Summer in Napa (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (2 page)

Refusing to give up, she looked around the kitchen, hoping to find something, anything that might help. But nothing useful was in reach—except for a fresh tray of éclairs, which sat just to her right.

Her body sank, dangling like raw dough over the windowsill. It was no use. She was stuck. Trying to move forward while dodging your past was clearly impossible. So she did what any reasonable woman would do under the circumstances: she reached across the table, plucked a petit-éclair from the tray, and shoved the entire thing in her mouth, making sure to lick her fingers clean in the process.

She was reaching for her second pastry when something cold and wet poked her in the butt. She yelped. There was a bark, a sniff, and the wet again.

“Shoo,” Lexi hissed, waving her free hand even though the dog couldn’t see. “Go away.”

“He was just saying good morning.”

Lexi froze, considering her options. When she realized she had none, she snapped, “Well, you should teach him some manners.”

“Says the woman mooning half of St. Helena,” the silky smooth and way-too-amused voice behind her said, as though she wasn’t aware that her fanny was flapping in the wind.
“Plus, as far as Wingman is concerned, you were offering him up a doggie high five.”

Closing her eyes, Lexi composed herself and went for enchanting—something she’d once excelled in. Hell, she’d been cheer captain
and
valedictorian.

But that was all before. Before the end of her marriage. Before she lost her restaurant. Before she found her husband trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in nothing but her award-winning
noix de coco brûlée
and a hard-on, while her sous chef Sara used a basting brush and caramelizing torch in ways that were illegal in thirty-seven of the fifty states.

And before she turned her head, looked up through the window, and found herself staring at the one person in town who had never found Alexis Moreau enchanting. In fact, Marco DeLuca, entitled playboy and total meathead, had gone out of his way over the years to let her know just how annoying he’d believed her to be.

Ignoring Marc’s smart-ass grin and Wingman’s breath on her thighs, Lexi realized that with her new diet of cynicism and foolishness, enchanting was no longer her. So she did the next best thing. She grabbed another éclair and—

“No, he doesn’t do well with—”

—chucked it out the window. Barking and jumping ensued, accompanied by a lot of scrambling, mainly on Marc’s part.

“No, boy. Drop it. That’s right, custard’s—”

Wingman went wild at the word, barking and panting with excitement. Lexi knew how the dog felt; she felt a bond forming between her and the canine.

“Get the custard,” Lexi cooed.

“Don’t say that word.”

“What,
custard
?” Claws tapped the concrete as though Wingman was jumping up and down.

“Stop it,” Marc directed at her, and then, “No, very bad. Let go, it gives you…Aw, Wingman!”

The window next to her squeaked open. By the time she turned her head, Marc was leaning in, his forearms leisurely resting on the windowsill, earbuds dangling around his neck, and his alpha-male swagger stinking up the kitchen.

“Heard you were coming home.”

The way he said it, with an added little wink for extra sting, made her wonder just what else he had heard. Damn it. This was supposed to be a covert homecoming.

She grabbed the last éclair off the table and took a bite.

“I hope you brought enough to share with the class.”

She could have told him that there was another tray on the far wall, but Marc had been a permanent pain in her butt ever since she moved to St. Helena with her mom freshman year. He’d either teased her mercilessly or ignored her completely, a hard accomplishment, since Marc loved everything with boobs.

She looked down at her breasts and paused. They weren’t huge, but even in her grandmother’s baggy T-shirt, they filled out the top nicely. Jeffery had never complained.

Then again, he had also left her for a loafer-wearing vegan who—although she had a bizarre food fetish—looked more like a librarian than the “other woman.”

She took another bite and pondered. Whatever she and Marc used to have, confusing as it was, was just that—history. After she’d filed for a divorce, Lexi had gone from “pest-like friend” to “easily forgotten” in Marc’s eyes. And it had hurt.

