Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (18 page)

“I won’t,” Frankie promised and made her way through the store to the back. As she passed a urinal that had been transformed into a planter and between a pair of matching bedazzled shoe racks, Frankie felt her confidence start to waiver. Because there, at the bottom of the stairs, smoking his pipe and calling out the mayor and Sheriff Bryant, sat Charles Baudouin.

Somewhere between seventy and prehistoric, Charles was a handsome man, short in stature with a full head of silver hair and a crooked posture. What he lacked in height he made up for in command. Her grandfather knew how to work a room and if he had been using his silver fox swagger for good instead of ego lately he would have the ladies lining up. Although the only lady he was interested in impressing was the one lady who had every reason to hate him.

Steeling herself against her grandpa’s reaction, Frankie walked down the stairs, flashing her invitation to every stunned man she passed. But no matter how many times she told herself this was the right thing to do, that she would be okay, she knew it was a lie.

It wasn’t Judge Pricket pinning her with a hostile glare that had her heart pounding through her chest, or that two of Nate’s brothers were in the room. No, what had Frankie ready to say
screw it and head home was that her grandpa, the person who had taught her everything she knew about wine, the man she’d spent her entire life trying to live up to, didn’t do more than give her a brief glance before discarding half his hand and returning to the game at hand.

“Hey, grandpa.” She walked over to his table and placed a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t turn his head as usual for the double cheek-kiss, so she straightened.

“Francesca,” he said so formally it hurt. It was the same way he greeted her mother after the divorce. He was making it clear to Frankie, and everyone in the room, he wasn’t over her betrayal.

She cleared her throat. “I’m here to let you know I’m competing at the Cork Crawl.”

“Team’s already full,” he said, his voice commanding as ever, eyes still on his hand. “I thought you knew I asked Tom and Kenneth to compete this year.”

Frankie wanted to ask him how he assumed she would have known, since he hadn’t bothered to talk to her in over two months. “Katie told me, but I wasn’t talking about competing for Baudouin Vineyards. I’m here to give the mayor my application and wanted to tell you in person.”

That got his attention. Charles set his cards down and watched the mayor flip through Frankie’s paperwork. If Charles were even considering ending this three month standoff, then the next few minutes would probably cause him to add an additional six of withholding his approval and love.

“Everything appears to be in order,” the mayor said, his expression one of sympathy. “But you do realize that if I approve this, you’d be competing against your grandpa.”

“Nonsense,” Charles said grabbing the application. “She would never—”

Frankie was tempted to resend the application in her grandfather’s hand. She’d always fallen in line with his every whim and wish, and she had learned a lot from shadowing one of the best winemakers this valley had ever known. But she was tired of hiding in his shadow, tired of seeking his approval, tired of his love being conditional.

It had crushed her when he’d fired her, but in the end, maybe he’d done her a favor. It gave her the courage to set out on her own. And she’d made it this far.

With or without his stamp of approval, Frankie was ready to go all in.

“No, sir,” Frankie said to the mayor, then shifted her attention to her grandfather. “I am competing for myself this year. Red Steel Cellars will be a flagship entry under the sponsorship of Ryo Wines.”

And if there was anything that could have silenced a room full of men, that was it.

“Ryo! You’re willing to align yourself with a DeLuca?”

“If that’s what it takes to enter my wine, then yes.”

“The one you’ve been playing with over at Lucinda’s place? That’s what this is about? You’re willing to pit family against family over that wine?” Charles snorted as though he didn’t give her wine a snowball’s chance in hell of winning.

“My wine will win.” Frankie swallowed. “And I’m not placing anyone against anyone. You did that when you fired me.”

“I did no such thing. You were fired because you took a direct action against the vineyard, which resulted in loss of business.” Actually, his attempt to sabotage the fundraiser and one-up the DeLucas had been what led to a sudden drop in business and a surplus of grapes, but Frankie didn’t want to get into that. It wasn’t why she was here. “And I have no intention
of allowing your immature and reckless nature to further impact this family.”

