Crush on You

by Christie Ridgway

  Stevie glanced at her glass. “Are we going to wish we’d ordered wine?”

  “Clare isn’t marrying Jordan,” Alessandra said flatly. “He’s been cheating on her.”

  “No—” Stevie clapped her palm over her mouth, her eyes wide. Then her hand dropped to her lap. “But—”

  “I think she and Gil are planning to elope.”

  Her sister’s hand snapped back up, then she let her hand fall again. “That means there’s nothing for the Wedding Fever people to film on Saturday.”

  “Got it in one.” Alessandra attempted a weak smile. “Should I order that bottle?”

  Giuliana snatched up the leather-covered wine list, and both Alessandra and Stevie stared at her. “I was kidding,” Alessandra said.

  “It wouldn’t help anyway,” Jules answered, dropping it back to the table. “We’re in trouble.”

  “Without the Wedding Fever publicity, we don’t stand a chance of keeping Tanti Baci,” Stevie said.

  Jules nodded. “And knowing those TV people like I now do, I doubt they’ll even film the shorter segment. I bet they pack up and roll on back to La-La Land. Cut their losses.”

  Alessandra’s fingers curled around her sweating iced tea. She trusted her oldest sister’s assessment because she’d been the one working closest with the television team, a small group that included camera person, sound guy, and a makeup artist. “We can’t let that happen. What bright ideas do you two have to prevent it?”

  The silence at the table wasn’t promising.

  “Allie . . .” Stevie finally ventured.

  She didn’t look at her sister. “We have to save it. We promised Papa.”

  There was a disturbance across the square, near the hardware store. A shout, a car suddenly stopped, people looked toward the commotion, including Alessandra and her sisters.

  “Build me up!” floated across the street. Something flew up in the air—

  “Is that a bra?” Jules wondered aloud.

  A long wolf whistle pierced the air.

  “I’d say that’s a safe assumption.” Alessandra turned her back on the action. Half-naked girls throwing themselves—and their clothing—at Penn were his lot in life. No wonder he treated everything so casually.

  Alessandra, I love you.

  She thrust aside the ache of the memory to focus on the issue at hand. “Well?” she asked her sisters again. “Who has a bright idea that will keep the Wedding Fever people interested?”

  “We’d better come up with something quickly,” Jules grumbled. “Word that the wedding’s called off will get around fast.”

  “Presumably Sally’s already canceling the food and flowers.”

  “Which means there’ll be bouquets and baby quiches ready to be snatched up at bargain prices,” Stevie mused. “The orders and the work will already be half-done.”

  Jules sighed. “What we need is another wedding for Saturday.”

  Alessandra sat straighter in her chair. “Something splashy.”

  “The Latisse twins left for Maui last night,” Stevie said with a regretful shake of her head. “The mermaids have flown—swum?—the coop.”

  All three sisters sipped from their tea. “If not splashy, something with a good story behind it at least,” Alessandra ventured. “That’s what Roger liked about Clare’s wedding.”

  Her gaze turned on Giuliana.

  She was already shaking her head. “Don’t look at me. No story here other than I’m done with men and would not consider marrying one to save my life—or the winery.”

  Stevie brightened. “Hey, Liam and Seth know an actual prince!”

  A little thrill ran through Alessandra. “Really?”

  “Really. He’s single. They went to college with him.” She wilted. “But I don’t think he’s local and I doubt he’s the marrying kind.”

  “Hmm.” Alessandra took another sip. “Do you think if we found a way to contact him you could turn on your charm and get him to change his mind by Saturday?”

  “And marry who?”

  “You, silly,” Alessandra said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not so much. Men always go for you, you know that.” Stevie had a posse of guys she hung out with.

  “Because I like football and working on cars,” Stevie said. “But a prince . . . no. I had my shot at bucking the social order and it ended ugly.”

  Curse Emerson Platt, Alessandra thought. Curse that snobby SOB.

  Giuliana was shaking her head at the two of them. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Some prince we don’t even know!”

  “Well, I already considered calling Jordan and getting him to grovel,” Alessandra said. “But Penn—” She broke off, noting her sisters’ astounded expressions. “What?”

  “Miss Most Romantic, Miss Starry Eyes and Dreamy Soul contemplated encouraging our friend Clare to marry a cheater?” Jules said.

  Stevie pointed a finger at her. “Not to mention cutting out our cousin Gil.”

  “I was just being practical,” Alessandra muttered.

  “Heartless, more like.”

  There was that, too, but now wasn’t the time to shatter her sisters’ perception of her. She looked away, her attention snagged by a pod of early teens passing by in short shorts and baby doll tops. They were all talking, their mouths slick with sticky gloss and their fingernails painted in the dreadful shades of banana yellow and moldy green. High-pitched conversation floated over the Baci sisters’ table.

  “My mom checked Rocky Reed into the Valley Ridge Resort. He’s here until Sunday. She loves listening to the gossip on his radio show and she thinks he’s so cute. But she thinks Stephen Colbert is cute, too . . .”

