Summer in Napa (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (6 page)

“That all?” Marilee asked, snapping Marc out of his daze.

Mrs. Craver was glaring at Lexi, who was too busy repacking what the bag boy had already packed up to answer. She carefully separated everything in two bags, so intent on her project she didn’t realize they were holding up the line.

“I think so,” Marc said, taking out his card and adding his items to the total.

He signed the receipt and grabbed the bags when Lexi looked up. “I have to pay.”

“Already did, cream puff.” And with a “good day” to Marilee, he ushered her out the door.

They were halfway to his truck, Lexi digging through her wallet and following him blindly, when Wingman spotted them.

“Wingman, stay,” he commanded, and like any good dog, Wingman leaped out the window with a bark and ran—right up to Lexi.

Squatting down, she hugged the lucky mutt and didn’t even complain when he licked her face.

“You shouldn’t run around like that. You could get hit,” she cooed, and Wingman, being a male confronted with a soft, curvy female, dropped to his stomach and rolled over, letting her give him a nice belly rub.

When the dog was all but moaning, with his eyes rolled back into his head, Lexi stood and extended her arms. For a split second Marc though she was offering him a belly rub.

“My bag. I’ve got to get going.”

Bag. Right.
“I’ve got it.”

“Yes, well, you’re going there”—she looked pointedly at his truck and then to the bakery across the street—“and I’m going there.”

“Great. Then it shouldn’t take too long. Let’s go.” After locking Wingman back in the cab of the truck, he walked across the parking lot, biting back a smile when she came clacking up behind him.

“I can carry my own stuff.”

“Never said you couldn’t.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “At least tell me how much I owe you.”

Marc reached the curb and stopped. “I have a better idea.” It was a stupid idea. One of the worst ideas he’d ever had. “My buddy’s wife just went into labor, and I said I would pick up his wines for the Showdown. Buy me a tank of gas, come with Wingman and me for a ride, and we’ll call it even.”

She didn’t ask where he was going or when he’d be back, just stared at the bakery, which housed three silvered grannies staring back, and said, “Okay.”

“Really?” And just like that he went to half-mast. The image of her riding next to him on his truck bench, straddling the gearshift—

Ah man, he was toast. That mountain would force him to change gears at least twenty times each way. Which meant he’d be brushing up against her thigh at least twenty times each way. And man law or not—that was way too tempting.

Before he could rescind his invitation, she nodded and looked up at him with those big, mossy eyes and he was lost.

What the hell had just happened?

He was supposed to offer, and she was supposed to refuse. It was how they worked. How they had always worked.

“I mean, if you can wait,” she began. “I’m making lunch for our grandmas and Lucinda as a thank-you for, well, everything. And they’re waiting on me.”

So that’s what they had told her.

“It will be about an hour. Is that okay?” she asked, resting a hand on his arm.

“I can wait.” Hell, if she kept touching him like that, he’d wait all afternoon. Not that he’d be waiting that long. He’d give her two minutes tops, and then they’d be on the road.

They crossed Main Street, and when they reached the other side, she took the smaller bag from him. “This is for you. It’s healthier than the beef jerky. Plus, the fig jam on that gouda is incredible. Oh, and—” She dug through the bag, coming up with the bone. She unwrapped it. “This is for Wingman.”

“Marc?” A sugary voice came down the street and right into the moment.

He watched as his newish assistant, who was stacked, blonde, and looked like she was more adept at navigating a pole than a spreadsheet, made her way past the hotel and toward them. Even though she was dressed in the standard Napa Grand uniform of a black skirt and fitted blazer, in the sunlight, seeing her through Lexi’s eyes, suddenly there was nothing standard about the way it fit.

“Hey, Chrissi,” Marc said. “Have you met Pricilla’s granddaughter? Lexi, this is Chrissi.”

“Ohmigod,” Chrissi squealed. “I love her chocolate croissants. The ones with the tiny pieces of sea salt sprinkled on the top. Yummy.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Christie,” Lexi said.

