by Marina Adair
She let that settle, then carefully said, “Because I’m going to win. You know that, right? I have to if I want to pay off Tanner and keep my grapes. Because if I lose, I have to sell and I can’t sell to my grandpa or he’ll go after Susan’s account. And I can’t sell to you because he’ll see it as a betrayal.” All the uncertainty may have been gone from her voice, but Nate could still hear the pain lacing each word. “So if I lose, I lose everything.”
And wind up in the one place she’s been her entire life—in the middle. Nate didn’t want any part in that. Ever.
“Do you realize that you’ve spent the whole night worrying about Charles, your dad… me? What about you, Frankie? What do you want?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“Do you want to stay? With me?” Although there was no expiration date on the invitation, since he figured that forever would push her too far too fast, they both knew what he was asking.
“So much that it scares me,” she admitted on a whisper. One simple, honest statement that held so much hope, Nate felt the weight that had been crushing his chest evaporate.
“This scares me too, Frankie. I’m scared to push too hard and chase you off or not hard enough and make you walk away. I never know where you stand, what you’re feeling, or what you need.”
She padded closer, her body pressing against his. “Right now I’m standing in your arms. I’m feeling a little off balance and like I want to cry, and I never cry. And I really need to go to bed.” She smiled shyly. “With you.”
“Nothing would make me happier.” He leaned down and kissed her gently, letting her know that bed-sex was not on the agenda. “But we’re going to sleep.”
Frankie wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled. “Whatever you say.”
“I’m serious. We’re both exhausted and we have a big week.”
She kissed him again. And yeah, she was right. The second he got her under those covers he was going to strip her naked and the only thing that wasn’t going to happen in that bed was sleep.
Not that he cared. Because there was also going to be a whole lot more going on between them than just sex.
* * *
Frankie stood on the steps of the wide back porch, sipped her coffee, and smiled.
The alpaca habitat was done. With its wood-slatted walls, green thatched roof, and white picket fence extending around the perimeter, it looked more like a miniature Victorian than a crate training device for a camelid. And the best part? Mittens loved it.
He pranced back and forth across the faux porch, humming while chewing on the fake flower baskets that hung from the window frames. Every third step he’d lift up his back right hoof and hop—alpaca speak for skipping.
Tanner and his hard hammers were on the other side of the field finishing up the last part of the tank installation. Nate was gone, but he’d left a detailed note on his pillow, explaining how he had to leave early to check on one of his vineyards in Sonoma that was being harvested, that he would rather have spent the morning having bed-sex and asked her to call him when she woke up. Now she knew why.
Smiling so bad it hurt, Frankie pulled out her phone.
“Morning.” Just hearing his voice made her all giddy. She had it bad. “Did you sleep well?” he asked.
“Almost as good as Mittens, who sends his thanks by the way. You were right, he loves it.”
There was a long pause and she could hear him smiling from the other side of the phone. “What time are you coming home?” she asked.
“What time does the kid go to bed?”
Frankie pressed the phone to her ear. “Brush and story time happen around seven, in the barn by seven-thirty.”
“Are these kid friendly stories?”
“Very.”
“Then I’ll be there at seven-thirty sharp, with dinner.” He yawned and Frankie realized that he had left the house before sunrise every morning that week. He’d spend all day in one of his fields, rush home to make her dinner—part of his “Pop Tarts for no more than two meals per day” campaign—only to stay up all night having hot bed-sex with her. He managed over twenty vineyards, kept his family from dramatically imploding, and somehow finished Mittens’s house.
The man must be exhausted.
“Um, how about you take your time and be here by eight? I’ll have dinner ready by then.”
There was a long pause and Frankie shifted on her feet. She’d never offered to cook for anyone before. First, because she was terrible at it. And second, there had never been anyone she wanted to cook for. And the longer Nate held his silence the more nervous she became.
“I’m not really a great cook,” she found herself explaining. “But I can BBQ some steaks and make a salad. Nothing fancy. As in lettuce and dressing. And maybe a few tomatoes. And for dessert I could—” and Frankie stopped herself.