“I didn’t do this to hurt you or make you angry,” Frankie whispered. “I did it because I wanted to make my wine. And because I thought I could make you proud.”

Charles stood and, relying heavily on his cane, leaned in to look Frankie in the eye. At this distance the deep grooves around his mouth and pallor to his skin were clearly visible. Grandpa wasn’t as unaffected by her leaving as he was letting on.

“Then stop this nonsense. Apologize and I will let you come back and work for me.”

Apologize for what?
she wanted to ask. If anyone should be apologizing it should be him. Not that she would go back even if he did, not now, not after realizing what it was like to work her own land. If she went back, nothing would change, he would want things done his way and she would be stuck making someone else’s wine, spending her life trying to live up to his very difficult expectations.

“Don’t you mean I’d work for you and Kenneth?”

“Better than working alongside a DeLuca.” That he didn’t deny it confirmed Frankie’s worst fear: Charles truly was training Kenneth to take over the vineyard. “You’re making a mistake, Francesca. You don’t have the proper backing or connections. And trusting a DeLuca?” He shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know what you think you will find with him, but mark my words, they are playing you and that means that in the end you, my dear, are nothing but expendable.”

CHAPTER 10

N
ate was screwed.

He stood outside his new bedroom door, staring down a bright pink monstrosity that looked more like a Muppet than a chair, and wondered how his life had gotten so out of control. Three months ago, he’d been living alone in a plush house off Main Street, dating a nice pediatrician from San Jose, riding the high that he was going to own Sorrento Ranch.

Now he lived on said ranch, which he still didn’t own but was forced to share with an alpaca, a shag chair, and a roommate who he was going to kill or have the best sex of his life with—either way it was bound to get complicated and end messy as hell.

Which was why, instead of grabbing a few pre-family dinner drinks with his brothers, Nate had spent the last hour of sunlight working on Mittens’s habitat. The foundation was finished and the framing started. He’d expected to finish the framing too, except Nate had a hard time focusing on anything other than Frankie.

That look on her face when he’d expressed surprise over Susan’s interest in her wine still got to him. She’d been shocked, then confused, then hurt, which left Nate pissed—at himself. Sure, he’d had no idea she was pitching Susan on her wine, but he shouldn’t have discounted her.

He’d meant what he’d said the other day: They were partners, the most unlikely of partners, but partners all the same.

“And friends,” he said, reminding himself that it was time he started acting like it. Which was why he’d bought the lamb.

He grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt that didn’t smell like cedar and sweat, tossed them on the bed and made his way to the bathroom. Not bothering to let the shower heat up, a routine he’d become accustomed to since sharing breakfast space with Frankie and her sleepwear, he stepped under the spray and rested his head against the tile wall until his entire body was good and cold.

He’d just stepped out of the shower when he heard a knock at the door. Slinging a towel around his waist, he padded his way to the front door and opened it.

Standing on the other side of the threshold was Frankie. Even her combat boots and motorcycle jacket couldn’t make up for the fact that she was nervous. Based on the dust on her boots and the amount of alpaca fur on her pants, Frankie had been home for a while, most likely brushing Mittens. Something he’d noticed she did when she was stressed.

“Forget your key?” he asked, even though the door had been unlocked.

“What?” She looked up, and blinked.

Interesting. She’d been checking him out. And—
Bingo
!—the spark in her eyes told him she liked what she saw.

“I asked if you forgot your key.”

“No, and it was unlocked,” she said as though he were the crazy one. “I thought I told you that I would handle Walt.”

So that’s what this was about. “I am guessing he called you?”

“No, I spoke to Connie, and she told me.” Frankie crossed her arms under her chest, and what a great chest it was. “We had a deal.”

“No, you said you were going to talk with him, but you were working on old information and—wait, did you knock on the door just to yell at me for giving you what you asked for?” Nate asked, folding his own arms across his chest, making sure to flex in the process.

Her eyes dipped briefly to his pecs. “No, I came here because I wanted to say that… about today, about how you handled… I mean, after what I said to you—Are you going to invite me in?”

He leaned causally against the doorjamb. “Are you going to yell at me?”

