From the Moment We Met (3 page)

Tanner inwardly cringed, because he knew what she said wasn’t actually correct. She was one of three on the list. And the least qualified. When Ferris Hampton had called Tanner yesterday, begging for the name of a local designer who could work with his mother and didn’t scare easily, Tanner had immediately thought of Abby. She was tough, talented, and would deliver—regardless of what Babs Hampton, whose indecisiveness and complete 180s in vision for her premiere wine and cheese shop had managed to scare off the last six designers, threw at her. Babs’s flightiness was something that drove her son, Ferris, to distraction. A distracted Ferris meant trouble for Tanner and his business partner, who were trying to land a major deal with the Hampton Group.

“Look, I know how the Hamptons work. They are particular and demanding, especially Babs, and I know what she is looking for in a presentation,” he explained. “With her it’s about the way you present your ideas.”

“And let me guess,” she laughed. This time
at
him. “You want to come with me to lunch and hold my hand so I don’t screw this up?”

“I was talking about lunch, with me, to prep. And darling,” he tucked one of her curls behind her ear, pleased when she gave a little gasp, “your designs speak for themselves. If they pass, it’s their loss, not yours.”

She looked shocked at his comment, then immediately suspicious. “If you think I have this in the bag, then why should I have lunch with you?”

“This is a Hampton project, and there is no way that you are the only candidate. The other firms are big, flashy, and they have a solid foundation behind them. What they don’t have is insight into the customer. I do. And I think that with what I know about the project, you can fine-tune your pitch and create a customized proposal to match their expectations.”

Her eyes were big and dreamy, and he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her. Only instead he said, “And Abby, I’ve wanted to hold your hand in public since the day I met you.”

“Hey, Tanner,” Libby Alistair hollered from her front porch. Libby was blonde, stacked, smoking hot, and always up for a fun time. She also had a horrible sense of timing, and was apparently Abby’s neighbor. “Niners’ preseason starts Sunday. You think they’ll take it all the way this time?”

And even from across the street, no one could miss the way her expression lit up in blatant invitation. An invitation that a few days ago Tanner would have gladly accepted. But now that Abby was back in play, there was only one invitation he was interested in gaining. Too bad her expression was dialed to
eat shit and choke on it
.

“Funny,” Abby said, not an ounce of funny to her tone. “I promised never to give you the time of day when you broke my heart.”
Right. That.
“And unlike you, DeLucas never go back on their word.”

“So is that a no on lunch then?”

Without answering him, she tugged her robe tightly around her and brushed right past him into her house, those ridiculous slippers of hers growling with every step. The best part was that her hips were moving at such a velocity that the bottom of her robe kicked up, flashing him a hint of peach silk that went a long way toward making his morning even brighter.

“Was it the ‘who pays’ part?” he hollered after her. “Because I’m okay with going dutch.”

The door slammed in response. Followed by the dead bolt clicking loudly, and Tanner had to smile. Abby was running, which was fine with him. He’d known her long enough to understand she only ran when she was scared. And she was scared, all right.

Scared she wanted to go back on her word.

CHAPTER 2

A
bby needed this job.
Badly
, she thought, scooting to the far end of Babs Hampton’s couch, the moleskin cushions shedding on her black skirt.

After spending the past four years designing grand wineries for her family and not-so-grand closets for everyone else, she needed a break. That one person who would believe in her designs enough to take a chance on a newcomer.

She had the vision, the drive, and the talent. What she didn’t have was a stellar portfolio with clients whose last names were not DeLuca.

Minus the recent string of nurseries she’d designed for the Wine Valley’s Mommy Troop and the men’s station at Stan’s Soup and Service Station, there wasn’t a single job in Abby’s portfolio that wasn’t a direct result of her smothering brothers or family name. Which was why she had to land the Hampton job.

Her family was friendly with the Hamptons, but they didn’t have a long history with them. Which meant it was all up to her. Something that felt exhilarating and liberating and a little bit foreign.

“It isn’t polite to stare,” Abby said to the four-legged dust mop whose lips were peeled back, exposing a set of very large, very pointy teeth. She scooted as close to the far edge of Babs’s couch as possible and stated, as calmly and rationally as one could when facing down a growling dog, “In fact, I’d appreciate it if you’d move back a little, your breath is invading my personal space and your paws are leaving prints on my presentation.”

To her surprise the dog moved—just enough to situate all four feet on her superglossy 8½-by-11 presentation, which she’d spent all day perfecting. Then he sat, making sure to slide his butt and all of his apricot-colored tail over her cover page, crinkling it.

Not willing to let another overbearing male ruin her chance at happiness, Abby reached out to snatch it back.

The dog growled. Low and lethal. His diamond-studded collar flashing in the afternoon sun.

“You may think you’re scary, but you’re not,” Abby whispered, snatching her hand back—right as Babs Hampton peeked her head out from the kitchen doorway.

“How is everything going, dear?”

