Autumn in the Vineyard shv-3 Page 15

  “Thing about Italians is they never knock.” The sound of the fridge closing and a beer popping came through the closed door. “They also don’t know when to leave.”

  She pulled back and man, was she beautiful when she smiled. “I should probably shower anyway. I smell like Mittens.”

  Nate looked at her breasts one last time, imagined them wet and covered in suds and groaned. “I hate my brothers right now.”

  She climbed off him and tugged on her top. “I think it’s sweet they’re here to see your new place.”

  Something about the way she said it had him pausing. “Have your brothers been by?”

  “Jonah saw it that day you were here. And Luce, Pricilla, and ChiChi brought me dinner last week.” With a shrug, she crossed the hall and closed the bathroom door.

  Message received loud and clear, talking about her family was off limits.

  His family, however, was not off limits. And they were about to receive a message of their own with coordinating hand gestures.

  * * *

  They were still arguing.

  Frankie lay on her kid-sized bed, in her kid-sized room. The one that she begrudgingly moved into last week when she’d come out of the shower to find Nate sprawled out across the master bed. His hands folded behind his head, sexy-man smile dialed to high—his underwear neatly folded and tucked in the dresser drawer.

  With her feet propped up against the wall, head hanging off the end of the mattress, Frankie let out a frustrated sigh. She’d been there for a good fifteen minutes, staring at a dust bunny tumble back and forth across the floor as the breeze brushed through the open window.

  After her shower, a cold one, which she had deliberately drawn out by washing her hair twice and meticulously shaving her legs, she heard heated words being thrown in the kitchen so she’d barricaded herself in her bedroom.

  Not that it mattered. She was still so turned on that her breasts felt heavy against the cotton of her t-shirt and she could still taste him on her lips. To make matters worse, even through the closed door and hallway separating them, she could sense Nate, and hear every single word spoken.

  “I was just about to hand Tanner his ass,” Trey said. The youngest DeLuca was equal parts playboy and hothead, the worst combination in Frankie’s book, which was why she usually wanted to punch him. “Then your girlfriend walked in—”

  “Frankie’s not my girlfriend, we’re just living together. As friends,” Nate clarified. In case anyone in the room still had concerns about their relationship, he added, “As in we’re not sleeping together.”

  Someone cleared their throat.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Frankie mentally shrugged.

  He was right, they weren’t dating. They hadn’t even made it to the touching portion of the evening, but for some reason her stomach pinched a little at his dismissal. She gave it a rub and decided that she was only hungry.

  “From what I saw, I can attest that there was no sleeping going on.” Frankie strained her ears and then decided that it was Marc talking. Some sort of scuffle followed, glasses sliding, chairs scraping against the floor, a loud clank and then, “I wasn’t done with that.”

  “Then learn how to use a coaster. Or better yet, go home and destroy your own house.”

  Frankie smothered a laugh. Nate, she’d come to realize over the past week, was as anal about his living space as he was about his loafers. She would find her books, receipts, dirty dishes, all magically organized and in their correct place. He’d even taken to folding her clothes. She was more of a toss the clean clothes in the basket and dig through as needed kind of girl. But yesterday she’d come home to find her basket not in its usual spot—the floor of the guest bathroom—but perched on the foot of her bed, her clothes neatly folded. Even her underwear had been organized by color.

  Never one to turn her back on a friend in need, Frankie had made a habit of dropping her things at random just to give him something to do. So far, her dirty work boots on the hardwood floor seemed to get the biggest reaction.

  “Well, welcome to it, bro,” Gabe said. “This is why I stopped having you guys over all the time. You come, you eat, you leave a mess.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, Gabe,” Trey said. “Because I give it one more week before you dig yourself out from the piles of diapers you’re living in and start begging us to come over, smoke stogies, and throw back a few.”

  “Can you just get back to what happened at Walt’s with Frankie?” Nate sounded frustrated and tired. “I thought he was strict on the ‘men’s only’ policy.”