“Chrissi, with an
i
,” she corrected, and Marc felt his left eyelid twitch.

“My apologies,” Lexi said, sliding him an amused glance.

Chrissi blinked up at Marc with her big eyes, and her even bigger breasts strained against her blazer. “I’ve been trying to find you. Gabe called, something about a missing case of wine. And I ordered lunch. Your favorite. It’s getting cold.”

“Well, then, I won’t keep you,” Lexi said, giving his arm a little pat. “It was nice to meet you, Chrissi.”

Marc watched her walk off, knowing what she was thinking, knowing that she was wrong, and hating that he cared.

Thanking Chrissi for lunch and apologizing that he would be out of the office the rest of the day, he took off after Lexi.

“I still have your kumquats,” he shouted.

Lexi stopped under the red-and-white-striped awning of the patisserie. When he caught up, he said, “And you stole my lunch.”

“Actually, I
left
so that you could
get
to your lunch.”

Marc looked up at the sky and counted to ten, letting her words settle. Surprised by how much they rubbed him the wrong way, he actually had to go up to fifteen. “It’s not what you think.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” Marc kicked at the ground, irritated that he was irritated.

“I get it, remember?” she said softly. “I’m the one who breaks up with girls for you. As long as she’s a consenting adult, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Exactly. So why did he want to so badly?

“For the record, Chrissi is my assistant. She holds a double degree in marketing and hospitality management. And although she’s a little flighty and way too perky—”

He stopped when Lexi snorted at his word choice.

“Sorry, go on.” She placed a hand over her mouth, but he could still see her eyes glistening with humor.

“She’s bilingual, great with customers, and was hired by my sister-in-law.”

With that, Marc spun on his heel, took two steps, and stopped. Yeah, it looked bad; he got it. And it sucked. So he stalked back. “And I don’t sleep with my staff. Ever.”

And he stormed off for the second time. Only this time he didn’t make it more than a step when he felt her hand on his arm—again. And this time he couldn’t ignore that some serious sparks of lust shot straight down to his groin at the simple contact. “I never thought you would.”

Then why did he feel like he was lacking?

He released a breath and faced her. “People change, Lexi.”

“Okay,” she said, her expression soft and genuine, which pissed him off even more.

Because it wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. He’d never felt the need to give an explanation before. Not even to his brothers. So why was he chasing her through town to give one? Now that Lexi was back in St. Helena, something had changed, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Hell, he wasn’t sure how he felt about anything.

With a soft smile, she held out her hand. “You still have my kumquats.”

He handed them over. “You’re not going to come with me, are you?”

“I promised the grannies. And even though it would be fun to ride around like old times, the longer I avoid…” She stared at him a moment. A long moment, before finally shaking her head. “Maybe another time.”

“What if I told you that there is no lunch with the grannies? That this is a setup for your Mr. Tuesday Lunch?”

“What?” Lexi made her way to the window and cautiously peeked in. He knew what she would see. Jay Sanders, a decent-enough-looking middle-school history teacher. He would be nice and charming and laugh at her jokes. He’d stick to bland crap like kids and travel and his favorite movies. And he’d be a safe bet.

“There was no Mr. Tuesday Lunch. How did you know?”

Marc came up beside her. “Pricilla runs a blog with everyone’s days on it. Bios. Everything but their criminal records.” From inside, Jay waved and so did Pricilla. “Go for a ride with me, Lexi.”

Lexi gave Mr. Safe a hesitant wave back, and Marc had his answer.

He shouldn’t have felt disappointed. But he did. “I guess I was wrong about people changing. Have fun on your date, cream puff.”

“What can I get you? The regular?” the bartender asked.