Abby eyed the dog, who was still showing his teeth, and smoothed her palms over her skirt. “Great.”

“Oh, lovely, I hope The Duke was being a good host,” the older woman said, beaming with delight, her kitten heels clicking the marble floor as she strode across the foyer and into the sitting room.

The woman was notorious for wearing leisure suits with coordinating robes and eye shadow. Today the suit was teal, the robe pooled to the floor, and she had on a stunning diamond choker. With her birdlike face, frail limbs, and halo of out-of-the-bottle apricot curls, she looked just like her dog.

“Did I misunderstand our meeting time?” Abby asked, because she’d been sitting with The Duke for over an hour while Babs busied herself elsewhere.

“Oh. No, dear.” She sent Abby a sly wink and gracefully reclined in the wingback chair next to the dog. “I was preparing lunch. And giving you two some privacy to, you know”—she reached over and patted Abby’s knee—“bond.”

No. Abby didn’t know. But Babs was opening an exciting new shop on Main Street. And Abby wanted to be a part of that moment.

The Pungent Barrel, when complete, was rumored to be set to become wine country’s premiere destination for wine and cheese connoisseurs. The innovative reimagining required to turn a historical bottling plant into a world-class tasting room would allow Abby the chance to showcase her knowledge of wine culture and spatial transformation.

Not to mention being a Hampton project lent it the kind of prestige that would look stellar on her resume and, more importantly, if Abby could create a wine and cheese experience that appealed to all the senses while managing to gain the Babs stamp of approval, which she would, it would be the kind of in she desperately needed—where getting hired for other, more exclusive projects would be a snap.

So if it took bonding with Fang over there to get this deal, then she’d start packing doggie bones laced with mood stabilizers.

“I brought these for you. Just a few samples of my work.” Abby pointed to her portfolio and The Duke snapped his jaws. “Why don’t you take a look, see the range of projects I have designed, and then we can discuss . . .”

Abby stopped because, what was she doing? She wasn’t a hard sales kind of girl. She was a people pleaser and she wanted to please Babs. But she also wanted to be honest. “I know that your last designer left and you are anxious to resume construction, so I want to assure you that I am able to move fast, adapt efficiently, and, if you decide to use my firm, I am ready to begin work immediately.”

“Oh, that’s just lovely,” Babs said excitedly.

Lovely.

Abby felt her lips curl up into a triumphant smile. She was going to land this job without Tanner’s referral, without her family’s influence, and without the glossy sales pitch Tanner had gone on about. She was going to land this job on her portfolio, talent, heart, and good old-fashioned communication—and she couldn’t wait to rub it in Tanner’s face.

Confidence bubbling, Abby went on. “I have to admit, I called around and discovered that you use Valley Textiles, and they were nice enough to send me some samples of what you had already picked out. Very elegant and modern. I was impressed.”

“Thank you.” The older woman preened at the compliment, and Abby had meant it. For a woman who usually favored over-the-top, the color scheme was sleek and innovative.

“Since you are looking for a historical rehab with a modern twist, I think you’ll love what I did with the master suite at the villa in Italy.” She grabbed her portfolio and flipped to the section showcasing her family’s destination getaway. “If you look here, you can see how I merged old-world details original to the farmhouse with—”

“Hydrants,” Babs provided and smiled as though that made perfect sense.

“Pardon?”

“Fire hydrants. The Duke loves fire hydrants. And fire engines and fire hats and his favorite color is, oh my, it is, uh . . .” The woman’s lips pursed in concentration as she snapped her fingers.

“Red,” Abby offered.

“Yes.” She clapped her hands and the dog barked. “The Duke just loves fire-engine red. With yellow accents and little bones everywhere. That will be nice, don’t you think?”

“Um.” Abby’s cheeks were beginning to hurt from the weight of keeping her smile in place. This woman was as crazy as her dog. No wonder she had scared off six other designers. “I’ve never considered fire-engine red as a soothing color. But maybe if you showed me the space, explained what you envisioned, I could better understand—”

“You saw the space when you came in.” Babs looked as confused as Abby felt, and suddenly that bad feeling—the one that had formed in the pit of her stomach when Richard showed up on her lawn that morning and gotten worse when she’d learned she was stuck with him for a week—turned into a painful ache that swelled up into her chest until she was afraid she might pass out.

“Right,” Abby ventured. “The old Jackson Bottlery downtown, the one at the end of Main Street. I passed it on my way here.”

“No, the bottlery is for my cheese shop,” Babs explained slowly, her brows furrowing even more. “I was talking about my late husband’s old den. I pointed it out when you arrived. It’s the perfect place for The Duke’s new doggie habitat.”

Which explained the “bonding” hour. And why Babs had set out a bowl of kibble on the coffee table next to the nuts. She was setting the scene for Abby to meet her new client. “But I don’t do doghouses.”

“Habitat, dear. They’re all the rage,” she said, steepling her fingers beneath her chin. “The Duke and I saw a lovely alpaca habitat last week on our morning walk, and it got us thinking, ‘Now, wouldn’t that be nice?’”

