stake next to her, crowding her body a little. God he missed her. “What about you?”

  “I burned through nine boxes of Pop Tarts, three tanks of gas, and took up Yoga.” Her eyes never left his. “It was a stressful week.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Frankie frowned. “I thought we just did.”

  “Morning, ladies,” Tanner said as he walked up—right into their moment. He looked at Abby, who looked like the other women, just shorter. “Abigail.”

  “Jack,” Abby said, taking out her vine clippers and a sharpening stone.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” NFL said with a smile—a smile that Nate did not like the look of. It was the same one he’d just given Frankie. “Figured you’d be over with your grandma, protecting those hands of yours.”

  “Just because my brothers subscribe to some sort of boy’s club, doesn’t mean that my talents should go to waste. Plus, these hands of mine—” She holstered her clippers in her tool belt and wiggled her fingers. “Lethal.”

  “I know,” Jack said.

  Oh, hell no. Old instinct kicked in and Nate took a huge step forward. So did Gabe and Marc. It wasn’t just Tanner’s tone; the guy was actually sizing up his baby sister. And business partner or not, Tanner held the team record for the most pass receptions, on and off the field. And Abby was still reeling from her impending divorce—an easy target for a guy whose nickname, Hard Hammer Tanner, was derived from how hard he nailed the opponent.

  “What the hell, Tanner?” Marc said, pressing his size in Tanner’s face, which was kind of ridiculous. Even though Marc was by far the biggest of the brothers, Tanner still had a good two inches and thirty pounds on him.

  Then again, the DeLucas had two extra sets of fists and a combined ninety years of practice beating the crap out of anyone who messed with their sister.

  “Oh. My. God.” Abby leapt between them, swinging a set of clippers in one hand and shoving Tanner behind her with the other, like a referee at a WWE tournament trying to call a time out. Lucky for Tanner, none of the brothers wanted to tangle with Abby. She fought dirty when she was mad. “And you guys wonder why I never date?”

  “Are you saying this is a date?” Tanner said, laying his fucking hand on Abby’s shoulder.

  Abby turned, pinched his nipple, and twisted, taking Tanner to his knees in one swoop. “No, I don’t date my students. And because you’re being a total idiot, you get to practice chopsticks all week.”

  “Better than Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” Tanner mumbled when Abby let loose of her death grip on the man’s pecs.

  “That’s next week,” she said then stormed off to take her place, second leg in. Great, she would be competing directly with Tanner.

  “You going to blow this to impress my sister, or do I need to replace you?”

  “We’re good,” Tanner said, but his eyes were on Abby’s retreating backside.

  “Uncle Nate!” Holly squealed and launched herself into his arms, saving Tanner from a fat lip.

  “Hey, kiddo. I missed you.”

  “Guess what? Frankie gave me ten dollars this morning, all in dimes and pennies, and she is almost out of dirty credits,” the “Crush This” mascot said. She was wearing a pink tank, dark jeans and mini combat-boots. A real ball-buster—just travel-sized.

  “Dimes and pennies?” Nate said, looking at Frankie who just shrugged. But, he noticed, sadly, she was a whole lot farther away than she had been a second ago.

  She continued to edge away as Gabe took Holly and by the time he’d tossed her in the air and delivered a big kiss to each flushed cheek, Frankie was standing on the outskirts of the group, checking and rechecking her tool belt.

  “Where are my other kisses?” Gabe smiled at Regan, who was bouncing on her toes with Baby Sofie in a sling. Still holding one daughter, he kissed his other on the forehead, and then his wife until everyone looked away. “Did you come down here to wish me good luck?”

  “No.” Regan stepped back, proudly pointing to her shirt. “Team Frankie. I’m their ringer. And I have been given strict orders that there is to be no fraternizing with the enemy. So no more kissing until we kick your,” Regan looked at Holly, who, eyes wide and lips parted, was waiting for the twenty-five cent fine to be spoken, “pants.”

  Holly sighed, deflated.

  Gabe frowned, about as pleased by that comment as Nate was. “No way. You aren’t going to be squatting down and cutting vines in your condition.”

  “It’s called motherhood, not a condition.” Regan gave Gabe a pat on the cheek.

  “And she isn’t bending or cutting. Frankie will be doing her leg of the race,” Jordan said staring right at Nate. “Regan’s just going to be pushing the grape cart.”

  “With the baby?” Marc said it as though they had this in the bag.

  Gabe snorted. “Have you seen my wife juggling both kids while navigating a full cart at Costco? It’s impressive.” He reached down and, while smiling at his wife, pulled his daughter out of her sling and nuzzled her close. And Nate felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest—jealousy.

  “I’m dropping the kids off with ChiChi in a second. Imagine how impressive I’ll be then,” Regan teased.

  “What do you mean you’re pulling two legs?” Nate asked Frankie after Regan took Holly by the hand and led his two nieces toward the stands. “It’s the Pick Till You Punt. A relay race. Meaning you have to punt the baton.”

  “I am.” Frankie stared up at him defiantly. “I’m passing to Abby who passes to Jordan who passes back to me. The rules say that the teams have to be comprised of four members. Nowhere does it state that they all have to cut or push.”