Three nights. Three nights of bed-sex and she was already reduced to one of those women. Questioning every word. Analyzing the smallest pause in conversation. Desperate to please. This was why she didn’t date.
She rested her cheek against her arm that was propped up on the fence and—no way—she was blushing. Her entire face felt like a giant solar flare. Not happening. In fact, the entire night was one girly snort away from being canceled.
“Dinner would be nice.” Nate said, saving the night. “And maybe a movie. My DVDs are in the bedroom if you want to pick something out.”
“I still have a bunch of leaf roses to make for Regan.”
What had happened to her simple, no-frills life? A month ago she would have spent her Friday evening playing darts with Glow and Luce, only to come home alone and eat a Pop Tart out of the wrapper while watching Formula 1 racing on television. Lights out by ten.
Now she had leafy greens in her fridge, craft supplies on her counter, and a date with her super-hot boyfriend. Lights out by ten, bed-sex until dawn. Yes, she’d just thought the words “boyfriend” and “bed-sex,” all with Nate in mind and only suffered minor palpations—and a little perspiration on her hands.
“I could help you with the roses. I happen to be a pro at molding and shaping,” Nate said with that I’m-here-for-you-babe tone that she’d come to associate with the let’s-head-for-the-bedroom look. Which tonight translated into just how meticulous and efficient those hands of his would be. “Frankie.”
Her head snapped up and she butted Mittens square in the jaw. “Warkwarkwark!” When had she laid her head back down on the fence post? “Yeah?”
“Whatever it is that has you breathing heavy,” he continued. She could hear him smiling again. This time smugly. “I’m a pro at that too.”
CHAPTER 15
Nate pretended to take a sip of his wine and laughed with his brothers and some buyer in a pair of loafers whose name he should have known but for the life of him couldn’t remember. Not that it should matter. Nate made the wine and Trey sold it. But it did. Rubbing shoulders with the resident enologist always went the distance when finalizing sales, and was a big part of the reason that the Cork Crawl attracted so many respected buyers and collectors.
He prided himself on his ability to close. He was a master closer. But when one of the Cork Crawl volunteers walked out from behind the stage at the community park to collect and seal the DeLuca barrel, he gave up feigning interest.
“That makes it official,” Trey said, shaking the man’s hand and shooting Nate a hard look. “Cork Crawl is finally over.”
“Good luck today,” Loafers said and it was all Nate could do not to laugh. Frankie was right: loafers screamed uptight, snooze-fest. Good thing Nate had opted for boots today. Beat up, worked-in boots.
“I think this year is going to be a close race,” Loafers went on and Trey said something Nate supposed was important but wound up sounding more brownnosing, Marc made a witty comment, Gabe chuckled his I-am-head-of-this-family chuckle, and Loafers laughed. Loud and nasally. “Either way, I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”
Nate might have said goo
dbye, he couldn’t be sure because a flat-cart of barrels rolled by on its way to the tally room. He started stacking and restacking the winery brochures. A clear sign that he was nervous. The sweaty palms, shouldn’t-have-had-that-second-helping-of-chili kind of nervous.
After eighteen years of coming to the Cork Crawl, the past eleven making a Cork Crawl clean sweep, he wasn’t used to nervous. He’d spent the past six hours fielding questions from amateur wine enthusiasts, wine critics, and his family. Although, ChiChi was less interested in wine and more into what was going on between him and Frankie, and his brothers’ interest was securely invested into how he managed to stick his head so far up his ass.
A fair assessment since he’d been distracted at best, and flat out brain-dead at worst. Instead of focusing on his job, selling DeLuca wine into hearts and cellars around the world, Nate had fixated his entire attentions on Frankie who, one row over and two booths down, wore a red silky number up top, a black skirt that hugged every one of her incredible curves down below, and strappy black heels. Heels that had him wishing it were nighttime and they were alone.
A ping sounded from his back pocket. He fished out his cell phone and saw he had one text in his inbox.
