by Jo McNally
Well, that much was true. He’d do anything for the couple who’d saved him from following the Rutledge family tradition. Whitney saw a truth most people in this town never bothered to look for. How was he supposed to respond when a beautiful woman, wearing only his faded T-shirt, told his fortune? Not from reading his palm, but from reading the marks on the back of his hand. And she wasn’t finished stripping him bare.
She tugged his ring finger up straight, exposing a spot of cranberry spread on the tip, giving him the naughtiest of smiles.
“And this? This means no one you care about will ever go hungry.” She licked his finger clean. Two images crashed together in his brain. One was of the old Kenmore refrigerator in the trailer, filled with cold beer and all those boxes of frozen fucking fish sticks. The other was of Helen’s stovetop, loaded with boiling pots of deliciousness that smelled like salvation to a teenage boy. It had been a glimpse of a better, different world from the one he’d known. A world he’d been destined to live in, right up until that moment when Tony had put his arm around a teenaged Luke’s shoulder in the kitchen.
“You can eat all this food yourself,” Tony had told him. “Or you can learn how to make it and feed your brothers and sister.”
That had been the first time someone had suggested he had the power to change things. Some people had given his family free food and clothes out of pity, and he’d hated it. No one until Tony ever told him he could do more than just accept his fate. Tony could have had Luke arrested the first time he caught him stealing tomatoes from his garden. Instead, he and Helen taught him how to grow things. How to cook. How to be a man. He closed his eyes tight, holding back the tears that threatened.
Whitney watched patiently, waiting for him to process her words, that playful smile still on her lips. Thank god she’d run out of things to kiss and praise, because his head was already pounding from trying to reconcile it all. The light cast from that ancient lamp of his mom’s was muted by its dark red lampshade. The warm tone made Whitney’s skin glow, even in the shadows. Or maybe that was just Whitney. Maybe that glow came from inside her, and not some thrift shop table lamp.
Their fingers were locked together again. He was drawn to her against all odds. There was no sense fighting it. He stood abruptly, pulling her to her feet in front of him. This night had been insane. He’d punched a guy. Drunk whiskey with Whitney. Let her seduce him up into his own damn apartment. Into his bed. The towel around his hips twitched. He tugged Whitney close enough for her to feel him against her. That naughty smile of hers deepened, and she pressed her body against his.
His arms slid around her waist and they started to sway to a silent melody. He was dancing with Whitney Foster. In his kitchen. Her head nestled on his shoulder. He rested his cheek on her head. It was...perfect. Luke’s chest swelled with some unfamiliar emotion too frightening to explore.
He brushed his lips across her ear. “I want you again.”
She chuckled, looking up at him. “I can tell.”
Would “again” be once too often? Would they cross some line that couldn’t be uncrossed if they spent the night in his bed? He gave her a chance to choose caution.
“I’ll understand if you don’t want to. Tomorrow’s Saturday. The winery’s open. We should get some sleep.”
Whitney turned away, taking his hand and heading for the bed. She winked over her shoulder at him.
“I have a friend who says sleep is overrated.”
He laughed, feeling the tension from their heavy conversation evaporating with every step they took toward his bed.
“Sounds like a smart friend.”
Whitney released his hand and swept the T-shirt off with a flourish before falling onto the bed, her hair falling wildly across her face. She pushed it back and gave him a smile that created a blossom of warmth deep inside his chest. Then she patted the mattress at her side in invitation.
“I don’t know about smart,” she said. “But he’s definitely talented.”
* * *
SOMETHING WAS BEEPING.
Whitney moaned and threw her arm over her face. What was Aunt Helen doing?
And now the bed was moving.
The bed.
Was moving.
Her eyes snapped open. This wasn’t her room. This wasn’t her bed. She started to sit up, trying to knock the cobwebs from her brain.
The sharp male voice inches from her head did the trick. “Oh, shit!”
Clarity returned with a rush. She was in Luke’s bed. She’d been in Luke’s arms until the beeping started.
