The Wedding Bargain

by Lee McKenzie

  “Come here.” He drew her back against his chest, wrapped his arms around her waist and held her close. He didn’t know what to say, couldn’t imagine what she needed to hear, but this he could do. She gradually relaxed, and as her slender body settled back against his, his body reacted. Tonight is not the night, he reminded himself. But he drew her a little closer anyway. He picked up her glass and handed it to her, then he picked up his own and touched it to hers. “Thank you,” he said.

  She tipped her head back slightly and looked up at him. “For what?”

  “For reminding me that I need to appreciate what I have. I’ve always lived here and it’s always been like this. For a lot of years when I was growing up, I assumed everyone lived this way. It’s easy to take it all for granted, and I shouldn’t. I’m sorry if that’s what has upset you.”

  “I’m not upset, and don’t get me wrong. Granddad did what he could to make the holiday special. We’d spruce up the place with pumpkins and paper cutouts of Pilgrim hats, and in those days when Eric’s dad was our cook, we’d have roasted turkey sandwiches and pumpkin pie on the menu and the place was always busy.”

  Michael tried to imagine Thanksgiving in a tackily decorated bar full of strangers, drinking beer and eating turkey sandwiches. It was easier to imagine a shuttle flight to the space station. “It sounds…” It sounded awful, but he couldn’t say that.

  “I’m not complaining,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “I knew it wasn’t a traditional Thanksgiving. When I was in college, friends used to invite me to go home with them for the holidays, but I always wanted to spend it with him. I still miss him.”

  The nubbly texture of her sweater was soft beneath the palm of his hand where it rested just beneath her breasts. He was tempted to move his hand higher, just to see how far she’d let him go, but he resisted. Then she put her hand over his and he held his breath, wondering if she would push his away. She didn’t. She laced her fingers with his, which meant he couldn’t move his hand. On the plus side, it meant he didn’t have to.

  Having her here today felt so completely right. It was as if she belonged here in his home, with his family, with him, and he would gladly stand here with her in his arms all night if that’s what she needed. “I wish I could have met your grandfather.”

  “You would have liked him. He wasn’t a high-powered businessman, but he had a way with people.”

  Was that how she saw him? A high-powered businessman? Last week he had called Larry, one of the mechanics he’d met the first time he dropped by the bar to see her, to order a part for the old Morgan. Larry had called the next day to say he’d found it, so Michael had made arrangements to pick it up. It hadn’t taken much to get Larry talking about his old friend. Sam Bennett had been a hardworking family man who had never come to terms with having a daughter who ran wild. His granddaughter had lived up to his expectations, though, and there had been nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

  “Did you have a busy week at the bar?” he asked.

  “Not as busy as last Saturday night, which is too bad, because I need to hire a plumber.”

  Lexi had mentioned something about a plumbing disaster after she’d paid the place a visit. “I can get one of my managers to recommend someone if you’d like.”

  “As long as he…or she…works cheap,” Jess said. “And fast. Someone from the health department is hounding me to get it fixed.”

  Hmm. Was Lexi behind that? Of course she was. But Jess would never find out, he reminded himself. Besides, they were doing her a favor.

  “Granddad used to fix those kinds of things himself,” she said. “Now it’s just me and Eric, and neither of us has a clue about building maintenance.”

  That he could believe, he thought, smiling at the recollection of Eric fixing Jess’s hair the night he’d taken her out to dinner. Michael had seen her in action at the bar, though, and there she was in her element. Great with customers—probably a lot like her grandfather in that regard—but without a head for business. Or plumbing.

  “I’ve applied for a bank loan so I can do some work on the building. My grandfather devoted his life to that place and I have to keep it going, to honor his memory. Like the way you’re doing for your father and grandfather,” she said. “The Whiskey Sour is nothing like this, but it’s the only real home I’ve ever had. This might sound silly, but it’s like part of him is still there. If I can’t keep it together, I’ll lose that connection to my granddad, and then I won’t have anything.”

  Michael was blindsided. He held her a little closer, enjoying the feel of her in his arms, the sweet scent of her mingling with the fresh night air, and realized, for the first time since he’d met her, that they had a lot more in common than he’d ever imagined.

  What she’d said about her grandfather was exactly how he felt about his father when he stepped into the den. Every time he walked through one of the original winery buildings, it was as if his grandfather’s spirit was there with him. No matter how big the company became, those places would never change. Not as long as he was in charge.

  Could he take that away from Jess and still live with himself? Not a chance. In the space of a few seconds he knew what he had to do. On Monday he’d make an offer on the Folsom Street building, and when he met with Lexi in the afternoon he’d tell her the plan had changed and that she needed to back off. Then he’d figure out a way to help Jess.

  She yawned.

  “Sleepy?”

  “I am.”

  “We’ve had a long day,” he said. “We should get to bed.”

  The words slipped out before he could catch them. He could tell from the way her body went rigid that she thought he meant something other than he intended. He set his wineglass on the wall, then put his arm around her again and pressed his mouth against her ear. “Remember when I told you that the first time I make love to a woman, I like it to be in a bed?” he whispered, absolutely certain that would get a reaction from her. He was right.