  Marc shot Nate a worried look. “Is that even legal?”

  Not only was it legal, it was smart. Nate was ticked that he hadn’t thought of it first. Frankie’s team wouldn’t lose any cutting time while running the crates up to the platform. He gave a terse nod. “Yup.”

  She must have seen the realization register on his face because she sent him a slow and downright sinful smile, and every dream he’d harbored over the past week came back with alarming accuracy.

  “Well, see you at the finish line, golden boy.” Frankie gave his arm a gentle nudge, and man, just her hand on his shoulder shot his concentration to hell. Or maybe it was the view he got as she walked toward her row of vines—which, wouldn’t you know it, was right next to his—her jeans pulled tight, leaving a lasting impression and making him consider things. Stupid things, such as dragging her to the utility shed over by the back entrance to town hall and picking up where they had left off.

  His dick showed support by pressing painfully against his jeans. His common sense told him that until they talked about last week, about what taking this further meant, conferences of any kind that were labeled “private” would be a bad idea.

  CHAPTER 12

  Eyes on the golden grapes in front of her, Frankie rolled on the tips of her toes, waiting for the sheriff to sound the bell while doing her best not to openly stare at Nate, who was one row over and three legs down. Apparently he was their closer, which meant they’d go head to head in the final sprint of the race. He was also staring right at her. She could see him out of the corner of her eye.

  She
could also see he was wearing a grey DeLuca t-shirt that clung like a second skin to his broad chest, a chest that she’d been within licking-distance just a week ago. His jeans were faded in the most impressive spots and hung low on his narrow hips. Today he had forgone the loafers, instead wearing a pair of worn work boots that had her sucking in a breath.

  Gone was the starched scientist with the stick up his ass, and in his place was a let’s-get-down-and-dirty grape grower with a butt that made her lady parts tingle.

  Since staring ahead wasn’t working, Frankie closed her eyes. Even though it was already late September, heat radiated off the ground and had begun to seep through her clothes. She swept the sweat off the back of her neck and wished she’d agreed with Abby on shorts rather than fighting for jeans.

  The air was thick with the sweet scent of grapes as Frankie inhaled, blindly maneuvering the crate in her hand to shape and weigh it. It looked like it held ten pounds of grapes, but this year the committee had sloped in the bottom and, at best guess, it probably held nine to nine and a half pounds, which meant that she’d fill up three to four crates among her six vines. A good possibility since the vines were full and the grape clusters heavy.

  Winning the Pick Till You Punt wasn’t just about being the fastest cutter or having the strongest back. It would come down to the person who could accurately estimate how many grapes equated to one hundred pounds. Her hands, and gut, were telling her that her team needed eleven full-to-the-brim crates to win. With a few extra clusters thrown on top to be safe.

  Frankie set the crate on the ground and placed it between her feet, scooting it back and forth down the line to get a feel for it and to create a smoother path for when the race started. When she got to the end of her row, she carried it back the other way, dropped the other three crates an appropriate distance apart and then positioned the arch of her boot in the perfect place on the lead crate.

  “I can’t believe you showed up.”

  Cracking her neck from side to side to release the sudden tension, Frankie looked over her shoulder and saw Kenneth. He was beanpole tall, dressed in Baudoiun colors, smarmy as ever, and in her face.

  “I can’t believe they let you hold a sharp object.” She looked at the clippers in his hand and then to the Baudouin flag flapping three rows to her right. There were already three men in place, four of the fastest cutters her grandpa employed, including one imported all the way from France. “Plus, only industry professionals are allowed on the field. And since you don’t know a grape from a prune, the only reason Grandpa is even considering you is to get back at me.”

  Kenneth shrugged, apparently unconcerned with how he inherited the vineyard, just that he did. “Says the girl whose future is going up in flames. You dug your hellhole with the old man, not me.”

  Yes, she had.

  “Is he here?” Frankie hated knowing that she cared.

  The last thing she wanted to feel today was that familiar pressure to make her grandpa proud. It ranked right up there with Nate telling her to clear her schedule for Friday and then not showing up. He’d called, sure, but she’d actually been looking forward to it. Looking forward to seeing him, spending time with him—and not just naked time either. Which was something Frankie never let herself feel for guys, so when she got his message canceling their date, even though she knew it wasn’t a real date, it had felt as though dinner wasn’t important to him.

  “No,” Kenneth said as though she were dimwitted. “He’s still down in… holy shit, he didn’t tell you.” Kenneth smiled. “I guess my dad was right. Gramps really is done with you.”

  Frankie’s heart dropped to her stomach at his comment, then to her toes at the realization. There were only two reasons her grandpa would miss today. And neither one of them were good. “Is he okay? Is he still at the South Ynez Vineyard?”

  Kenneth shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing for you to worry about. Just family business.”

  Frankie was about to go “business” on him when the buzzer sounded. Chaos erupted around her, the sound of metal slicing and the scent of fresh cut vines swept through the air. Torn between donkey kicking her cousin in the throat and shoving his clippers someplace creative, Frankie faltered for a brief moment. She wanted to win, needed to win. But she also wanted to know where Charles was and if he was okay.

