Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (31 page)

Y
OU
’
RE STARING
&
MAKING LISTS
. S
HOULD
I B
E NERVOUS
?

He glanced at the paper attached to the clipboard and smiled. Covered in lists. When had that happened? He caught Frankie’s eye, she smiled, he smiled back, then replied.

I
T IS MY
“W
HAT
’
S
U
NDER
F
RANKIE
’
S
S
KIRT
?” L
IST
. L
ACE, SILK, PINK, THONG
…
SO MANY CHOICES
…

His phone pinged again and man, just the sound had his body humming. Her two typed words had him breathing heavy.

A
BSOLUTELY NOTHING

Nate looked up, trying to figure out if she was playing him. But she was in a deep conversation with a group of tasters. All men. And all checking out Frankie’s packaging. Probably trying to figure out what she had on under her skirt.

“Couldn’t you have at least stopped drooling over the competition for two seconds and pretended you were interested?” Trey said. “That was Alan Fielding.”

Shit.
Nate put his cell away. “Remington’s VP.”

“Yeah, and the one guy”—Trey held up a finger just in case Nate’s head was lodged so far up there he couldn’t hear—“I needed you to be on your A-game for.”

Nate looked across St. Helena Community Park and watched Alan bypass Frankie’s booth without a glance and walk right up to Charles, who was holding court under a flapping Baudouin Wines banner. Dressed in trousers, a sweater vest, and a floppy beret, he looked like the resident authority on wine. All Nate cared about was that the old man hadn’t looked at Frankie once. And Nate realized that was why his stomach was in knots. He wanted today to go perfect for Frankie. He was nervous—for her.

For the entire morning and most of the afternoon, he’d watched her watch Charles and never once had her grandfather
paid her any attention. Just like Nate hadn’t paid his family—or his job—any attention.

“I’m really sorry guys. I’ve been distracted.” Nate ran a hand through his hair.

Gabe picked up a brochure with lists scribbled down the back as evidence. “You think?”

“If you want, I can invite Alan to the vineyard, give him a private tour,” Nate offered.

He hated giving private tours, and usually left that responsibility to Trey, who was a charlatan of the people-peddler kind. But he’d screwed this up, so he’d fix it.

“Don’t worry about Alan,” Marc said, patting him on the back. “I met him last year at a hospitality conference in Chicago. He can’t stand Charles. Apparently, when Alan was just starting out, he tried to line up an exclusive deal with Baudouin Wines for some small hotel chain in Poland. Even though the offer was more than fair, Charles refused to sell, claiming his wine was too superior for their clientele.”

That sounded like a Charles thing to do. Man couldn’t even look at his own granddaughter. At least her brothers and aunt had taken turns helping her run the booth, so she hadn’t been alone, but still.

“Plus, Susan said Remington is set on going with DeLuca. There is no way Charles can weasel his way into this,” Marc added. “Lexi invited Susan, Alan, and his wife to the bistro for dinner last night. They talked food, we talked hospitality, and in the end Lexi closed strong with a pairing of a DeLuca late bottled vintage port and Pricilla’s éclairs.”

“Did they sign the contract?” Nate asked, surprised no one had told him. Then again, not all that surprising since he hadn’t seen his brothers in over a week.

“What do you think? It was Pricilla’s éclairs,” Marc said as though that was answer enough. And it was. Pricilla’s éclairs were world famous. A life-altering culinary experience, according to Martha Stewart.

“More important question,” Trey asked, his gaze narrowing in on Frankie. “How do you think she’s doing?”

Nate took a deep breath. He’d been meaning to talk to his brothers about Frankie’s grapes, but between preparing for harvest and organizing everything for the Cork Crawl, he hadn’t found the time. Okay, so he’d spent most of the time he could have been talking to his brothers about issues, which in the long run wouldn’t matter, getting lost in things that would—like Frankie.

“I think she’s going to win,” Nate said and to his surprise Marc and Gabe smiled. Trey, not so much.

