Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (20 page)

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 me,” 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

W
hat 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.”

“Excuse us,” Jordan said, taking Frankie by the arm and pulling her away. Before Jordan could begin her lecture on what Frankie was positive would be inappropriate adult-child relations, her brother Adam came striding over.

“No dress-up today, kids,” he said.

The kids booed.

Ava and every mother chaperone in the firehouse—expect Regan DeLuca, who was bouncing a burrito wrapped Baby Sofie—stared, not even bothering to hide their interest. He got that a lot.

Adam had the Baudouin swagger and beefcake build and was the leader of an elite smoke-jumper team. Which meant he was an expert at parachuting out of planes to get behind fire lines and sweet talking his way behind panty lines. Even dressed in a pair of dark blue work pants and matching SHFD t-shirt and ball cap, he looked pretty impressive. And the women took notice. But even though he was three years older and five inches taller than her five-ten, she could still whoop him in darts.

“But if you make your way out front, one lucky Scout can run the siren,” he added and the kids cheered.

Arguing over who got to sit in the fire engine, the group followed Probie through the opened bay door toward the shiny red truck. It was as clean and charming as the rest of the station. Built in 1912, the only firehouse in the city limits was a historical brick-faced building with stone encasings framing the three massive arched doors. Situated at the end of Main Street, the St. Helena Garden Club took special care in tending to the rose-filled planter boxes and pansies filled wine barrels that lined the curb.

“Thanks for setting this up, Adam,” Regan said in a soothing singsong voice, most likely to keep the demon spawn from waking up.

“Yeah, and thanks for letting Ava and me join in,” Jordan said, offering up her best smile. “Now, if I could just ask one more favor.”

Adam gave her a weary once-over. “Last time you asked me for a favor, I ended up in nothing but a scarf and underwear.”

Jordan patted him on the arm. “And that calendar made my year as PTA President the largest grossing year ever. So thank you. Oh, and thanks in advance for this.” Without giving Adam a chance to see what was coming, Jordan reached up, wrapped one hand around his neck and planted a fat kiss on his lips.

“What the hell was that?” Adam asked, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Don’t worry, Smoky, I remember what your underwear looked like when they had the red Power Ranger plastered across the crotch,” Jordan said, not an ounce of interest in her eyes. “I was just making sure that you were so unappealing Ava wouldn’t be tempted to sneak out and see if your bell needs ringing.”