  “Frankie,” carried out over the crowd.

  She jerked her head toward the voice and found Nate. He was big, bad, and barreling her way, ready to pounce on Kenneth if she gave him the go-ahead. It made her insides turn to mush and kicked her heart into high gear.

  Noticing that Kenneth was already gone and the other teams were partway through filling their first crate, she sent Nate a got-this wink and shifted into high gear.

  Head down, hands fluid, focus set to tunnel vision, Frankie fell easily into the zone. She cradled, swiped, dropped, and scooted—over and over—her fingers never hesitating, her feet judging the exact spacing to catch the falling cluster. She filled the first crate, then the third, a full fourth, and before she knew it her row was harvested, the grape cart loaded, and Reagan was rushing it toward their scale.

  Not even breaking a sweat, Frankie whispered to Abby, who, true to her word, was incredible with a pair of shears, to go for a three full boxes. She jogged past Jordan with a high five and a direct order to just overflow one crate, and took her position at the fourth and final section, waiting for her final leg of the relay. Her plan, since she could cut twice as fast as Jordan, was to fill the final three.

  Nate stood on the other side of the trellis, under a flapping DELUCA, REIGNING CORK KING sign, casually leaning against the flag post. Those intense eyes traveled over her entire body and back, but when they locked with her it took everything she had not to grip him by the front of the shirt and kiss him.

  With each passing second, she felt her breath pick up. Filling four crates in just under two minutes didn’t have her sweating, but one smoking hot look from Nate and she was ready to combust.

  “That was the sexiest thing I have ever seen,” Nate said. And even over the shouts of the crowd she could hear the huskiness in his voice. He wanted her. Bad. “Christ woman, you had a late start and still managed to smoke everyone. Poor Gabe is struggling to make up the time he lost gawking at you.”

  Frankie tore her eyes away and looked at the other teams. Gabe was making his way toward the platform with the cart, but most of the other teams, including Charles’s, were only midway through their first set. In fact, her team was the only one on their second leg, and Abby was tearing it up.

  “Abby’s fast, but Jordan’s your weak link.” Nate said. “Putting her against Marc was a bad move. She’ll get frustrated midway through and Marc will make up the lost time.”

  “That’s why she’s only filling one crate.”

  “So you’re leaving the last three for yourself? Risky, since I bet your arms are taxed from the first four.” So golden boy had done his homework.

  “Not even breaking a sweat, DeLuca.” Frankie shielded her eyes from the sun, watching Regan rush by with Abby’s three boxes, full and overflowing. “Plus, three, seven, a dozen, doesn’t matter, I can out-cut you.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yup, I’ve spent every harvest since I was five in the field.” Something her grandfather had forced her to do. “Plus, I always close the deal.”

  At that, he flat out grinned. “With these?” He reached over the trellis, his finger skimming the top of her tool belt. To most people it would look like he was just checking out her clippers, but the way his fingers brushed back and forth over the handle of her secateurs—purposely dipping under the hem of her T-shirt to tease her skin—it was clear he was trying to get to her.

  And it was working.

  She stepped back and, crate in place, reached for her clippers. Jordan was filling her crate quickly and Frankie wanted to be ready. “Yup, and you might want to keep your eyes on the grapes or you’re just going to end up watching my ass th
e whole way.”

  “Looking forward to it, sweet cheeks.”

  * * *

  “What do you mean a tie?” Frankie shouted, mid-high five. All four women went from smiling and throwing around their cutting-prowess to utter confusion as they looked at the row of giant metal scales, which took up most of the community park’s outdoor stage. “I was already at the scale while Nate was loading up his last crate on the cart.”

  “I was right behind you and I’m a faster loader.” The jerk smiled.

  “You both set the crates down at the same time,” the mayor said, his mustache curling down.

  “But I was the fastest cutter.”

  “Then how, if we finished at the same time, do I have six more pounds than you?” Nate said jerking his chin to the scales. His read one hundred and eight, whereas Frankie’s team picked one hundred and two pounds.

  “That just means you overestimated the size of the clusters and the crates.” Frankie shrugged. “Amateur mistake.”

  “Since there’s no precedent for this kind of thing, Mrs. Rose is getting the rule book out.” The mayor shifted nervously on his feet.

  Mrs. Rose was the current wine commissioner of St. Helena, and therefore the person appointed to settle this dispute. She was also built like an ox, had the personality of a pit bull, and was completely unpredictable.

  “If you two could come to an agreement on which table you want, preferably different tables, we can finish up here and get on over to the Punt Luck before Mrs. Rose comes back,” the mayor said, adding the last part only after he’d checked the surrounding area for Mrs. Rose.

  “You’re right, Mayor.” Nate held his hands up and took a step back. “Ladies first.”

  “Why? So you can look like the good guy?” Frankie crossed her arms. If she won this it was going to be because she earned it, not because Nate was giving her some pity pick. This town already thought she’d made it on her grandfather’s coattails. “Not going to happen.”