Beep. Beep.
“Luke! Turn off your alarm clock already!”
“Hush! It’s not my alarm clock.”
She turned to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his phone. She sat up, trying to see the screen over his shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
“Helen.” He ran agitated fingers through his hair.
Whitney started to scramble off the bed. “What’s wrong with Helen?”
Luke grabbed her arm, pulling her back onto the mattress.
“Stay put, damn it!” His voice was low and tight. “There’s nothing wrong with Helen.” He held his phone up so she could see it. “Helen is what’s wrong. She’s downstairs.”
The last thing they needed was for Helen to find her and Luke together. She might be upset. Or worse—delighted. They didn’t need her romantic notions interfering with whatever was going to happen next.
Whitney watched the security camera feed in horror. Her aunt was moving through the tasting room, rearranging the occasional bottle and picking up a cloth to wipe down the tasting counter. The counter where the whiskey bottle—and both glasses—sat.
“Oh, shit,” Whitney whispered. “What is she doing down there? What time is it?”
“It’s not seven yet. Sometimes she comes out to putter around if she can’t sleep.” He glanced her way. “A lot like her niece.”
“What are we going to do?”
Luke stood, bending over for a quick kiss and handing her his phone. “You’re going to stay right here. I’ll go down and see if I can get Helen back up to the house. When we leave, you can sneak out and...”
“And what, if you’re both in the house?”
“And...figure out how to quietly go in the back door and get upstairs to your room. I’ll keep her in the kitchen. Then come down like you just woke up in your own bed.” He yanked on his jeans, commando style, and it was one of the hottest things Whitney had ever seen. He pulled on a T-shirt and looked back one last time as he headed for the door, his dog following closely. His voice was low, but firm. “Stay there until the coast is clear.”
Luke and Molly came into view from the base of the stairs on the camera feed. Helen turned quickly, holding up the bottle of whiskey. She seemed to be laughing. That was a good thing, right? Luke went to Helen and they talked, looking around the tasting room, pointing to various shelves and a display of local handmade soaps by the cash register. After what seemed like hours, Luke ushered Helen out the front door. As Helen exited, Luke looked directly into the camera and waggled his eyebrows. Whitney covered her mouth to hold in her laughter. It was such a silly, un-Luke sort of thing to do.
Now to make her escape. God, her clothes were everywhere. Her panties were on top of a pile of Luke’s jeans. Her own jeans were crumpled on the floor at the far end of the sofa. Her bra was... Where was her bra? And her top? And her shoes? One high-heeled pump was by the television. The other was under the dining table. She had a vague memory of arriving in the apartment last night, wrapped in Luke’s arms, her lips on his, her bare chest against his skin.
Where was her bra?
Oh, dear god, what if her bra was hanging off a bottle of wine downstairs, where Helen could see it? Whitney’s cheeks flamed. Hell, her whole body flamed. How embarrassing would that
be? But she hadn’t seen Helen twirling any items of clothing on her fingers while she was down there.
She found her bra and top on the top step outside the apartment door, as well as Luke’s T-shirt, all rolled into a little mound. Luke probably tripped over the clothes they’d both discarded as they kissed their way up the stairs, and he’d tossed them out of Helen’s sight. Nice save, Luke.
She left his T-shirt inside the apartment and tugged her own clothes on as she descended the stairs. She ran her fingers through her hair, knowing she was probably making it worse instead of better. She snuck around the main house and across the back porch. The back door would get her to the hallway and the staircase leading to her room.
Luke’s voice was unusually loud in the kitchen, and he was laughing. Sort of. The laugh sounded forced to Whitney’s ears, now that she’d heard his genuine, soft laugh of pleasure last night. Her abdomen clenched at the memory...
“I know you’ve shown me how to poach eggs a hundred times, Helen, but I never get it right. And that hollandaise sauce—mine always curdles. I need another lesson. Where’s the pan you use with the little cups for the eggs? Is that it over there?”