Frankie toed the porch with the steal tip of her boot. “I’ll try not to yell, but I can’t make any promises.”

“Great.” Nate pushed off the wall and walked into the house. “Then I’ll try to keep my tongue to myself, but I can’t make any promises.”

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she mumbled something against his entire sex as she stepped inside and slammed the door behind her. Frankie followed him down the hall, dropping her helmet on the recently cleared coffee table, tracking dirt down the freshly swept floor, and stopping short when he went into the master.

“What are you doing?” she asked, looking at the threshold as though if she stepped over it, everything would change. And it would. And Nate, sick as he was, hoped she took the step.

“Getting dressed.” He pulled on a grey t-shirt. “Is that a problem?”

She shook her head, but her gaze was riveted on his hand, which played with the rim of the towel.

“Great, then have a seat. You can be the first to use my new shag chair.” He stopped and mulled over the name. “And tell me what you wanted to talk about so badly that you had to knock on your own door.”

Frankie walked over to the chair and fingered it with a smug-ass smile. It was the first time she’d smiled since he’d answered the door. It was also the first time she didn’t look like a gentle breeze would blow her over.

She sat down and pushed back, the footrest popping up, amusement sparkling in her eyes. “It’s a thank you from Connie. I picked it out myself. Thought of you sitting here, writing your lists and plotting how to further butt your way into my life, and I said, ‘That’s the one.’ You like it?”

He liked the way her hands were stroking the armrests.

“Yeah, it’s not bad.” Nate turned and headed toward the bathroom for the rest of his clothes, dropping his towel and giving her an eyeful in the process. “How about you? You like it?”

“Not bad,” she said from the other room. “A little lumpy and kind of soft for my taste.”

Lumpy, my ass.
Nate knew he was in great shape. He also knew that women liked his body—they usually told him so. Not Frankie though. She liked his body all right, he’d caught
her several times checking out the goods when they were working on the well and she thought he wasn’t looking.

Nate pulled on his boxer briefs and grabbed for his pants. “You were saying?”

“Right,” she hollered. “I knocked on the door because I didn’t want to come here as your roommate or business partner or anything. I uh, wanted it to be clear that I was, you know, here as a, uh… friend.”

Pants midway up his thighs, Nate stopped. She sounded a little vulnerable and a whole lot lost. Jerking up his pants, he walked back to the bedroom. “Frankie, about earlier today, I never—”

“Please.” She held up a hand, bringing him to a stop. “Let me finish, then you can talk. Okay?” The okay was tacked on. Her way to change a direct command to a request. Something was up.

“All right,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, forcing his body to relax.

“I thought about what I said earlier at Picker’s, about how I accused you of purposefully screwing with my life, and I wanted to say that I was, um… I was…”

With a frustrated grunt, she pushed forward, releasing the footrest, and stood. She dug in her pocket, pulled out her cell, and seconds later his pinged.

He grabbed his cell phone off the night stand and read the text. It had one word:
WRONG

“I was,” she gestured to his phone.

“Wrong,” he filled in.

“Yeah, that, when I accused you of not listening to me, and making my life harder, and being mad that you got Susan Jance’s client. I know you didn’t go behind my back and that
you didn’t mean anything by what you said. I was just so mad and frustrated.”

She looked so adorable bumbling her way through what he assumed was the first apology she’d ever made. “Frankie, you don’t need—”

“I’m not done.” She took a deep breath, adding a forced, “Okay?”

“Okay.” He couldn’t help but smile.

She paced, stopping just a few feet from the end of the bed—and him. “I was embarrassed that she didn’t think my wine was good enough to stand on its own because my grandpa told me the same thing, although I think they are both full of shit and wouldn’t know a great wine from perfection, but it is still her choice what wine she goes with,” she said it like she was reminding herself. “And it was—” Again with the gesturing.

“Wrong.”

“Of me to drop the bomb on you about your sister sponsoring me the way I did. And I’m really—” She walked to the end of the bed, so close that their knees brushed. A simple touch, and pow, all he could think about were her lips.