Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (19 page)

How they felt.

How they tasted.

How he would do anything to taste them again.

If he made a list of all the reasons why kissing her was a bad idea, he’d spend the entire night in his shag chair. God, now he was thinking about shagging, and Frankie, and her breasts were at eye level, her legs were touching his and it felt really good. Too damn good.

She fiddled with her cell. “I’m really—”

His pinged.

“Sorry,” he read the text quickly and looked up at her, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Why the hell was she apologizing? Here she was putting everything out there, laying it all on the line, and all he could think about was how to get her out of her clothes and into his bed.

“You’re sorry?” he repeated.

“For not being a better friend.”

Finally her eyes met his and everything he’d been contemplating over the past few minutes was obliterated. Complicated no longer seemed to fit this situation, because friend was the last thing he was feeling. And sex, well sex wasn’t the first thing on his mind anymore. It was the second, right behind what an amazing woman Frankie was and how he wanted to take the sadness out of her eyes.

She swallowed. “What you did for Walt was probably the most noble thing I’ve ever seen. You’re a good man, Nate.”

Reaching out, he gently cupped her hip and drew her toward him, parting his legs to make room. He could smell the crisp autumn air on her skin with undertones of lavender. “I did that for you, Frankie.”

“I know,” she whispered, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “But I don’t understand why.”

“Because of this—” he leaned up and brushed his mouth against hers. If he didn’t push this too far, logic would step in, remind him that she’d had a hard day, hell, a hard few months, and that she was just feeling lonely and lost in the aftermath of being fired and losing her first major deal, and that it was wrong of him to take advantage.

But Christ, her mouth started working his and all the blood left his head and traveled south. He expected her kiss to be
angry or challenging like it had been the other day—it was anything but. Instead her lips gently gave way on a single sweet rush of air.

Nate was a tall guy, used to bending down when kissing. So he never considered what a fucking turn-on it would be to sit on the bed with a walking fantasy between his legs, towering over him. Especially when she started teasing him, gently nipping his lower lip and then pulling it into her mouth.

As promised, he tried to keep his tongue to himself, but when she slipped hers inside of his mouth, he figured that rule was off the table. And when her fingers slid up his chest and into his hair all of his rules about mixing business with pleasure evaporated under the heat of her hands. There was something sexy and so damn feminine about those hands, soft and strong at the same time. But it was this new side of Frankie, the vulnerable side that wrapped her arms around his neck and just held on as though he were the only thing grounding her to this moment, which made all logic disappear.

Spanning his hands around her waist to the small of her back, he slid them lower, over the shape of her spectacular ass, which was even more incredible than he’d imagined—yeah, he’d been scoping her goods too—and down, stopping at her upper thigh. Needing more, he drew her closer.

She came willingly, using his lap as her own private seat, her knees straddling his thighs while that sweet backside of hers nestled against his legs. Cupping his face, she pressed closer and, hot damn, every inch of her breasts were smashed against his chest, and nothing had ever felt so right.

She pulled back, just enough to look down at him. The air between them hung thick, and without a word, Frankie raised her
arms in invitation. No pretense, no guarded exterior, just Frankie stripped down to that sweet woman hidden beneath it all.

Nate eased his thumbs under the hem of her tank top and slowly started to push it up. The higher he tugged, the more silky, smooth skin he saw, the tighter his jeans became, until he was afraid he’d have some serious chafing issues.

“You sure?” he asked, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, and Christ he hoped she didn’t change her mind.

“Don’t you dare stop,” she said and he had to smile when she added a breathy, “Okay?”

“Okay,” he said and pulled her shirt over her head, then saw a flash of pink lace. “Jesus Christ, it was worth the wait.”

She was perfect. Small tucked in waist, toned stomach, and the most incredible set of breasts—a full C, maybe even a D—encased in delicate pink lace with a little matching bow that was made to fuck with a man’s mind. It sat there, nestled between her creamy swell of flesh like a bow on a present, implying that with just one pull he could unravel her completely.

“Pink, huh?”

“So I like pink,” she said a little self-consciously, and a little defensive.

“Me too,” he said grabbing her wrists before she could cover herself. What a travesty that would be. “Didn’t you know that it’s my all-time favorite color?”

Well, it was now. He’d become such a fan of the color that he wanted to declare September National Pink Month so Frankie could walk around in nothing but pink lace and skin. And the boots. Definitely those boots.

“You’re staring,” she whispered, a little unsure.

“Yeah, just give me a minute.” Hell, he could stare at her for hours. He started by letting his eyes roam over her, taking
in every single inch. “I’ve been dreaming about this moment for a while now.”

Actually, he’d been dreaming about this moment ever since spring of senior year, when he made out with Frankie in Saul’s vineyard. He’d kissed other girls, but with Frankie he’d gotten to second base—over her sweater, but second base all the same. He’d been smitten, she threatened to knee him in the nuts, and so their relationship began.

“Nate,” she whispered.

It was hard, but he managed to drag his eyes north to meet hers. “You want to stop?” he asked.

She shook her head and he realized that her hair was down. He was one lucky SOB.

“I want to look at you too. It’s only fair.”

“I like fair,” he teased, reaching behind with one arm and dragging his shirt off. Her eyes were glued to his chest and she bit that plump bottom lip. Yeah, he liked fair.

He cupped her by the neck and was about to drag her mouth to his when there was a loud slamming of the bedroom door, followed by Marc hollering, “For the record, I did knock!”

To Nate’s surprise, Frankie didn’t jerk away like she had the other night. Instead she buried her face in his neck and laughed. That laugh slid right through him, taking up residence in every cell of his body. Every muscle in his body shifted and goddamn it, the realization hit hard: Frankie didn’t hide, because like him, there was no denying the truth.

“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.