  “Yeah, tell that to the woman you’re ‘just living with’.” Frankie could almost hear Trey’s air quotes cutting through the air. “She walked in like some leather-clad hottie in her black jacket and boots. Man, those boots give a guy—ow! What the hell?”

  “Get to the point,” Nate bit off.

  “Sorry, I thought she wasn’t your girlfriend,” Trey challenged.

  “She’s not.”

  “So then it wouldn’t bother you that when I think about her in all that leather, I get—ow!”

  “Bottom line,” Gabe said.

  She heard a huff and assumed it came from Trey. “Frankie told Charles that she’s competing under Ryo and entering her wine in the Cork Crawl.”

  “Which explains the alpaca fur,” Nate said so low that Frankie almost missed it.

  “Fur, what are you talking about?” Marc asked.

  Yeah, Frankie thought, what was he talking about?

  She sat up, felt all the blood rush to her feet, which was how she explained away the lightheadedness she felt when Nate said, “When she’s upset she brushes Mittens and… What?”

  “I just told you that Abby is sponsoring Frankie, with a wine that ChiChi claims is groundbreaking and you’re babbling about an alpaca?” Even down the hallway Frankie could hear the low, lethal drawl in Trey’s voice that time.

  “Groundbreaking?” Nate asked. “She used the word groundbreaking?”

  “We might lose everything we’ve worked for and you don’t seem to give a damn,” Trey said. “Do you not remember what happened to DeLuca Vineyards the first year we won?”

  Frankie knew. It was why she wanted to enter. DeLuca Vineyards had been on the verge of bankruptcy when the brothers won their first Cork Crawl, and the win resurrected the DeLucas’ reputation as the best wine in the Valley. Their next win gave them the title as the most respected name in wine. Period. And Frankie wanted that same chance to prove herself like Nate and Gabe had. And this was her year.

  The DeLucas just didn’t know it yet.

  “I understand exactly what is at stake,” Nate defended. “And we are not going to lose anything. Abby agreed to sponsor Frankie because she is still pissed over Tanner. And since when do we care who the hell else competes? Our wine is incredible, and it will win. Like it does every year. So how about you focus on your job—selling what I make.”

  There was a heavy silence. It stretched on for so long that Frankie stood. Even through the closed door she could feel the tension turn combustible, which explained her pacing. The funny ache in her chest, however, came from Nate implying that Frankie was a non-threat. That Abby was just extending the pity branch, but in the end it wouldn’t matter, Frankie’s wine would matter.

  “Like the sale we had with Susan?” Trey accused, his tone growing harsher by the syllable. The frat boy persona was gone and in his place reared the hotheaded youngest brother who blasted through life with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove. “Christ, Nate do you know how hard I worked on that deal?”

  “Yeah, I do because I was right there beside you,” Nate said low and lethal. “I looked Susan in the eye and promised her grapes we don’t happen to own. It was only right to come clean to both her and Frankie.”

  “But it was my deal and my reputation. I don’t fly around the world selling 350 days a year for you to cut me out. You had no right to talk to either of them without m
e,” Trey barked back. “What were you thinking?”

  “That keeping secrets from stubborn women hasn’t worked out so well for us in the past,” Marc said, speaking from experience.

  Last summer the DeLucas were involved in a distribution deal that centered around Lexi’s grandmother’s recipes. Lexi almost lost her grandmother’s bakery, and Marc had almost lost Lexi—for good.

  “Look, I get why you’re upset, but this isn’t a big deal,” Nate said and Frankie knew he was lying. This was a big deal. He did the right thing even though it might have cost him a huge contract. “I called Susan earlier, explained the situation with the land and offered her client 400 cases of our Santa Barbara reserve at a discounted price.”

  “And she called me to say that Frankie’s wine was good enough to give her pause. At least until after the Cork Crawl. She wants to make sure her client is getting the best.”

  “We are the best and she knows it.” Frankie could almost hear Nate give one of his confident shrugs. The one that used to bug her but now she found kind of cute. “She either buys now at a reduced price or later. Eventually she’ll come around and when she does, it will cost her double per case if she wants to play.”

