From the Moment We Met (9 page)

“Shit.”

Brandi Thomas was a bombshell who spent her days teaching Zumba at the gym and her nights training to be this season’s newest Gold Rush Girl for the Niners. They’d met several months back at a Niners benefit dinner in San Francisco, shared a few laughs, then breakfast—at her place. They’d exchanged some pretty steamy texts and she’d mentioned she might be up his way in the next few weeks. They may have even set a date, he couldn’t remember. But he was guessing it was tonight.

“Yeah, she came over all pissed, flashing her cell phone, asking if you were dating Abby. In front of her brothers, who went ballistic, by the way, when they saw the photo. Turns out their loyalty to Tanner Construction doesn’t go as deeply as you originally thought.”

They both knew Colin was talking about a whole lot more than Tanner Construction. The DeLucas were more than just his biggest clients; Tanner considered them friends. But being good enough to watch a game with and good enough for their sister were two distinctly different things. He hoped they thought he was fit for both positions.

He guessed that over the next few weeks he’d find out just how far their relationship went. Because he wasn’t backing off with Abby. He’d waited long enough to see where they could go, and finally their timing had lined up.

Something he was more than determined to take advantage of.

This definitely was not how Abby saw her Friday morning going.

When Mrs. Hampton had finally returned her call late last night, agreeing to meet at the bottling plant, Abby had nearly fainted with relief. She put everything she had into the new designs. Using the architecture of the original plant as a foundation, she took the fabric swatches from Valley Textiles and built around those, being conscious to make sure Babs’s taste meshed organically with the architectural integrity of the building.

The end result was stunning, the perfect solution for the unique space. She knew it.

Only there she was, in the back of the bottlery, sitting across a long wooden table from the gatekeeper and her devil dog—who was showing Abby just how big his teeth were. Her designs were spread out between them like a dividing line, one that could only be surpassed by her brothers, who were still managing to screw her out of a fresh start with their overwhelming
famiglia
love. Or at least the kind of fresh start that Abby had envisioned.

“What kind of ‘arrangement’ did my brothers offer?” Abby asked, shoving down a ball of frustration.

“Well, I was already more than impressed when the funds you wired landed in my account yesterday morning. Not everyone would have righted a wrong that costly when the law isn’t forcing them to. It made me look at you a little harder, rethink my stance and wonder just what other strengths you’re hiding.”

The Duke’s ears perked up at her last word and, tail wagging, eyes alert, he ducked under the table.

“Like I explained when you called—”

Hot breath singed her knees and Abby pulled her legs up under her and went on as though the dog wasn’t contemplating gnawing her kneecap off. “I wish I could have paid you back in full, but I wanted to make sure all of the investors got the pro-rata share of repayment, and there just wasn’t enough to pay back everyone completely.”

There had been enough money in Richard’s estate to pay back 90 percent of each shareholder’s original investment. Not including her family’s. That would take her a lifetime.

“But I am working on a plan with my accountant to make sure every penny invested is returned. It might take me a few years, but I promise you it will happen.”

“Which was why I was confused.” Babs folded her hands on the table, and her gold bangle bracelets clanked against the metal top. The hot breath under the table stopped, only to be replaced by a wet nose pushing at her foot. “A transfer in the sum of the entire amount plus ten percent landed in my account this morning.”

Abby felt all of the blood leave her head and the oxygen whoosh out of her lungs. “Who wired it?”

She already knew the answer, already knew her brothers hadn’t trusted her enough to handle her mess. But that didn’t mean the pain was any less debilitating when Babs said, “It seems you did. The money came from a DeLuca Wines account.”

She was going to be sick. Her brothers had paid back Babs with the family’s money. Money she had been more than clear would not be used to right her wrongs. And they had done it behind her back, without even consulting her.

Granted, her brothers wouldn’t have liked her suggestion of exactly where they could stick their money and their unwanted help. But still. It was her marriage, her mess, her problem—so why couldn’t they let it be her solution?

Plus, they’d recently sunk an enormous amount of the family’s money into the Italian villa she’d refurbished earlier that year. They couldn’t afford to keep bailing her out.

“I take it by the look on your face you didn’t know.” Babs reached across the table and patted Abby’s hand.

“No, I didn’t, and,”
oh God, this is going to suck
, “I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to return the money.”

“I see.”