  She swung around to face him, her eyes dark and challenging, and she tried to wriggle out of his arms.

  He held her close. “News flash,” he said, trying not to smile and failing badly. “That bed is not in my mother’s house, so I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Not here. Not tonight. I just meant that we should get some sleep.”

  “Oh.” She lowered her gaze and tried to move away. “Sorry.”

  He kept his arms around her. “No, I’m the one who has to apologize. I shouldn’t have baited you. Besides, it’s not like the idea hadn’t crossed my mind.”

  She looked up at him, and even in the dim outdoor lighting on the terrace he could see the uncertainty in her eyes. But now there was something else, too. It could be wishful thinking on his part, but he was getting the message that she was coming around to acknowledging her own needs, that she was getting close to wanting this as much as he did.

  And now that all their cards were on the table, what was stopping him from kissing her? Nothing. So he did.

  At first the taste of her mingled on his tongue with the wine, and having her in his arms, kissing her, felt absolutely right. Jess’s arms snaked around his neck and the rest of her melted against him, and all of a sudden kissing her felt like a mistake because he didn’t want to stop there. Jess’s body language was saying she didn’t, either. If he was going to make a mistake, it might as well be a big one.

  He slipped a hand under her sweater and stroked the warm skin on her back. She moved a little closer and her hips connected with his. His body ached for her touch.

  “You’re amazing,” he whispered against her mouth.

  She opened her eyes and looked into his. “I am?”

  “You are.” And he looked forward to convincing her that she was.

  He had wanted his family to meet her, wanted to see how she reacted to Ben, whether seeing the house and the winery would bring out the latent gold digger in her. It hadn’t.

  This was the first time he’d invited a woman to spend the
night here and going to bed alone, knowing she was under his roof and just down the hall, so close and unattainable, was going to kill him.

  Her laughter was soft and contagious. They were still laughing when they carried their empty wineglasses back inside. He took hers and put them both in the dishwasher. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your room.”

  He kissed her good-night at the door of the guest room. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that would get something started. They both knew better than to go there now. This was a comfortable kiss between two people who liked each other and were happy with where they were in their relationship.

  “Good night,” she said.

  “See you in the morning.”

  Their relationship. He thought about that some more as he walked to his bedroom. For the first time in a long time—no, it was really the first time ever, he felt as if he was in a relationship. He enjoyed spending time with her, liked her forthrightness, appreciated her natural beauty and uncontrived style. He wanted to make love to her more than any woman he’d ever met, and yet he was in no real hurry to take that step. When it happened he knew it would be amazing, but he wanted it to be the best sex she’d ever had. For that to happen she had to trust him. She was starting to trust him, and he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that. By Monday morning, he would have a plan to save the Whiskey Sour for her and that, he was certain, would seal the deal.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Monday morning Jess was at the bar well before opening time to look after the deliveries and go over the accounts. It was her least favorite part of the job, but it had to be done. She put on a pot of coffee and leaned on the bar as she sorted receipts and bills into piles while she waited for the machine to stop sputtering.

  “I hate bookkeeping,” she said out loud, even though there was no one to hear her. “And I hate money.” No, what she hated was not having money. She poured herself a cup of coffee and tried to concentrate on the paperwork spread across the bar. Instead, she studied a narrow crack in the ancient granite countertop for a few seconds, trying to recall what had been dropped on it, then ran her fingertips across the polished surface. Her grandfather had leaned on this counter, spilled drinks on it and wiped it clean thousands of times. She intended to do the same.

  “As soon as I’ve finished calculating how much money I don’t have, I’ll call the bank.” They had to come through. They just had to.

  One good thing—the only good thing—about being a teacher had been the steady paycheck, and it had seemed like a good career move until she’d become the sole adult in a roomful of teenagers. She’d had terrible classroom management skills, which meant the kids were frequently out of control. For someone like her, who needed to be in control at all times, it had been a nightmare.

  Maybe she would have enjoyed teaching if she’d worked with kids like Ben. He had given her a big hug when they’d left to return to the city the day after Thanksgiving. Michael had openly admitted to testing her by not telling her about Ben before she met him, and Sophia had hinted that Jess was the first woman in Michael’s life to form an immediate bond with his brother. That brought her thoughts around to the real reason she was finding it hard to concentrate on the miserable books. She wanted to replay, for at least the hundredth time, every moment of the Morgan family’s celebration.

  Even when she was a young kid, she had known her mother simply didn’t have what it took to keep a family together. Not even a family of two. Roxanne Bennett was inclined to scrimp on groceries and buy a skimpy new dress instead, with the hope of attracting a man who would put food on the table. There had been no shortage of men, but the table had often been bare. Jess used to imagine what it would be like to have a mother who had breakfast on the table before her kid went to school and who was there with a glass of milk and a plate of homemade cookies when she got home.

  Sophia Morgan was that mother. She had a home worthy of a magazine spread, and yet it was warm, welcoming, lived-in. She had prepared a gourmet holiday feast for her family and made it look effortless. She was proud of all her children—and justifiably so—and she doted on Ben. Jess suspected she put her own needs last, but that was infinitely better than always putting them first.