“Why is everyone smiling?” Trey growled.

Gabe laughed. “Have you tasted her wine?”

“If he did, he wouldn’t be asking,” Marc said and Trey glared. Being the youngest, Trey hated feeling left out. Even more so, he hated to lose.

Poor Trey
, Nate thought. He was about to have a rough day. What Trey was missing was that Frankie winning wouldn’t hurt their business. The DeLuca reputation was based on quality, quantity, and a long history of taste. Frankie was quality all the way. Her wine was bold and exquisite and would lure in the high-end brokers and collectors. Not that Nate didn’t want to compete in that market—he would with his father’s Opus—but he also knew that in the end it wouldn’t matter who landed what account, as long as it was a fair fight they’d both win.

“She wins and we lose more than some stupid crown,” Trey said.

“It wouldn’t have mattered, Trey,” Marc said, sending Nate a smile that he had a hard time interpreting. “Even if she lost, Nate wouldn’t buy her grapes.”

“Why not?” Trey asked. “She has to pay off Tanner somehow. If she loses, she’ll have to sell to someone. Why not to us?”

Nate looked Trey directly in the eyes “I didn’t hook Frankie up with Tanner in hopes that she’d fail and lose her grapes.”

“Then why the hell did you do it?” Trey asked, sounding equal parts confused and pissed.

“And that is why you are single,” Gabe said, slapping Trey on the back.

“No.” Trey stepped back and shot each one of his brothers a horrified look. “I’m single because there seems to be a severe allergic reaction that happens when DeLuca males come in contact with domestication. The symptoms include but are not limited to, asinine diets, obsessive texting, and irrational and illogical decisions, all of which are hazardous to this family’s stability. Hell, at this rate I’m surprised I’m not carrying around one of those needles that people stab in their hearts when they go into shock.”

“An EpiPen?” Gabe offered.

“Yeah. A fucking EpiPen.”

Frankie stood in her booth and signed the questionnaire that yes, she’d had a great experience at the Cork Crawl, and yes, she would be coming back next year. Only she would be ditching the heels and black skirt. The location of her booth had brought more tasters than she’d anticipated and once the
sun had come out from behind the clouds, the temperature had shot up to a suffocating ninety degrees.

A thin sheen of perspiration beaded on her forehead and, because there had been no mid-morning or late-afternoon lull as promised, Jordan’s unwanted advice on shoes had cost her a blister on both big toes. Not that she was complaining, Frankie had spoken to more buyers in the past six hours than she had in the past fifteen years working for Charles—and she’d done great. She had a dozen business cards, all from prospective and very interested collectors and two brokers. Not Susan Jance level, but still impressive nonetheless. If it hadn’t been for Abby reeling her back in, Red Steel would have sold out before lunch. Bottled and futures.

“There’s a group of brokers and buyers standing over by the tree waiting to talk to you,” Jordan said. How was it that her friend had stood in the same intense heat all day and wasn’t even glistening?

Frankie walked out from under her tent. Sure enough, there was a group of about seven buyers, sweating like they’d just run a marathon in loafers, huddled under the tiny bit of shade offered by the mostly molted maple tree. They were talking among themselves, but when Frankie emerged they went silent, looking at her expectantly.

“They collected the barrels over an hour ago.” Which was why most people had taken to the large tent set up on the south side of the park. It was shaded, air conditioned, and there was an abundance of hors d’oeuvre and wine—for those who hadn’t already tasted themselves three sheets to the wind yet. “What are they doing?”

“What part of, ‘Waiting to talk to you’ did you miss?” Jordan said.

“They know you won,” Abby said, her hair a cluster of wild curls from the heat. “They know that any offers not seriously entertained before the corks are finished being tallied will be tossed out.”

“Do I go over and talk to them?”

“Nope. Let them sweat it out,” Jonah said, coming up from behind. Even though he was dressed in jeans and a Red Steel Cellars t-shirt, his department-issued authority was still locked and loaded. “Most of those people are mid-level buyers. They don’t have the money to compete at the level you’re about reach.”