For one horrifying moment, Whitney was sure all was lost. She was at the bottom of the stairs, ready to dash up and change. But the kitchen doorway was right there, and Luke was at the stove, digging through the broiler drawer where Helen stored the pans she didn’t use often. He glanced up and saw Whitney. She had one foot in midair. She was barefoot, her high heels dangling from her fingers. His dark eyes swept up her body and the heated gaze created a highlight film from last night in her mind. He really had tasted every inch of her. She’d tasted more than a few inches of him, too. He straightened, his eyes darting to the unseen corner of the kitchen.
“No, Helen, not that one. What’s the pot behind you? Up in the cupboard? Isn’t that it? Are you sure?” He didn’t look at Whitney again, giving her a hand gesture that said “Go!” And she did, now that she was free from the grip of his eyes.
She flew up the stairs and into her room, shedding clothing almost as fast as she had last night, but not having near as much fun. She tugged on a pair of denim capris and a bright pink cotton top, slipping into her canvas flats and pulling her hair back into a messy bun. Glancing into the mirror after brushing her teeth, she decided she’d pass for a woman who’d just rolled out of bed after a chaste night’s sleep.
But there was nothing chaste about the dark shine in her eyes, or the slight beard burn on her cheek. Her skin was flushed, her lips swollen. Who was she kidding? She looked like a very satisfied woman who’d had a long night of stellar sex. She grinned, and almost laughed out loud at the seductiveness of her smile. It was her own reflection, damn it. She wasn’t supposed to be falling in love with it.
Her eyes went wide. She wasn’t supposed to be falling in love with anything. Those three words needed to stay out of her vocabulary. Last night was simply two adults having a good time together. A very good, maybe even epic, time together.
“Whitney!” Helen’s voice startled her from the base of the stairs. “Are you up? Luke and I are making eggs Benedict for breakfast!”
It would have been easier if Luke had left before Whitney went downstairs. Easier on her heart, and easier on her desire not to deceive her aunt. But he’d used a cooking lesson as his excuse to occupy Helen and save Whitney from humiliation, so she was going to have to suck it up and have breakfast with the man. All while knowing he was commando under those jeans.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HELEN WAS BITING her lip so hard to keep from laughing, she was pretty sure she’d drawn blood. Luke had bolted from the kitchen as soon as their bizarre breakfast was finished. Helen asked Whitney to help with dishes. Not because Helen needed help, but because she was having so much fun.
When she’d heard shouting coming from the driveway last night, she’d peeked through the curtains in time to see Doug Canfield grabbing Whitney. Tony’s baseball bat still sat by the door, and Helen had turned to grab it. No way was she letting anyone get away with that. But when she got to the door and glanced outside again, Doug was on the ground, with Luke standing over him. It wasn’t long before Doug was in the truck and gone. And that’s when things got interesting.
Luke and Whitney walked into the carriage house together. And never came back out. Helen listened for Whitney to come back up to the house, but she never heard a sound. When she woke this morning, she’d tiptoed upstairs to find Whitney’s bed undisturbed. One of two things had happened last night. Luke and Whitney had finally killed each other...or they’d slept together.
Her curiosity had finally gotten the best of her, and she’d headed down to the tasting room to “tidy up” and search for evidence. She didn’t have to look very hard.
The stairs to Luke’s apartment were near the front of the tasting room. And a lacy pink bra was dangling from the railing. The cute yellow top Whitney had been wearing last night was draped across the stairs. Luke’s T-shirt was sprawled on a step farther up. Helen smiled. She and Tony had left their share of similar trails on the way up to their bedroom through the years. Clearly, Luke and Whitney had not killed each other. Tony always said there was a fine line between the two passions of love and hate, and her two favorite people in the world had managed to cross it. And Helen never saw it coming. Did they belong together? Was it a one-night stand or would it last? Only God knew those answers.