  Michael’s sister Ginny was in charge of marketing for Morgan Estate, and by all accounts was doing an outstanding job. She had treated Jess like a member of the family and right away she’d seemed exactly like the kind of big sister Jess had always wanted—someone who was well-grounded and as family-oriented as her mother. The mother in question being Sophia Morgan, not Roxanne Bennett. If two mothers could possibly be more different, Jess couldn’t imagine how that might be.

  Michael’s other sister Lexi, whom she had yet to meet, was an architect with a rapidly expanding business in San Francisco. She had designed the wine bars at Fisherman’s Wharf and on Nob Hill, and was currently working on an expansion at the winery. During dinner, when Jess had mentioned her plan to renovate the Whiskey Sour, Sophia had urged her to talk to Lexi, because she was “the best in the business.” Jess wouldn’t have been quick to accept a mother’s endorsement if she hadn’t already been to their Fisherman’s Wharf location and seen Lexi’s talents firsthand.

  Ben had stolen her heart the instant she met him. He adored his older brother, a feeling that was clearly mutual. She loved that he called him Mikey, and while Jessie had always been her least favorite nickname for Jessica, having Ben add ie to the end of her name had really made her feel like part of the family.

  And then there was Michael. At first she had thought he was interested in her only because he wanted to buy the Whiskey Sour, but he hadn’t disappeared when he found out it wasn’t for sale. Then she’d thought he wanted only to get her into bed, but even that impression was short-lived. Now she was still having trouble wrapping her mind around the idea that a man like him wanted to spend time with a woman like her, but on many levels they seemed—did she even dare to entertain the idea?—compatible. In spite of his money and success, he was grounded and practical, he was all about family, he was heart-meltingly sexy…and he was willing to wait until she got past her hang-ups around sexual intimacy. Had he meant what he’d said about being willing to wait? Time would tell.

  She paper-clipped a wad of receipts together, drained her coffee cup and refilled it. Eric arrived just as she was heading to her office. He had agreed to come in early because Michael had invited her to join him for lunch at Morgan’s on Nob Hill, saying they had something to celebrate, although he hadn’t said what that was.

  “How’s it going?” Eric asked, eyeing the wad of papers in her hand.

  “We’re not broke yet. One of the suppliers delivered a couple of kegs this morning and they still have to be moved into the keg room. Would you mind taking care of that while I enter this stuff in the computer?”

  “No problem.” He tossed his jacket onto the back of a bar stool. “Is that what you’re wearing to lunch?”

  Oh, dear God. “What’s wrong with this?” She was wearing her black dress pants and yet another of the beautiful sweaters Rory had let her borrow for the weekend. This one was a brick-red turtleneck with black edging on the collar and cuffs.

  Eric grinned. “Nothing wrong. Just asking.”

  Just pushing her buttons was more like it. “Get to work or you’ll be looking for a new job.”

  He disappeared into the basement, laughing, just as the phone rang.

  Who could that be? Both Rory and Paige had already called, wanting to hear all the details about Thanksgiving in Napa Valley. There had already been a “courtesy call” from the telephone company with a reminder that last month’s bill was still outstanding. As if she needed to be reminded.

  “Please don’t be another bill collector,” she said to the phone. “Or the health inspector.” She let it ring a couple of times, debating whether or not to answer.

  Maybe it’s Michael.

  She grabbed it before the answering machine kicked in. “The Whiskey Sour. This is Jess.”


  “Miss Bennett?”

  Crap. It was a woman’s voice, and a formal-sounding one at that.

  “Speaking.”

  “Good morning. It’s Pamela Robbins, Mr. Taylor’s assistant.”

  Finally, a call from the bank. She’d been starting to think they’d lost her application. She closed her eyes and crossed the fingers of one hand, hoping for the best, but fully prepared to hear the worst.

  We’re happy to tell you that your loan application has been approved and you can have all the money you want. Ha.

  We’re very sorry. You have a lousy credit rating and your loan application has been denied.

  On the bright side, it wasn’t someone asking her for money.

  “I’m calling about your loan application.”

  Of course you are. Greg Taylor had been personable and professional, but he would have better things to do than call and tell some no-account bartender that her loan application had been turned down.

  “Mr. Taylor asked me to call and let you know he can’t make a final decision until we see a copy of your building permit. Can you drop that off today?”

  Crap. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. After she hung up, she stared at the phone while she hastily formulated a plan, then she gathered up her paperwork and calculator and dumped then on the desk in the office.

  “Eric?” she called from the top of the stairs.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you come up for a sec? It’s important.”

  Eric dashed up from the keg room. “What’s wrong? Don’t tell me that bloody toilet—”

  “The toilet is fine.” Knock on wood. “It’s the bank. Somebody just called and—”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “About the loan? You got it?”

  “I wish,” she said, shaking her head. “It hasn’t been approved yet because they haven’t seen the building permit. I’ve called the city about it twice and they keep giving me the runaround, so I’m going to leave now and go there in person before I meet Michael for lunch.”