Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (22 page)

Which was why Nate found himself leaning against one of the stakes, waiting for her to approach. He was done with always doing the smart thing. Around Frankie all of the static about wine, his family, the direction of the company, the effect Sorrento Ranch had on the big picture faded and Nate found himself living in the moment. Found that the heaviness around his chest, which had started after his parents’ died and made it impossible to breathe most times, disappeared and he could just relax without the expectation of what the next breath would require of him. Something he’d never allowed himself the luxury of doing.

“Have I ever told you how much I love pink?” Nate asked when Frankie was less than a foot away.

“Lexi picked it out. She sewed the words on it too.” Frankie tugged her shirt taut to show him, unintentionally pulling the neckline down for his viewing pleasure.

Nate took a long, thorough look at everything Frankie had on display. He didn’t feel the need to rush, which was a good thing considering he’d missed the hell out of her over the past week and because she was taking her sweet-ass time doing the same.

Her blue eyes zeroed in on his mouth, sending a shot of hot lust straight to his groin. He had it bad for the town’s bad girl.

Face flushed, eyes dilated, Frankie wet her lips. If that wasn’t hard evidence that she was as busy picturing him naked as he was her, the pretty peaks poking out, just above the top curve of the
U
and second
H
, did the trick.

“How was the trip? Is your property okay?” Okay, so she didn’t want to talk about what happened between them last week, or what was happening between them right now.

“Yeah, the firefighters got it under control before the flames got too far north, so we were lucky. How’s your grandpa’s land?”

She shrugged and the fabric of her tee rode up and exposed a sliver of smooth skin. “Haven’t heard anything yet. But if something happens, one of my brothers will call.”

So Charles was still freezing her out of the family. Nate wanted to pull her into his arms and give her a hug. All Frankie ever wanted was to make her family proud, and her grandpa used that big heart of hers against her, used it as a way to control her, to get her to come back on his terms. The faint bruising
under her eyes told him that Charles’s plan was working—to a point.

He doubted that Frankie would give in, but he also doubted that she had slept much while he’d been gone. “How’s everything at home?”

“Tanner started prepping for the big tank, the grapes are looking nice, and I followed your list to a tee, even cleared my schedule.”

“I’m sorry I missed out on dinner. With the fire, planes couldn’t take off, so I had to drive home and decided to leave early this morning.”

“Yeah, I got your message.” But she didn’t call him back. “Mittens missed you.”

“Yeah?”

Frankie nodded. Scooted a little closer. “He ate through the back porch rail and the tractor seat, and I can’t find the weed-eater.”

Nate rested his hand on the stake next to her, crowding her body a little. God he missed her. “What about you?”

“I burned through nine boxes of Pop Tarts, three tanks of gas, and took up Yoga.” Her eyes never left his. “It was a stressful week.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Frankie frowned. “I thought we just did.”

“Morning, ladies,” Tanner said as he walked up—right into their moment. He looked at Abby, who looked like the other women, just shorter. “Abigail.”

“Jack,” Abby said, taking out her vine clippers and a sharpening stone.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” NFL said with a smile—a smile that Nate did not like the look of. It was the same one
he’d just given Frankie. “Figured you’d be over with your grandma, protecting those hands of yours.”

“Just because my brothers subscribe to some sort of boy’s club, doesn’t mean that my talents should go to waste. Plus, these hands of mine—” She holstered her clippers in her tool belt and wiggled her fingers. “Lethal.”

“I know,” Jack said.

Oh, hell no. Old instinct kicked in and Nate took a huge step forward. So did Gabe and Marc. It wasn’t just Tanner’s tone; the guy was actually sizing up his baby sister. And business partner or not, Tanner held the team record for the most pass receptions, on and off the field. And Abby was still reeling from her impending divorce—an easy target for a guy whose nickname, Hard Hammer Tanner, was derived from how hard he nailed the opponent.

“What the hell, Tanner?” Marc said, pressing his size in Tanner’s face, which was kind of ridiculous. Even though Marc was by far the biggest of the brothers, Tanner still had a good two inches and thirty pounds on him.

Then again, the DeLucas had two extra sets of fists and a combined ninety years of practice beating the crap out of anyone who messed with their sister.