Even worse—for Lexi—Marc was not only loved by women, respected by men, adored by the elderly, a real hometown freaking hero, but he was also her ex-husband’s best friend. Had been since preschool.

With a shrug she shoved almost the entire éclair in her mouth. Mumbling around the bits of flaky pastry and heavenly filling, she said, “Sorry, last one.”

Marc reached through the window, snatched the remaining bite—the last and
best
bite.

“Give it back.” Lexi’s arms shot out to stop him. Only Marc was faster, and meaner. Palming her head with his free hand, he held her down while he savored the last piece.

Lexi swatted him away. “Does everyone get such a warm welcome?”

Reaching through the opened window, he wiped a glob of filling off the side of her mouth. Licking it clean, he smiled. “Only the ones who wear their breakfast, cream puff.”

“I’ll be sure to pack a napkin next time. And it’s an éclair.”

When Marc’s hand made its way back toward her lips, she quickly wiped her mouth on her right shoulder. The white cotton came away with custard and chocolate smears.

“As great as it is to see you again, I’m kind of busy.”

All traces of humor faded, and his eyes went soft. “I can see that. Need some help?”

Yes
, she was about to beg. The offer seemed genuine enough, the last seventy-two hours had left her on the brink of tears, and for some bizarre reason Lexi wanted to give in to Marc’s charm and gallantry.

Then Marc came up behind her and, pressing his body against hers, leaned over and reached around her to scrape some leftover filling off the tray. Never one to disappoint, he
stepped back and ran a cream-coated finger down the back of her thigh before whistling, “Come here, boy.”

Not caring if she kicked Marc, Lexi started pumping her limbs like a teeter-totter. She might not be the most athletic girl on the planet, but she could still inflict some damage.

“Hold up, you’re going to hurt yourself.” Warm, strong, and incredibly unsettling hands rested on her upper thigh, stopping her movements and sending her heart into overdrive. Not to mention making everything below her belly button tingle.

Oh, so not good. Over the years she’d seen many a girl rendered downright stupid by just a single flick of his panty-melting smile. Lexi was not, and never would be, one of
those
girls.

His hands drifted higher so that his fingertips brushed the bottom edge of her shorts. “Now push back against me, and I will slide you out of there.”

“Nope. I’ve got it.”

“You sure, cream puff?”

Oh yeah. The last thing she needed was his help.

Marc pressed forward, close enough that she could smell his soap. “It’ll only take a minute. Then we never have to talk about it again.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Yeah, while I’d love to sit back and watch you try, it’s nearly ten, which means the Wine Train is about to disembark and its passengers will soon make their way down this alley, and your grandmother’s expecting you any minute. So stop swinging those legs at me, and I’ll help your stubborn ass out.”

When she didn’t budge, except to swing harder while aiming lower for more satisfying results, he said, “Or I can just shove you through to the other side. Either way, cream puff, I’m getting you out.”

Running into Marc with her hair in a messy knot, last night’s makeup on her face, and the unsettling feeling that he knew the truth behind her recent divorce was bad enough. Having him rescue her so he could call Jeffery later to laugh about her humiliating homecoming made her want to throw up.

But just like she’d known six months ago that she couldn’t hold together her marriage, Lexi now knew Marc was right. She couldn’t get out of the window by herself, and the Wine Train whistle was sounding closer by the minute, so she lowered her legs and reached back for his hands.

Alexis Moreau was a never-ending pain in Marc’s ass—always had been. She was smart, stubborn, and sexy as hell, exactly how Marc liked ’em. She was also his best friend’s girl, or ex-girl, which in man speak translated into hands off, something his brain had always known, but his dick had a hard time accepting.

If she hadn’t seemed close to tears a moment ago—or seemed as though she would rather ram him in the nuts than accept his help—he would have kept walking. And that was exactly what he was going to do, right after he got her out of the window, made sure she wasn’t hurt, and found the spare key to Pricilla’s apartment, which he was certain was hidden under the garden gnome.