  “If she plays. You’re making a lot of assumptions here. Frankie doesn’t have enough vines to offer the quantity Remington will require for his own needs let alone his hotels, but if she wins it could be a game changer. The price of her barrels would skyrocket and Charles could easily weasel his way in with Remington, and we’d have to find ourselves a new collector in a tight market.”

  Remington Hotel? No wonder Susan didn’t even bother to entertain Frankie’s wine as a fit. Wouldn’t matter if Red Steel boasted a perfect hundred from Wine Spectator, there’s no way her ten acres could support his hotels.

  “What do you want me to do, Trey? Say I fucked up? Make Frankie sell us her grapes, tell her she can’t compete, force Abby to take back her sponsorship? I blew it, okay? I should have dug deeper with Saul’s deal, but I didn’t. But Frankie has as much of a right to compete as anyone else.”

  “I’m not saying to hardball her into anything.”

  “Good, because I did that at the Showdown and I won’t do it again,” Nate said leaving no room for argument.

  “So instead you sell us out.” Frankie had never heard Trey sound so—deadly. “You trashed the deal I set up with Susan, put us all in a tight spot and for what? So you could play house with the competitor?” Frankie swallowed hard as that knot in her stomach twisted tighter. “If you weren’t thinking with your dick you’d realize that maybe Old Man Charles is playing us and she is playing you.”

  “Not Frankie’s style,” Nate growled.

  “Maybe not, but it’s Charles’s. For all we know he’s using her and she just hasn’t figured it out. Either way, we lose those grapes and this deal and we’re ten acres short and three years behind on the game plan that cost us double what you estimated all so you could fuck around with a woman whose own family doesn’t even support her.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Trey,” Nate barked.

  Frankie’s chest constricted and she threw open the door and stomped down the hallway, hating how those words hit her like a blade to the ribcage.

  Nate was the peacekeeper of his family, the rational arbitrator. His ability to remain calm in the shitstorm that was his family was something Frankie had always secretly admired. And though Nate’s earlier words had stung, she didn’t want them arguing—not about her. She’d had a lifetime of practice at dividing families. Adding Nate’s to her count would only ruin what they’d both fought so hard to create.

  Ignoring that she had on a pair of pajama shorts, pink with SWEET stitched across the butt, she walked into the kitchen where four tall, dark, and oh-so-Italian men stared back at her. Well, three sat at the table, one stood against the counter—a good five feet and one heated argument away, arms folded, scowl rigidly in place.

  “Great, the DeLuca invasion has begun,” she said, but made sure to send Nate a little smile.

  Then all four men were standing, offering the traditional DeLuca chivalrous welcome, ChiChi would be so proud, but Frankie just wanted them to sit down. Formal manners made her feel all girly, and when issued by a DeLuca, they made her sweat.

  All four DeLucas though, with their bedroom-eyes, alpha-male presence and super-boost, testosterone-loaded smiles, were enough to make a girl—even one who owned steel-reinforced, ball-buster boots—clamor. Marc was the biggest of the brothers but Gabe was easily the most intimidating. And Trey, well, he was just plain annoying. Hot, but annoying. And he knew it. Which is why he kept winking at her.

  And, good Lord, why were they all still standing?

  “You can put all the Prince Charming shit away,” she said walking past the Italian trifecta to get to the one DeLuca who mattered. The only one who got under her skin and flustered her. Growing up with three older brothers, she knew that if she went in defending Nate, it would only make things worse—for him. “I’m just grabbing some dinner.”

  “I was going to cook us something as soon as I got rid of my brothers,” Nate said, propping up the entire counter with his body and effectively blocking the only cabinet she needed to access. His smile said he knew it.

  “Yeah,” Marc snorted. “He was making Lexi’s lamb recipe.”

  All three guys started laughing. Nate did not.

  His was too busy taking in her tank top and shorts—which suddenly felt too low and too high—and her bare legs. Between Nate’s inventory and the suffocating sexual tension, it was hard to move. Plus, it was more than obvious that her nipples were in full party mode. A fact that Nate addressed when he finally met her gaze, eyes hot—apologetic, but hot.