Luke had appeared before Helen could get back to the house, and that’s when things got Keystone-cops funny. He apparently thought she had no peripheral vision and couldn’t see him snatching all the clothing from the stairs and throwing it up to the door. Then he tried to say the whiskey was left over from the afternoon before, when Steve had stopped by to check the cab franc grapes for fungus. As if Luke would leave a bottle and dirty glasses sitting out... Oh, who was she kidding? Luke was very likely to do that, because he wasn’t the neatest person in the world. It was a workable lie.
Helen had turned to leave when Luke’s deception went into overdrive. He took her arm and practically carried her out of the carriage house, insisting he’d forgotten how to make hollandaise sauce and had a “powerful craving” for her eggs Benedict. Luke might be lackadaisical about cleaning up after himself, but he was serious about wine and food. He never forgot a recipe, and he’d been making eggs Benedict for years. But she went along with the ruse, knowing Whitney was upstairs, missing half her clothes.
No matter how fast and loud Luke spoke in the kitchen, or how many pots he clanged together, she heard the back door squeak and knew Whitney had entered. Helen played along with their game, inviting Whitney to join them for breakfast.
Helen took the last dish from Whitney and dried it, putting it back into the cupboard. Watching their two faces at the kitchen table had been the best entertainment she’d had in years. Working so hard not to look at each other, and failing so miserably. Every time their eyes did meet, it sent a sweet, sharp sense of loss through her. Tony used to look at her the same way Luke was looking at Whitney. With that intoxicating mix of heat and tenderness.
“Helen? Are you alright?” Whitney touched her arm. Helen blinked away and looked out the window, trying to hide the tears that threatened to overflow.
“I’m fine, honey. Just thinking about your uncle.”
“Tony loved you so much.”
Helen nodded. Yes, Tony had loved her. That’s why he’d given her those looks that used to curl her toes. Her eyes went wide. Those looks...like Luke had given Whitney. Looks of love? Oh, boy. She cleared her throat.
“You and Luke were quiet this morning. You two aren’t fighting again, are you?”
Her niece’s cheeks went pink. “Fighting? No. No. Not fighting.” She straightened her shoulders. “But we’re not...friends...or...anything.”
Helen was pretty sure the pair had achieved “anything” last night. Maybe it was j
ust the whiskey and a full moon. But that look in Luke’s eyes this morning...it was more than “friends” for him.
“Tony thought the world of that boy.” They both watched through the window as Luke and Molly walked up toward the vineyard.
“I’m surprised I didn’t know him back then.”
Helen shrugged. “He was working with Tony and you were usually in the house.”
Whitney’s voice went soft. “How did Luke wind up at Falls Legend after the childhood he had?”
“Oh, don’t go listening to the gossip about his family. Luke did his best to keep his brothers and sister on the right track.”
“I haven’t been listening to any gossip,” Whitney said. She leaned a little to the right to keep her eye on Luke. “I’m just trying to understand how a kid with such a hard life and an abusive father ended up here, making wine.”
Helen gave her a sideways glance. “Didn’t you say you weren’t listening to gossip?”
“I’m not!”
“Then how do you know about his father?” Cliff Rutledge was a cruel-hearted slob of a man who’d rather drink himself into a stupor than feed his own children. He didn’t have a single redeeming quality as far as Helen was concerned, other than somehow managing to sire a good man like Luke.
Whitney was still looking out the window, her answer spoken so softly, Helen almost didn’t hear it.
“Luke told me.”
Helen kept her lips tightly pressed together, doing her best to avoid overreacting. It was one thing for Luke and Whitney to have a little roll in the sack. They were adults and these things happened. Sparks had flown the minute they’d met, and sometimes sparks—even the adversarial kind—led to fire. The kind of fire that led to bras being thrown over banisters. It had given Helen a good laugh this morning. But this was no longer funny.
Luke had talked about his childhood, about his father, with Whitney. Luke didn’t talk about his parents. Ever. Even when Cliff was sentenced to spend the rest of his life in prison for a botched armed robbery, Luke didn’t talk about it. Not even with Tony. And yet, he’d told at least part of the story to Whitney.