“Oh. My. God.” Abby leapt between them, swinging a set of clippers in one hand and shoving Tanner behind her with the other, like a referee at a WWE tournament trying to call a time out. Lucky for Tanner, none of the brothers wanted to tangle with Abby. She fought dirty when she was mad. “And you guys wonder why I never date?”

“Are you saying this is a date?” Tanner said, laying his fucking hand on Abby’s shoulder.

Abby turned, pinched his nipple, and twisted, taking Tanner to his knees in one swoop. “No, I don’t date my students. And because you’re being a total idiot, you get to practice chopsticks all week.”

“Better than Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” Tanner mumbled when Abby let loose of her death grip on the man’s pecs.

“That’s next week,” she said then stormed off to take her place, second leg in. Great, she would be competing directly with Tanner.

“You going to blow this to impress my sister, or do I need to replace you?”

“We’re good,” Tanner said, but his eyes were on Abby’s retreating backside.

“Uncle Nate!” Holly squealed and launched herself into his arms, saving Tanner from a fat lip.

“Hey, kiddo. I missed you.”

“Guess what? Frankie gave me ten dollars this morning, all in dimes and pennies, and she is almost out of dirty credits,” the “Crush This” mascot said. She was wearing a pink tank, dark jeans and mini combat-boots. A real ball-buster—just travel-sized.

“Dimes and pennies?” Nate said, looking at Frankie who just shrugged. But, he noticed, sadly, she was a whole lot farther away than she had been a second ago.

She continued to edge away as Gabe took Holly and by the time he’d tossed her in the air and delivered a big kiss to each flushed cheek, Frankie was standing on the outskirts of the group, checking and rechecking her tool belt.

“Where are my other kisses?” Gabe smiled at Regan, who was bouncing on her toes with Baby Sofie in a sling. Still holding
one daughter, he kissed his other on the forehead, and then his wife until everyone looked away. “Did you come down here to wish me good luck?”

“No.” Regan stepped back, proudly pointing to her shirt. “Team Frankie. I’m their ringer. And I have been given strict orders that there is to be no fraternizing with the enemy. So no more kissing until we kick your,” Regan looked at Holly, who, eyes wide and lips parted, was waiting for the twenty-five cent fine to be spoken, “pants.”

Holly sighed, deflated.

Gabe frowned, about as pleased by that comment as Nate was. “No way. You aren’t going to be squatting down and cutting vines in your condition.”

“It’s called motherhood, not a condition.” Regan gave Gabe a pat on the cheek.

“And she isn’t bending or cutting. Frankie will be doing her leg of the race,” Jordan said staring right at Nate. “Regan’s just going to be pushing the grape cart.”

“With the baby?” Marc said it as though they had this in the bag.

Gabe snorted. “Have you seen my wife juggling both kids while navigating a full cart at Costco? It’s impressive.” He reached down and, while smiling at his wife, pulled his daughter out of her sling and nuzzled her close. And Nate felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest—jealousy.

“I’m dropping the kids off with ChiChi in a second. Imagine how impressive I’ll be then,” Regan teased.

“What do you mean you’re pulling two legs?” Nate asked Frankie after Regan took Holly by the hand and led his two nieces toward the stands. “It’s the Pick Till You Punt. A relay race. Meaning you have to punt the baton.”

“I am.” Frankie stared up at him defiantly. “I’m passing to Abby who passes to Jordan who passes back to me. The rules say that the teams have to be comprised of four members. Nowhere does it state that they all have to cut or push.”

Marc shot Nate a worried look. “Is that even legal?”

Not only was it legal, it was smart. Nate was ticked that he hadn’t thought of it first. Frankie’s team wouldn’t lose any cutting time while running the crates up to the platform. He gave a terse nod. “Yup.”

She must have seen the realization register on his face because she sent him a slow and downright sinful smile, and every dream he’d harbored over the past week came back with alarming accuracy.