That was his plan, anyway, until he placed his hands on her waist, gently slid her from the window, and registered what she was wearing. The usually coiffed and primped prom queen was in a pair of butt-hugging cutoffs—which he assumed at one time had been jeans—a thin white shirt, and not much else. She was a big, rumpled, blonde mess, and by the hollowness he heard in her mumbled “thanks” when he set her on her feet, he’d bet it wasn’t just a physical thing. Odd, since she’d been the one to walk away from her marriage and Pairing, the upscale New York restaurant that she and Jeff had opened a few years back.

Then Lexi bent over and reached sideways through the window to grab an éclair off another table inside, angling her body just right so that he got a near-perfect view of
her
pairing, pink bra and all, and her failed marriage was the last thing on his mind.

He stood back and smiled, not even bothering to pretend he wasn’t staring when she twisted farther to reach the treat, the movement tugging her shirt up and her shorts down low enough to prove she liked her lace matching. God, she was killing him.

“I’m guessing you’re okay then?”

“What?” She turned her head to look at him, those big green eyes wide in question. He merely dropped his gaze to her ass sticking up out of the window. “Oh, um, I’m fine. Just hungry.” She extracted herself from the window, sans the éclair, and straightened, pulling her too-long tee down.

Sad to lose his view but desperate to get out of such close proximity, Marc told her about the key under the gnome and turned. He was about to leave when her hands settled on his
arm and—goddamned son of a bitch—her touch sent a hot sexual zing shooting through his entire body.

Marc liked women. All kinds of women. He liked the way they smelled, the way they felt, the way they sounded calling out his name. He especially liked the last part.

He just couldn’t like
this
woman, not in
that
way. Not in any way other than as a friend.

Ever.

Yeah, good luck with that
, he told himself, remembering how he’d said those same exact words on graduation night, when he’d found her crying under the bleachers because Jeff, wanting to start college a free agent with open possibilities, had broken up with her. A week and some lame advice later, Lexi had left, following Jeff to New York with hopes of saving their relationship.

Lexi must have felt something too, because she jerked her hand back and eyed him cautiously. “You promised me earlier that we’d never talk about this again. Did you mean to anyone?”

Marc looked down the alley at Mrs. Lambert of Grapevine Prune and Clip and her partner in crime, Mrs. Kincaid—who, from the looks on their faces, had been watching the entire event unfold—and wondered how Lexi intended to keep her window fiasco a secret. St. Helena was a small town located in the heart of the Napa Valley, with two blocks of downtown, two gas stations, and only two commodities: wine and gossip. Now that two pairs of the loosest lips in the county were firsthand witnesses, those who hadn’t been there were bound to get a stellar reenactment by lunch.

Lexi ignored the women and stared up at him, pleading—and with one look at the anxious way she worried her
lower lip, he understood. She wasn’t talking about the town; she was afraid this would get back to Jeff. Which made no sense at all.

Last he’d heard Lexi hadn’t given a rat’s ass about Jeff’s opinion, which was one of the reasons their restaurant had been foundering in the year or so leading up to the divorce. But if she wanted her morning kept a secret, who was he to ruin her day?

“Deal.”

“Thanks,” Lexi whispered.

Marc’s phone chirped. He didn’t move to answer it.

“I’ll let you get that and”—she paused and offered up a pathetic smile—“thanks.”

Marc should have taken the opportunity to get the hell out of there. Instead, he found himself sending the call to voice mail without even looking at the screen. “Look, when the rest of your stuff gets here, let me know and I can help you unload.”

He should be putting space between them, not offering to get all hot and sweaty in her room. Even if it was just from moving her boxes.

“Except for my dress, I already unloaded everything.” Marc looked at her gnat-sized car and frowned. As if reading his mind, she continued, “I got a really fair offer for the house as is, with the furniture, which worked for me. I bought everything to fit that house, and it meant less for me to move.”