Teeth. She felt the distinct sensation of very sharp, very pointy teeth slowly sinking into her right shoe. Which hurt almost as much as the sharp pain shooting through her chest.

She shook her foot, but the dog wouldn’t let go. So she shook harder and heard a muffled snap. “I understand if this ends our interview.” Especially since they hadn’t even arrived at the presentation portion of the morning.

“I see,” the older woman repeated.

That was it. That was all she said. Babs didn’t try to comfort her, didn’t apologize that it wouldn’t work out. She didn’t even look through the designs on the table. Designs Abby had poured her entire heart into. She just looked at Abby, as though this were some test and she’d just had a big red
F
Sharpied onto her forehead.

“Yes, well thank you for your time,” Abby said, proud her hands didn’t shake too badly when she gathered up her things. “And thank you for agreeing to meet with me. Again. I hope you find the right designer and that maybe in the future we can work together.”

“I have already found my designer.” Babs stroked The Duke’s head—who was suddenly by her side, a familiar black heel dangling from his jowls. “I only hope you can start right away.”

Abby struggled to read the woman’s lips, because with all of the blood pumping through her ears, she must have misunderstood. “Are you saying I’m hired?”

Babs smiled. “If you can start in a timely fashion.”

“Absolutely,” Abby said, her hands shaking from excitement this time. And her grin was so big she could barely contain it. “I can start today, if that works. Right now, even.”

“That’s wonderful,” Babs said, not an ounce of wonder in her tone. And her smile was more reluctant than real. “Because I am afraid we are also short a general contractor. The inspector warned me last time that if we don’t have one here by Wednesday for the sign-off on plumbing and electrical, he will have to reschedule, and that means postponing our Historical Preservation Council application. Again.”

“Again?” Abby asked, because the woman had practically whispered the last part. “Are you saying we haven’t submitted to the HPC yet?”

Babs gave a guilty shrug. “Between all the turnover, we haven’t even gotten on the waitlist to submit our application.”

Not what Abby wanted to hear. The Historical Preservation Council of St. Helena was a town-appointed council enlisted with the responsibility of preserving the historical integrity of the community. They took the responsibility seriously and, as such, adopted a zero-tolerance stance on big business, fast food franchises, and palm trees. They also took their sweet-ass time making decisions.

The waitlist to present to the HPC’s board was booked out months in advance—time Abby didn’t have if she hoped to make the grand opening happen before her nieces went off to college. The Jackson Bottlery was originally part of the Jackson Olive Plantation built in 1898, well before the town’s official hundred-year marker. It was a historically protected building, meaning all renovations, cosmetic or otherwise, fell under the intense scrutiny and jurisdiction of the HPC.

No stamp of HPC approval meant no cheese shop. Period.

They were so screwed.

“How close is the plumbing and electrical to being complete?”

With the few minor additions she had in mind for turning the basement into a drinking cellar, and given how long the project had already been in progress, Abby didn’t imagine Wednesday being a problem for the inspection.

Except, Babs looked as though it was going to be a problem. A big problem. The Duke, however, just looked smug, using the heel of her pump as a toothpick.

“You know, I don’t know, dear. When Brandon left, I forgot to ask.”

“Brandon from DuPont Developers?”

“Yes, nice boy, but no vision. Said he didn’t want to be steering the ship when it hit the iceberg. Such pessimism these days.”

Abby’s stomach plummeted. Brandon was on her short list of general contractors to call. They had gone to school together and he was the contractor Abby had hired when building her first big project, Ryo Wines.

“We-can attitudes are so much more exciting to work with.”

We-can attitude in full effect, Abby slid a copy of her designs across the table. “Why don’t you take home my preliminary mock-ups and see what you like, what you don’t, so we can get to work and have all of the structural changes, including fixtures and appliances, finalized by Monday.”

“By Monday?”

“I’ll go down to the planning department and see if we can get them to move the inspection to Friday. But that still puts us on a tight schedule, so every day matters. We have to have the new blueprints ready to go for the crew as soon as they show up for work.”

The older woman clapped her hands, practically tittering with excitement. “I knew you were the perfect person for this job. Such drive and ambition. Just draws people in, makes them want to believe! I can see why Richard married you.”