  “Face it, Gwen. Your mom has weird taste in guys.”

  “Not always. She has it bad for Penn Bennett.”

  “I think Penn Bennett is cute,” another voice said.

  “Exactly.”

  Yet another girl chimed in. “And guess what? Penn paid for the Little League to get new bleachers. And my brother says the high school Key Club got him to volunteer for the dunking booth on Market Day like he did for the band. Michael said he was really nice about it, too, and . . .”

  He was really nice about it.

  Bam!

  Alessandra set her iced tea on the tabletop with a sharp clack. “I have an idea.” Her brain humming, her nerves singing, she looked over at Giuliana. “Can you handle the Wedding Fever people?”

  “What?”

  The words bubbled out of her, heated by her excitement. “Convince them we have a replacement wedding—with a story behind it that’s even better.”

  Giuliana’s eyes narrowed. “You’re scaring me. Do you know what you’re doing?”

  I’m scaring myself. “Just answer me, Jules. Can you try to get them to stay until Saturday?”

  Calculation narrowed her sister’s eyes. “I’ll do one better. I’ll guarantee they’ll be here Saturday, if you promise to open that box before then.”

  Alessandra’s blood chilled. She’d said she’d do anything to save Tanti Baci . . . but open the box? A shudder raced down her back.

  Fine. All right. Okay. She’d open the box.

  Ignoring the second shudder rolling down her spine, she held out her hand to her sister. “We have a deal.” Because really, facing the contents of the cardboard carton was nothing compared to the other risk she was planning to take.

  19

  Alessandra carefully set the stage, certain that a man in the entertainment business would appreciate the effort. Beneath the spreading oak that shaded Anne and Alonzo’s cottage, she arranged a crisp tablecloth over a small table and then unpacked the picnic basket she’d put together in the farmhouse kitchen. Place settings for two, a small vase of colorful country flowers, the covered bowls of green salad and the famous Baci summer pasta. A crusty loaf of sourdough. From a thermos she poured cold water into two glasses. In a thermal pouch at her feet was a bottle of chilled wine.
>
  It had been twenty-four very busy hours since lunch with her sisters. Later, she’d be in town, representing Tanti Baci during Edenville’s Market Day. This morning she’d made phone calls, cajoling various suppliers and making mysterious promises. After that, she’d prepared the meal she was going to serve, then dressed for the occasion in a gauzy sundress of deep turquoise and sandals with small heels. Her hair was in loose waves around her shoulders.

  The whole effect was pretty, she’d decided as the makeup person had applied a third coat of mascara. Appealing. And most importantly, telegenic.

  So she hoped.

  There were comings and goings of tourists in and out of the tasting room and they cast curious glances across the gravel parking lot as she sat down to wait for her guest. Picnickers were directed to the tables under the arbor alongside the winery offices, so clearly this was a more special event. Aware that she had a part to play, she let her lips curve in a serene smile and didn’t allow a single nervous glance toward the cottage to betray her.

  A small dust cloud in the distance signaled that he was nearing. She rose to her feet as his truck stopped in the dappled light under another tree at the edge of the winery’s parking lot. Her pulse rocketed, making her a little dizzy as he approached, a frown on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” Penn demanded, not seeming to notice the lovely setting she’d worked so hard to create. “I was told there’s an emergency here?”

  Oops. Maybe the message should have downplayed emergency and up-played better clothes. It was a jeans kind of day for Penn, with a button-down shirt thrown over, tails out and sleeves rolled up. Except he looked good in anything, she conceded, walking forward to give him a peck of a kiss on the cheek.

  He always smelled so good.

  His hands clamped on her elbows and he pushed her away. “What’s going on?” His gaze shifted to the table behind her, then drifted toward the cottage.

  Panic stampeded through her belly. Grabbing his hand, she towed him toward the lunch table. “Look here! Look at this nice food I have ready for us.”

  “What?” His brows drew together. “Why?”

  “I . . . I wanted to thank you and to celebrate that we, uh, finished the cottage.”

  He took in the bowls of pasta and salad as she pulled his chair out for him. “I suppose I could eat,” he said warily, settling into his seat.

  She took her place across from him and reached for her napkin to blot her damp palms. Maybe she should talk first and they could lunch later. Her stomach wasn’t up to a meal at this moment, that was for sure. He reached for a bowl.

  She put her palm on the cling wrap covering. “Wait. I wanted to tell you . . . ask you something . . .” Oh, this was harder than she’d thought! At the bistro yesterday, and in her bed last night, it had seemed to make sense. But right now the words refused to roll off the tip of her tongue.

  “Yeah?” Penn said. “I should let you know I’ve been trying to reach Roger all day. No luck so far, but as soon as I make contact I’m going to tell him about Lana. I don’t know if the Wedding Fever crew is still in town—”

  “They’re still here.” Oops.

  Penn sat back in his chair. “Well, good. It’s time I told him the truth.”

  Alessandra found herself nodding. “Excellent. Sure. I agree.”