“Which is why I told her not to accept any offers,” Abby said with a smile. “And she’s had plenty.”

“Smart thinking.” He tugged Frankie’s hair. “After you win, those offers will be tripled. And I bet if you don’t sell out tomorrow, whatever is left over will go straight to Chicago where it will fetch even more at auction.”

Frankie rolled her eyes. “We don’t even know if I made the cork court.”

She’d had an amazing day, no question, but she didn’t want to be talked into making a clean sweep only to be disappointed with a consolation prize.

“Just because I didn’t follow in dad’s footsteps doesn’t mean I didn’t follow him around for the first twenty years of my life.” He leaned down and gave her a hug and Frankie clung tightly to his shoulders. A response that surprised them both. “He would have been proud of you today, Frankie. I know I am.”

“He’s right,” someone said from behind. An extremely sexy someone, whose voice alone had the power to send a warm sensation sliding through her body. “You won.”

She turned and her breath seemed to stick in her throat. Nate stood in his trademark uniform of khaki slacks and a
DeLuca polo and took her in with those warm, brown eyes of his that made her feel like giggling. Then she looked down and did. His feet, minus one set off stuffy loafers, were sporting a pair of muddy, rugged ball-buster boots, which Frankie had come to associate with the down-and-dirty grape grower. Which meant that along with the giggling came some squirming on her part because of the intense heat that pulsed below her belly button.

“We don’t know that.” But in her heart she hoped it was the truth.

“Oh, you won, sweet cheeks,” he said. “No matter what Mrs. Rose has written on her tally, there was no other wine as talked about this year as Red Steel. I even had buyers asking
me
if I had tried it.”

“What did you tell them?” she asked, feeling very girlie and not really caring.

“That it was a shoe-in for the win.”

“I’ll bet,” Jonah said, eyeing Nate with suspicion.

Frankie hadn’t told anyone about Nate being her boyfriend—even thinking the word made her chest go shifty. But it was pretty obvious by how they were all but mentally stripping each other that there was more than just a roomie situation at Sorrento Ranch.

Movement at the front of the stage caught Frankie’s eye, as Mrs. Rose and the mayor took their place. Behind them, elbowing each other for the front spot, like a group of grannies at a high-stakes coupon bingo game, stood ChiChi, Luce, and Pricilla, each reaching for a tray with an award. ChiChi grabbed the King’s crown and Luca ended up with the Queen’s crown.

Frankie tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter which lady carried what award, that she’d held her own with the big boys
and she should be proud. But she didn’t want to merely hold her own, she wanted to kick some ass. And that meant winning.

“Can I have some money?” Ava asked as she walked over. Today her hair was streaked teal, matching her bellybutton ring, and she wore a halter top and a strip of white denim on bottom.

Abby blinked. Twice. Then leaned in and whispered, “Where’s the rest of her pants?”

“On vacation with the rest of your legs,” Ava said. “What are you, like four-feet tall?”

“Five-one,” Abby huffed.

“Whatever.” Ava rolled her eyes then turned to her mom. “Can I have some money? I’m hungry.”

Jordan handed her a twenty. But when Ava went to take the bill, Jordan didn’t let go. “If I find out that you gave this to Mr. Sexy Syrah two rows over, who promised to sneak you a couple of bottles if you met him behind town hall—”

“You’ll do what, mom?” Again with the eye roll. “You already took away my internet and phone.”

“You want to try me, young lady?” Jordan said, all business. Even Jonah took a step back. “I will have Mr. Sexy arrested for soliciting a minor, you thrown in jail for being underage and in possession of alcohol, and you will spend the rest of senior year taking Tiny Tots Tap with me at the Tap and Barre School of Dance. Now, you still need money?”

“Gawd.” Ava drew out the word for so long Frankie was convinced she’d pass out from oxygen deprivation. Bad ass mom with wicked game: one. Bad attitude teen with a wardrobe disorder: zero.