YOU’RE STARING & MAKING LISTS. SHOULD I BE NERVOUS?
He glanced at the paper attached to the clipboard and smiled. Covered in lists. When had that happened? He caught Frankie’s eye, she smiled, he smiled back, then replied.
IT IS MY “WHAT’S UNDER FRANKIE’S SKIRT?” LIST. LACE, SILK, PINK, THONG… SO MANY CHOICES…
His phone pinged again and man, just the sound had his body humming. Her two typed words had him breathing heavy.
ABSOLUTELY NOTHING
Nate looked up, trying to figure out if she was playing him. But she was in a deep conversation with a group of tasters. All men. And all checking out Frankie’s packaging. Probably trying to figure out what she had on under her skirt.
“Couldn’t you have at least stopped drooling over the competition for two seconds and pretended you were interested?” Trey said. “That was Alan Fielding.”
Shit. Nate put his cell away. “Remington’s VP.”
“Yeah, and the one guy”—Trey held up a finger just in case Nate’s head was lodged so far up there he couldn’t hear—“I needed you to be on your A-game for.”
Nate looked across St. Helena Community Park and watched Alan bypass Frankie’s booth without a glance and walk right up to Charles, who was holding court under a flapping Baudouin Wines banner. Dressed in trousers, a sweater vest, and a floppy beret, he looked like the resident authority on wine. All Nate cared about was that the old man hadn’t looked at Frankie once. And Nate realized that was why his stomach was in knots. He wanted today to go perfect for Frankie. He was nervous—for her.
For the entire morning and most of the afternoon, he’d watched her watch Charles and never once had her grandfather paid her any attention. Just like Nate hadn’t paid his family—or his job—any attention.
“I’m really sorry guys. I’ve been distracted.” Nate ran a hand through his hair.
Gabe picked up a brochure with lists scribbled down the back as evidence. “You think?”
“If you want, I can invite Alan to the vineyard, give him a private tour,” Nate offered.
He hated giving private tours, and usually left that responsibility to Trey, who was a charlatan of the people-peddler kind. But he’d screwed this up, so he’d fix it.
“Don’t worry about Alan,” Marc said, patting him on the back. “I met him last year at a hospitality conference in Chicago. He can’t stand Charles. Apparently, when Alan was just starting out, he tried to line up an exclusive deal with Baudouin Wines for some small hotel chain in Poland. Even though the offer was more than fair, Charles refused to sell, claiming his wine was too superior for their clientele.”
That sounded like a Charles thing to do. Man couldn’t even look at his own granddaughter. At least her brothers and aunt had taken turns helping her run the booth, so she hadn’t been alone, but still.
“Plus, Susan said Remington is set on going with DeLuca. There is no way Charles can weasel his way into this,” Marc added. “Lexi invited Susan, Alan, and his wife to the bistro for dinner last night. They talked food, we talked hospitality, and in the end Lexi closed strong with a pairing of a DeLuca late bottled vintage port and Pricilla’s éclairs.”
“Did they sign the contract?” Nate asked, surprised no one had told him. Then again, not all that surprising since he hadn’t seen his brothers in over a week.
“What do you think? It was Pricilla’s éclairs,” Marc said as though that was answer enough. And it was. Pricilla’s éclairs were world famous. A life-altering culinary experience, according to Martha Stewart.
“More important question,” Trey asked, his gaze narrowing in on Frankie. “How do you think she’s doing?”
Nate took a deep breath. He’d been meaning to talk to his brothers about Frankie’s grapes, but between preparing for harvest and organizing everything for the Cork Crawl, he hadn’t found the time. Okay, so he’d spent most of the time he could have been talking to his brothers about issues, which in the long run wouldn’t matter, getting lost in things that would—like Frankie.
“I think she’s going to win,” Nate said and to his surprise Marc and Gabe smiled. Trey, not so much.
“Why is everyone smiling?” Trey growled.
Gabe laughed. “Have you tasted her wine?”