“Well, see you at the finish line, golden boy.” Frankie gave his arm a gentle nudge, and man, just her hand on his shoulder shot his concentration to hell. Or maybe it was the view he got as she walked toward her row of vines—which, wouldn’t you know it, was right next to his—her jeans pulled tight, leaving a lasting impression and making him consider things. Stupid things, such as dragging her to the utility shed over by the back entrance to town hall and picking up where they had left off.

His dick showed support by pressing painfully against his jeans. His common sense told him that until they talked about last week, about what taking this further meant, conferences of any kind that were labeled “private” would be a bad idea.

CHAPTER 12

E
yes on the golden grapes in front of her, Frankie rolled on the tips of her toes, waiting for the sheriff to sound the bell while doing her best not to openly stare at Nate, who was one row over and three legs down. Apparently he was their closer, which meant they’d go head to head in the final sprint of the race. He was also staring right at her. She could see him out of the corner of her eye.

She could also see he was wearing a grey DeLuca t-shirt that clung like a second skin to his broad chest, a chest that she’d been within licking-distance just a week ago. His jeans were faded in the most impressive spots and hung low on his narrow hips. Today he had forgone the loafers, instead wearing a pair of worn work boots that had her sucking in a breath.

Gone was the starched scientist with the stick up his ass, and in his place was a let’s-get-down-and-dirty grape grower with a butt that made her lady parts tingle.

Since staring ahead wasn’t working, Frankie closed her eyes. Even though it was already late September, heat radiated off the
ground and had begun to seep through her clothes. She swept the sweat off the back of her neck and wished she’d agreed with Abby on shorts rather than fighting for jeans.

The air was thick with the sweet scent of grapes as Frankie inhaled, blindly maneuvering the crate in her hand to shape and weigh it. It looked like it held ten pounds of grapes, but this year the committee had sloped in the bottom and, at best guess, it probably held nine to nine and a half pounds, which meant that she’d fill up three to four crates among her six vines. A good possibility since the vines were full and the grape clusters heavy.

Winning the Pick Till You Punt wasn’t just about being the fastest cutter or having the strongest back. It would come down to the person who could accurately estimate how many grapes equated to one hundred pounds. Her hands, and gut, were telling her that her team needed eleven full-to-the-brim crates to win. With a few extra clusters thrown on top to be safe.

Frankie set the crate on the ground and placed it between her feet, scooting it back and forth down the line to get a feel for it and to create a smoother path for when the race started. When she got to the end of her row, she carried it back the other way, dropped the other three crates an appropriate distance apart and then positioned the arch of her boot in the perfect place on the lead crate.

“I can’t believe you showed up.”

Cracking her neck from side to side to release the sudden tension, Frankie looked over her shoulder and saw Kenneth. He was beanpole tall, dressed in Baudoiun colors, smarmy as ever, and in her face.

“I can’t believe they let you hold a sharp object.” She looked at the clippers in his hand and then to the Baudouin flag flapping three rows to her right. There were already three men in place, four of the fastest cutters her grandpa employed, including one imported all the way from France. “Plus, only industry professionals are allowed on the field. And since you don’t know a grape from a prune, the only reason Grandpa is even considering you is to get back at me.”

Kenneth shrugged, apparently unconcerned with how he inherited the vineyard, just that he did. “Says the girl whose future is going up in flames. You dug your hellhole with the old man, not me.”

Yes, she had.

“Is he here?” Frankie hated knowing that she cared.

The last thing she wanted to feel today was that familiar pressure to make her grandpa proud. It ranked right up there with Nate telling her to clear her schedule for Friday and then not showing up. He’d called, sure, but she’d actually been looking forward to it. Looking forward to seeing him, spending time with him—and not just naked time either. Which was something Frankie never let herself feel for guys, so when she got his message canceling their date, even though she knew it wasn’t a real date, it had felt as though dinner wasn’t important to him.

“No,” Kenneth said as though
she
were dimwitted. “He’s still down in… holy shit, he didn’t tell you.” Kenneth smiled. “I guess my dad was right. Gramps really is done with you.”

Frankie’s heart dropped to her stomach at his comment, then to her toes at the realization. There were only two reasons her grandpa would miss today. And neither one of them were good. “Is he okay? Is he still at the South Ynez Vineyard?”

Kenneth shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing for you to worry about. Just family business.”