Choosing to focus on the “drive and ambition” portion of her statement, Abby gathered her things and stood, a burst of confidence humming through her veins. “If you could send over a list of who you have already worked with, I will compare it to mine and come up with a group of vetted general contractors by Monday. The Historical Preservation Council meets every second Tuesday of the month, which gives us a little over a week to prepare, and I want to be ready. To get on the waitlist, we have to pass that inspection first.” A difficult task with a building built before electricity and indoor plumbing were invented, but not impossible.

It would mean being on the site at all times, getting dirty with the crew, pulling all-nighters, and working side by side with the GC. But Abby was willing to do all that and more. She was even willing to move into the bottlery if it meant making this a reality.

This was her big chance, her way to turn things around—for everyone. All of Babs’s indecision and 180s and those sporadic whims, which changed with The Duke’s mood, had turned into Abby’s opportunity. Now all she had to do was remain patient and see this through.

“I think it would be easier if I just gave you a list of who I haven’t worked with yet,” Babs said quietly, and The Duke whimpered. If Abby didn’t know better, she’d say the woman looked embarrassed.

“All right,” Abby said, a little of her earlier confidence fading. “Why don’t you e-mail it to me at your earliest convenience?”

The woman smiled big and bold and Abby allowed herself to breathe. “Well, that’s easy,” Babs said. “There’s only one left. It’s Jack Tanner.”

CHAPTER 7

A
few hours later, Abby crossed the foyer and opened the front door as the late-afternoon breeze swept through the house, bringing with it the tart smell of tannins and wildflowers and all of the things that made summer in wine country wonderful. Yet instead of spinning around like Julie Andrews in a garden of dahlias for landing her dream job, Abby found herself glaring at Richard, with his chiseled abs and rock-hard buns, sporting the biggest lie ever told to mankind.

“This was on your lawn.” Lexi held up a plush teddy bear holding a rose. “Please tell me you have a secret admirer.”

“Nope, it’s for Richard.” And didn’t that just make her day so much crappier. “Yesterday there was a bundle of Mylar balloons tied to his arm, on Wednesday someone set a basket of lilies at his feet like some kind of offering. And don’t even get me started on whoever is placing the lit Jesus candles around the statue.”

“I hate to say it, but I kind of see why,” Lexi said, staring at the statue in awe. “I loathe Richard as much as the next person, probably more, but look at the lines on that statue, the symmetry. It really is a work of art.”

So she’d been told.

Abby took the bear and threw it on the sofa, then took a long swig of wine. Straight from the bottle.

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Lexi eyed the bottle.

Dressed in a cute pair of capris, a bright red top with matching ballet flats, and a disposition sunny enough to give Abby a headache, Lexi looked more like a preppy co-ed than the mother of a two-month-old. She also looked like she had an agenda—one that most likely had to do with Abby’s brothers—or Tanner. Two topics that were off-limits.

“Yeah, well, I thought I would be able to come home from my meeting and be rid of irritating males.” Abby glared at Richard, then took another swig. A long one. “But instead I come home to my husband still naked and my front yard looking like Graceland. Penny from the Paws and Claws Day Spa is even telling people that one of my dahlias dried in the form of Jesus’s face, so his homecoming must be the sign of a miracle. I think that deserves a drink or two.”

“Want me to grab some straws and tissue paper? We could spit wad him to death,” Lexi offered, and although that sounded like a fun way to blow off steam, Abby didn’t really feel up to it.

She considered pulling out her old slingshot from the attic and knocking that God’s-gift-to-all-women smirk right off his face—then aiming lower. “Nah, I’d have to clean it up.”

“Good point.” Lexi grabbed the wine and breezed into the house. “But if you drink all this, you won’t have enough to make an extra cake.”

Blowing out a breath, Abby closed the door and found Lexi already comfy at the kitchen counter helping herself to a fingerful of batter. “How did you know I was making cake?”

“You didn’t call after your meeting. So you were either here with your spatula, mixing away and making a plan—”

When Abby was stressed, Abby baked. And since there were only two things in the world she could rock in the kitchen, wine cake and Rice Krispies treats, she hadn’t even bothered to change out of her suit before pulling out the sherry and mixing bowls. Plus, if she ended up having to grovel to Tanner, she’d better have his cake.

“—or you were at the Spigot. Drunk,” Lexi said, grabbing the bowl after Abby poured the batter in the pan. “I went by the bar first since I was sure Babs told you about the money.”