Yes, lovely and nice, lovely and nice, lovely and nice. They were the only adjectives the woman knew.
Oh my God
, Abby was going to lose it right there. On Mrs. Hampton’s settee. With The Duke playing witness.

“Then I ran into your brother, Nathaniel, at the market, such a nice boy.” She gave that smile that every woman between newborn and not quite embalmed gave when they encountered Abby’s older brother. “I was buying some prime rib for The Duke’s dinner and Nathaniel told me that you helped him design the alpaca habitat. Invited me over for a tour, even gave me a bottle of that fancy wine of his wife’s, and I have to say I was impressed.”

“With the wine?”

“With the habitat. Although, that I acquired a bottle of Red Steel was all the talk at the Garden Society’s Friday tea.”

“I bet.” Abby was going to be sick.

“But the real star was that habitat. What a serene, playful, and perfect space you created, Abigail.” She patted the dog’s head. “Only we want ours red and with bones. Maybe even a little siren he can ring.” The Duke looked up at his mistress and barked, and Babs clapped once with excitement. “Or maybe a palace-themed habitat. I see royal, regal, elegantly fit for a duke. But with hydrants. Gold ones.”

“I only directed Nate to a site that sold habitat blueprints. I didn’t actually design it.”

“He said you helped add on the reading room and exercise corral as their wedding present.”

“Yes, I did.”

Screw sick, she was furious. Not only had Nate butted into her life, something that all of her brothers had spent a lifetime mastering, he also felt as though he had to bribe an old lady with fancy wine in order for Abby to book an interview—for a freaking habitat.

Closing her eyes, she let her head drop back against the couch, wondering how she could have been so stupid.

Her husband was naked on her lawn and the entire town was flocking to get a look. Her family thought she was as good as her last closet. She was considering taking a job building a doghouse for a four-legged duke. And,
oh God
, the worst part of all—Tanner had all but told her so.

Her life was a mess. She was a mess. A talentless, jobless, pathetic mess.

Your designs speak for themselves. If they pass, it’s their loss.

Tanner had been wrong on both counts. Her designs wouldn’t be seen, let alone heard, and if Babs passed, it would be Abby who lost out. And she didn’t know if she’d bounce back. Because after her hellish day, she stood to lose a whole lot more than a stupid job.

Tears burned her throat, so she reminded herself that her designs were incredible.

So what if she was called here to pitch a glorified doghouse? She had designed million-dollar wineries. Completely renovated an Italian farmhouse, making it one of the most exclusive destination rentals on the Mediterranean. Who cared if the property belonged to her family? They hadn’t done the work, she had.

Every grueling and inspired inch of it.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hampton.” Abby sat up and snatched the proposal right out from under The Duke’s paws. “My firm no longer specializes in nurseries or habitats. I came here to help you turn that old bottling plant into a wine and cheese shop that will be the envy of the vine and curd community. I want to make your dream a reality and ensure that your shop shines.”

Babs took the offered package and flipped through it, her eyes scanning with practiced precision, her fingers running down the length of the pages. Abby could see it, the way her face lit with excitement, how her hands shook as she saw the potential of what Abby’s Designs could bring to her shop.

“This is impressive,” Babs said, professional appreciation lacing her voice.

Then she reached the proposed budget Abby had put together and her eyes dimmed. Not a lot, but enough that the back of Abby’s throat began to burn. “But I think that the habitat is more in line with your . . . comfort zone.”

“If it is the size of the project, I assure you that I am more than qualified to handle it,” Abby clarified, tired of people underestimating what she
could handle. “If you’ll turn the page, you will see that I have handled budgets three times this size.”

Babs closed the folder and placed it on her lap. “Yes, dear, but that was with your family’s money.”

It was as though time stopped, rewound, and lodged itself right through Abby’s chest. She knew the look on Babs’s face, knew it well. It was the same look the paramedic had given her when she’d asked if her parents were going to be okay. The same look she’d received from the investors when she’d explained that Richard, and their money, had disappeared. It was the same look her family was going to give her when they discovered that Richard had returned—albeit in statue form—and was somehow her problem once again.

“Are you afraid I won’t be able to handle a project this complex?” As the words left her mouth, a sick sense of dread made it difficult to speak. “Or are you afraid I’ll have a hard time keeping the money from disappearing into my pocket?”

“Oh, no,” Babs said, her hand clutching her chest in genuine horror. “I would never think you could steal. From me or anyone. You’re not that kind of girl. Never have been.”

Abby felt herself relax a little. Sometimes, when she was too tired to pretend everything was all right, she wondered if what happened with Richard was part of the reason people in town always went with other designers. She was relieved to know, whether she got this job or not, that wasn’t the case here.

“No, dear, my concern would be that someone would sweet-talk you into gaining access to the account. Plus, my son would never allow it. Ferris was one of Richard’s original investors.”