  “I’ve already got dinner covered, but thanks.”

  When it became clear he wasn’t going to move, she reached past him and silently cursed when the sensitive tips of her breasts brushed his chest and sent her lady parts into overdrive. Making a point not to make eye contact, she opened the cupboard and rolled on to the tips of her toes to grab a new box of Pop Tarts.

  Nate, never one to miss a detail, tucked a finger under her chin, tilted her face to his, and said softly enough that only she could hear, “Are you blushing?”

  “No. I’m probably still hot from my shower.”

  Nate wasn’t buying it. “And this isn’t dinner.” He grabbed the box and started reading the ingredients. “It’s not even food.”

  “You act as if I was offering to share. I’m not.” She grabbed for the box but he held it above his head, so she crossed her arms and glared. “And for your information, it contains three of the major food groups.” He raised a disbelieving brow. So she ticked them off. “Fruit, grains, and icing.”

  “Icing isn’t a food group.”

  “It’s the best food group.” She lunged at him, stretching upright as he stepped even closer, close enough that their bodies brushed in all the right places. Close enough that all she could smell was sexy, fresh-from-the-shower man. It took everything she had not to lean in for a better whiff—and maybe even a little bite.

  “Yup, definitely a blush.”

  “Ow,” Trey said from behind, cutting off her reply. Which was for the best since she would have had to lie. “I was just trying to read what her shorts said.”

  Frankie dropped to her heels and Nate handed her the box, but not before shooting a death glare over her shoulder—most likely at Trey.

  “Well, I’ll let you get back to boys’ night.” Frankie opened the fridge and grabbed a beer. Dinner in hand, one family dispute successfully avoided, she headed for her room. But just in case they thought to pick right back up when she left, she added, “Oh, and Nate, when you get a chance to sit in your new chair, pull out that home improvement checklist you’ve worked so hard on, the one that’s itemized and prioritized, and add insulation to your red column. These walls are so thin, I can hear Mittens fart in the pasture.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Wha
t would it take to get in your pants?”

  The probationary—aka rookie—firefighter, who looked about twelve, froze mid-demonstration with his pants around his ankles and visibly swallowed.

  “I was just wondering if that was part of today’s tour?” Ava innocently clarified and Frankie rolled her eyes.

  “I bet he’d let you,” a seven year old boy with freckles and a red stain down the front of his school uniform whispered loud enough for China to hear. “Last year I got to sit in the captain’s seat.”

  “And I got to pull his bell,” Holly said.

  “His bell, huh?” Ava gave Probie a flirty shrug, sending the strap of her top sliding off her shoulder and him into a coughing fit.

  St. Helena Fire Station #1 was giving a tour to the St. Vincent’s Academy’s second grade class, and Frankie had managed to get Jordan and Ava on the list. Something she was rapidly regretting.

  “You aren’t going to get any better at this if you won’t go near them,” Jordan whispered.

  Frankie looked at the herd of ketchup-crusted ankle biters and shivered. “I am near them, just not close enough to interact.”

  Jordan shot her a humored look and Frankie huffed. “Fine. I’ll go engage.”

  She watched an ankle biter with a dirty nose and glue stuck in his hair shove Holly aside as he screamed, “I want to pull the bell!”

  Frankie palmed the kid’s head and turned it to face her. “You shouldn’t push people smaller than you or someday you’ll be the small one and karma sucks, kid.”

  “Is there a problem?” a blonde soccer mom said, placing her hand on Kid’s shoulder.

  “Yeah, he pushed Holly,” Frankie said, noticing that her soil-stained jeans and purple hands didn’t really scream qualified chaperone.

  “Linden, say you’re sorry.”

  “But I want to pull the bell and wear his pants!”

  Soccer Mom didn’t even blink when she explained to Frankie, “He’s working on his manners. Aren’t you Lindy? Yes, you are.”

  Frankie actually felt sorry for the little bully. Being addressed like a purse-dog would give her rage issues too. “Well, since he’s already mastered pushing girls, maybe he can figure out those manners before he takes on pulling hair.”