“You knew they were going to bribe her?” Lexi’s silence was proof enough. “Of course you knew. You’re sleeping with one of my meathead brothers.”

Lexi laughed at that—hard. “You do remember we have a two-month-old, right? There is no sleeping. Of any kind. And yes, I knew because I told him that coup
les who have secrets don’t have sex.” Lexi waggled a brow. “I made sure when I said it that I had on nothing but an apron, heels, and a plate of cream puffs. He caved in three seconds and the cream puffs ended up all over our—”

That was all Abby heard. Hands firmly over her ears, she said, “Again, my soul dying with every word you speak. Plus, my day is bad enough without adding that lovely image. You could have at least warned me.”

Wow, for a woman constantly smothered by her family, Abby sure felt alone. Completely and utterly alone. A direct result, she was sure, of what happened when one chose to stand stagnant while everyone around moved on, fell in love, paired up.

“I didn’t know until you had already left for your meeting or I would have told you.” Lexi gave up on using her finger and stuck her head in the bowl. “And don’t be too hard on them. Your brothers are fixers, Abby. They can’t help themselves, especially when it comes to the people they love.”

“Oh. My. God.” Abby snatched the bowl away from Lexi and smacked at her hand when she refused to let go. “It finally happened. You’re actually siding with my idiot brothers.”

“Just one idiot brother. And I’m not siding, merely pointing out that his heart was in the right place, even if he might have overstepped a little.”

“Overstepped?” She dropped the bowl into the sink and put soapy water in it, just in case the traitor tried to snatch it back. “Last I heard, bribing someone into giving their sister a job is a tactic the mafia uses. They paid the woman ten times what I even stand to make on the project.”

“Wait. Stand to make? Are you saying you got the job?”

Abby grimaced. “Kind of. We still need the Historical Preservation Council’s
approval before we can start any real demolition. I want to submit our plans at the next meeting.”

Lexi blinked long and slow. “Abby, the next meeting isn’t until next month.”

“September? But they meet every second Tuesday.”

“Not in the weeks leading up to Founder’s Day, they don’t,” Lexi said, and Abby felt her chest tighten with a familiar sense of dread that always managed to precede impending doom. “They’re too busy screening Memory Lane Manor entries.”

Thousands of tourists flooded the valley during the Founder’s Day celebrations to partake in the annual Memory Lane Manor Walk, where they explored some of the most historic and beautiful homes in St. Helena. Each residence offered gourmet nibbles and bottomless wine tastings, which attracted foodies and historians from all over the world. Hundreds of houses entered and five were selected by the Historical Preservation Council as finalists, but only one got to wear the exclusive plaque of Memory Lane Manor of the Year. It was the only thing the HPC would be focused on.

“I’m cursed.” Abby dropped her head to the counter.

God, how had she overlooked that? There were posters plastered around town. Her neighbors were preparing for the Memory Lane Manor Walk, which went right through her neighborhood.

“This is karma coming back to bite me for marrying a moron then speaking ill of the dead.”

“You’re not cursed,” Lexi said, and Abby lifted her head and raised one challenging brow. “And Richard was a moron. That’s not speaking ill, that’s the truth and . . . wait.” Lexi placed a finger to her lips and tapped it three times—a sure sign she was scheming. “Unless,” Lexi said, doing a little dance in her chair. “You have Babs nominate the Jackson Bottlery for a Memory Lane Manor Walk hopeful.”

“The bottlery isn’t a residence, therefore doesn’t qualify. There is no way it would win.”

“Babs is always going on and on about some couple who fell in love and lived there for a whole sinful summer.” Lexi flapped a dismissive hand. “But the point is, you don’t have to qualify. You just have to nominate the building. Every nominee has to have their floor plan examined and the historical accuracy of their renovations approved as part of the process.”

“But we haven’t even renovated yet.”

“Exactly, but you’re going to as soon as you get the go-ahead. The first phase is a simple on-paper screening, which I’m betting is nowhere near as detailed as what you put together for Babs. And if the board approves your proposed plan as historically sound and up to code, then it would be the equivalent of getting a two thumbs up. Abby, you could start on the restoration as early as next week.”

“The building isn’t up to code, and I don’t know if getting it done in time is a realistic goal. The electrical isn’t even started, the plumbing needs to be redone, and don’t even get me started on Babs’s idea of timetables.”