Every Thursday night for the past eight years, ever since the youngest DeLuca brother, Trey, became of legal age to partake in public, Marc and his brothers had met at the locals-only bar, the Spigot. After a couple rounds of pool and a couple more rounds of beer, they would come up with a couple really satisfying ideas on how to catch and castrate their sister Abby’s SOB of a husband.

Six years ago Richard, who suffered from wandering-dick-and-sticky-fingers syndrome, got caught having an affair. Shortly after, he disappeared—taking with him twelve million dollars and their sister’s heart. The four brothers had sworn to get both back.

Tonight was a Wednesday, though, and Marc hadn’t come to shoot a game, the shit, or otherwise. He’d come to unwind—alone. He’d managed to avoid a meeting with his brothers, claiming that the first shipment of wine for the Showdown was expected to arrive, which it had. It had also taken three extra guys and an afternoon of paperwork to get the cases settled properly in the wine cellar.

Okay, so maybe the paperwork took a little longer because he still couldn’t get his mind off what Lexi had said yesterday. More specifically, what Lexi hadn’t said. She’d stood there
silent while he justified how he’d chosen to live the past ten years—to her!

The more he thought about it, the more irritated he got.

So he’d grabbed his keys, locked up the office, and found himself standing at her back door, ready to explain just how much he’d changed. And apologize for his parting remark.

Then he realized that he didn’t do explanations—or apologies. They were too close to the truth, which made things too serious—another thing he didn’t do. He also reminded himself that this was Lexi, the woman who’d been married to his best friend. The same best friend who had not only helped Marc get through the single most painful experience of his life, but had stood by his side as Marc spun himself out of control. Jeff had never judged Marc for his reckless behavior after his parents’ deaths, like his brothers had. Never told him to grow the fuck up and get serious about his future. No, Jeff had understood that Marc needed to lose control before he could find it again, needed to deal with the pain of losing his parents in his own way.

So instead of knocking he kept walking, straight through town, straight through the bar, and straight through his second drink.

He’d barely started on his third when two familiar and, by the looks of them, pissed-off Italians flanked him on either side. Not bothering to hide all their big-brother bullshit, Gabriel and Nathaniel, the oldest of the DeLuca boys, elbowed and pressed in on him as they took their seats at the bar.

“You want to tell me what the hell you were thinking?” Gabe said in greeting.

Since Marc wasn’t sure exactly what he was being accused of, though he was pretty sure he was guilty on several counts,
he remained silent. When he picked up his beer, purposefully tuning out his brothers and tuning in to the ball game playing on the plasma screen behind the bar, Nate slid the day’s issue of the
St. Helena Sentinel
in front of him.

Marc looked down at the headline advertising the St. Helena Summer Wine Showdown and felt himself relax. They weren’t here about Lexi or Natasha or the fact that two contenders had almost pulled out of the Showdown because his “qualified” assistant had forgotten to send them the proper paperwork.

“You’d better start explaining, and fast, since I’m about two seconds from kicking your ass, stealing your beer, and moving the Showdown to the family winery.”

“I heard that the second trimester’s rough,” Marc said, biting back a grin and sliding his beer toward his oldest brother. “I didn’t know all the nagging and hormonal crap was contagious, though.”

Gabe shot him a look that was intended to intimidate him into compliance, but all it accomplished was making Marc laugh. Even after their parents died and Gabe stepped up to run the family winery and raise his younger siblings, he’d always managed to keep his easygoing attitude—that was, until his new wife announced that they were expecting. Regan, outside of a few bizarre cravings, had had an easy pregnancy so far. Gabe, on the other hand, was a complete mess.

“Regan’s not nagging,” Gabe defended.

“Says the man who has a flat of Rocky Road ice cream stashed in his truck,” Nate said, waving the bartender over.

“Which is melting.” Gabe looked down longingly at the beer before slowly sliding it back toward Marc with a mumbled curse.

Marc took one look at the constipated expression on Gabe’s face, noticed the three gray hairs that had sprouted overnight, and slid the beer back. “You go ahead. You need it more than I do.”