“If he did, he wouldn’t be asking,” Marc said and Trey glared. Being the youngest, Trey hated feeling left out. Even more so, he hated to lose.
Poor Trey, Nate thought. He was about to have a rough day. What Trey was missing was that Frankie winning wouldn’t hurt their business. The DeLuca reputation was based on quality, quantity, and a long history of taste. Frankie was quality all the way. Her wine was bold and exquisite and would lure in the high-end brokers and collectors. Not that Nate didn’t want to compete in that market—he would with his father’s Opus—but he also knew that in the end it wouldn’t matter who landed what account, as long as it was a fair fight they’d both win.
“She wins and we lose more than some stupid crown,” Trey said.
“It wouldn’t have mattered, Trey,” Marc said, sending Nate a smile that he had a hard time interpreting. “Even if she lost, Nate wouldn’t buy her grapes.”
“Why not?” Trey asked. “She has to pay off Tanner somehow. If she loses, she’ll have to sell to someone. Why not to us?”
Nate looked Trey directly in the eyes “I didn’t hook Frankie up with Tanner in hopes that she’d fail and lose her grapes.”
“Then why the hell did you do it?” Trey asked, sounding equal parts confused and pissed.
“And that is why you are single,” Gabe said, slapping Trey on the back.
“No.” Trey stepped back and shot each one of his brothers a horrified look. “I’m single because there seems to be a severe allergic reaction that happens when DeLuca males come in contact with domestication. The symptoms include but are not limited to, asinine diets, obsessive texting, and irrational and illogical decisions, all of which are hazardous to this family’s stability. Hell, at this rate I’m surprised I’m not carrying around one of those needles that people stab in their hearts when they go into shock.”
“An EpiPen?” Gabe offered.
“Yeah. A fucking EpiPen.”
* * *
Frankie stood in her booth and signed the questionnaire that yes, she’d had a great experience at the Cork Crawl, and yes, she would be coming back next year. Only she would be ditching the heels and black skirt. The location of her booth had brought more tasters than she’d anticipated and once the sun had come out from behind the clouds, the temperature had shot up to a suffocating ninety degrees.
A thin sheen of perspiration beaded on her forehead and, because there had been no mid-morning or late-afternoon lull as promised, Jordan’s unwanted advice on shoes had cost her a blister on
both big toes. Not that she was complaining, Frankie had spoken to more buyers in the past six hours than she had in the past fifteen years working for Charles—and she’d done great. She had a dozen business cards, all from prospective and very interested collectors and two brokers. Not Susan Jance level, but still impressive nonetheless. If it hadn’t been for Abby reeling her back in, Red Steel would have sold out before lunch. Bottled and futures.
“There’s a group of brokers and buyers standing over by the tree waiting to talk to you,” Jordan said. How was it that her friend had stood in the same intense heat all day and wasn’t even glistening?
Frankie walked out from under her tent. Sure enough, there was a group of about seven buyers, sweating like they’d just run a marathon in loafers, huddled under the tiny bit of shade offered by the mostly molted maple tree. They were talking among themselves, but when Frankie emerged they went silent, looking at her expectantly.
“They collected the barrels over an hour ago.” Which was why most people had taken to the large tent set up on the south side of the park. It was shaded, air conditioned, and there was an abundance of hors d’oeuvre and wine—for those who hadn’t already tasted themselves three sheets to the wind yet. “What are they doing?”
“What part of, ‘Waiting to talk to you’ did you miss?” Jordan said.
“They know you won,” Abby said, her hair a cluster of wild curls from the heat. “They know that any offers not seriously entertained before the corks are finished being tallied will be tossed out.”
“Do I go over and talk to them?”
“Nope. Let them sweat it out,” Jonah said, coming up from behind. Even though he was dressed in jeans and a Red Steel Cellars t-shirt, his department-issued authority was still locked and loaded. “Most of those people are mid-level buyers. They don’t have the money to compete at the level you’re about reach.”
“Which is why I told her not to accept any offers,” Abby said with a smile. “And she’s had plenty.”