Lexi reached out and took Abby’s hand. “You can do this, Abs. The final panel for presenting is a week from Tuesday. I know because Sweet and Savory was hired to cater all the events.”

Lexi was right. If Abby could get her plans reviewed by the board, then she could apply for the permits to start construction. The Pungent Barrel could be open for business as early as next month.

“Abby, this year, the winner will be highlighted in a four-page spread in
Architectural Digest
.” That got her attention. “And
Martha Stewart Living
is sending out a team to cover the event from the hearth and homemaking point of view.”

Which was why Lexi had agreed to cater the event for free, Abby remembered. That, and the proceeds of the evening went toward restoring the old firehouse into a much-needed community center and performing arts building.

“This could be huge,” Abby said, getting swept up in the possibilities of what-if.

“This could change your career, Abby.”

The truth was, it could change her life. It would take her from laughingstock to respectable designer in one project. It would give her the kind of credibility that ten years of busting her ass designing closets never could.

“I need to hire a general contractor by Monday if I want to be ready for the inspector.”

“Then hire a contractor.”

“I’ve spent all morning on the phone calling nearly every contractor I have ever met, even a few I haven’t. They are all either in the middle of a project, starting one, or if they were interested, it evaporated when they discovered exactly
which
project. No one wants to sign on to a project that is guaranteed to be ‘the
Titanic
of the foodie world.’”

“They said that?”

“And worse.” Abby sighed. “I still have a few left on my list and am waiting to hear back from some messages I left, but it doesn’t look hopeful.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is, since according to Facebook you’ve been getting pretty cozy with a certain sexy hired hammer.”

“I wasn’t getting cozy with Jack.” At least not in the picture. All of said electrical jolts happened well before Nosy Nora had slipped out from the bushes and snapped that shot.

“Uh-huh.” Lexi was so not buying it. “Well, Facebook has a poll going. There are four-to-one odds that Tanner’s already gotten you properly wired and up to code.”

“You handle your business like a man?” Tanner asked the wolfhound through the screen. “Because if you’re lying and your business ends up on my newly mopped floor again, I’ll call that animal rescue in town.”

Wreck didn’t seem overly concerned with the empty threat or Tanner’s newly mopped floor, he just lifted his lips in a smile and barked.

“Uh-huh.” Tanner wasn’t falling for the big-doggie-eyes trick. That’s how he’d wound up mopping his kitchen at the crack of dawn on Sunday in the first place. “Humor me and make another round or two. Take a whiz on Colin’s Mercedes while you’re at it. Maybe it will encourage him to move out.”

What had started as his buddy crashing in his guesthouse for a few months until his place was livable had turned into an eighteen-month unwanted houseguest who ate his food, drank his beer, and left a never-ending supply of dirty socks scattered around the house. Most of which Wreck ate.

“Can’t blame the dog,” Gus said, hobbling into the kitchen and grabbing a mug from the drying rack. It was red, chipped, and had 49
ERS CAN SUCK IT
scrawled across the front. It was the only mug he’d brought from home. Tanner had a dozen unchipped, unconfrontational mugs, but the old man refused to use them. “Wrecking Ball was just showing you what it feels like to have another man mess all over your plans.”

Gus sat at the counter and shoved the mug forward, his way of asking for coffee. Tanner obliged.

“And what plans are we talking about? Him wanting to use my work boots to sharpen his teeth or use my house as some kind of upscale litter box for dogs?”

From somewhere outside, an offended bark sounded. Tanner just hoped it came from the vicinity of Colin’s tires.

“No, the sex party you’re throwing here tonight.”

“There’s no sex party. I just told Colin he could invite a few of the guys over for the game.” A few guys meaning Ferris, because Colin swore that a game at Hard Hammer Tanner’s house was the only way to make up for running out on their meeting to rescue Abby.

Gus snorted, his eyes straying out the back window toward the pool. “Tell that to the two ladies swimming in their birthday suits as we speak. The blonde one with the Dolly Parton flotation devices was on the phone, inviting all her friends, saying it’s a bikini-optional kind of event.” Gus shook his head in disgust. “Bikini-optional kind of girls have perfumed purse dogs, and I don’t want that kind of lady sniffing up to Wrecking Ball. No man would.”