  “I don’t know how it will affect Wedding Fever’s plans for Tanti Baci—”

  “Don’t worry about that.” She brushed away the concern as well as an inquisitive fly. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.”

  He nodded, then looked at her expectantly.

  Raising her eyebrows, she put her hand on her chest. “Me?” Oh, yes, she’d claimed she had something to tell him, too. But again, the words refused to form.

  “Let me serve you some of the famous Baci pasta,” she said, reaching for the bowl. “Both my mother and father claimed to have developed the recipe, but it’s so simple. Tomatoes, garlic, basil leaves straight off the plant, a good parmesan. You rough chop the skinned tomatoes, smash the garlic, and heat them both together in a little olive oil before tossing with cooked spaghetti. No simmering . . . it’s supposed to taste from-the-garden fresh. I think it’s best served at room temperature.”

  She scattered the slivered basil and parmesan shavings over the pasta, then passed the plate back to him. He was looking at her, though, and not the food.

  “Mangia,” she said, shifting her attention to her own plate. “Eat.”

  The colors were pretty, the smell of the food divine, but her stomach still couldn’t handle a bite. So she toyed with her fork and watched him chew and swallow.

  “Oh,” he groaned. “You should have said. You should have said this is really, really good.”

  “Yeah?” She smiled at him.

  He smiled back and his hand reached across the table so his forefinger could brush her cheek. “There it is. Your dimple’s been AWOL since I showed up.”

  It dug again into her cheek and a flush of warmth rolled over her skin. “You compliment my cooking, you get my best smile. Of the three of us, I’m the only Baci sister who likes to spend time in the kitchen. Papa taught me that recipe himself.”

  “Daddy’s girl, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She twirled her fork in the spaghetti. “My mom died when I was twelve, so I turned to my father. He took me into the kitchen and into the vines, anyplace where he could pass along his loves: for food, for the land, for the magical wine we produce.” Oh, God, was she laying it on too thick, what with her cooking abilities and then the pitch for the family business?

  Glancing up, she noticed he was working his way through his plate. Soon he’d be finished and she’d have to get down to it.

  Nerves had her babbling again. “Did I tell you what happened here during Prohibition?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, of course it was illegal to make and sell alcohol, so my family planted and grew plums, pears, and apples amongst the vines. Still, some whispered that you could come to the back door of the winery and take home a jug or two.” This was part his history, too, though she didn’t think he considered himself a Napa Bennett . . . not yet.

  “Was it true?”

  She could see her father telling the story, his barrel chest, his expansive gesture, the twinkle in his eyes. “One year, federal agents raided the winery and dumped thousands of gallons of wine into the creek. It was a popular spot, the night the water ran red.”

  “What? Did everyone come out with their ladles and soup pots?”

  She shrugged. “That’s the first half of the story, that the red wine was dispatched into the creek. However, even then the Bacis were experimenting with a sparkling white, and it’s said that the daughter of the federal agent in charge of the raid was getting married in San Francisco the very next weekend. Rumor has it that the reception was a riproaring—and very bubbly—party.”

  “Weddings even then,” Penn murmured.

  “Even then.” She blotted her palms on her napkin again. “Did you know that my great-grandfather married a woman after only three arranged dates? She was the sister of one of the restaurateurs to whom he delivered Baci wine.”

  “That doesn’t sound very romantic.”

  “There’s all kinds of reasons for two people to get married.”

  “Or not get married,” Penn added.

  She cursed herself, because of course his mind would lead him to his mother and the philandering Calvin Bennett. “Yes, well . . . It’s really a very modern idea that people marry for love, you know. Dynastic reasons, reasons that involved land and power were much more common for most of history.”

  “ ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.’ ”

  She stared at him. “Did you just quote Austen?”

  “In one of last season’s episodes, there was a fourteen-year-old in the family whose home we remodeled,” he said, shrugging. “Austen addict, tha
t kid. The designer planned stenciling that line across the wall above her door, and then she sprained her ankle, so it was me up on that ladder.”

  She continued staring at him, and in the center of her chest, the coal-lump that was her heart cracked, leaking something foreign and warm. He’d quoted Austen!

  “Episode seven,” he said helpfully. “One of our most popular.”

  She couldn’t look away from him. Blindly, she groped on the ground by her feet, finding the bottle of wine. “I . . . uh . . . I’ll have to look for it.” She managed to pull the 2006 Bella Amore blanc de blancs from its pouch and remove the cage over the cork, all while still keeping it out of sight. Then she was frozen again.

  Penn noticed. He set down his fork. “Alessandra?”

  “This is hard. Awkward.” She laughed but the sound held the sharp edge of her nerves. “Maybe even exciting.”

  “Exciting?” He gave her a teasing smile. “Is this about some other little toy you picked up at a bachelorette party?”

  “No!” Her face burned. “But that part . . . that part’s good, right? Between us, that part’s good.”

  He stilled. “I’ll never forget holding you in my arms.”

  “We can make more memories,” she offered, heat waving over her again. “I mean, it doesn’t have to end like this. It doesn’t have to end at all.”

  Penn’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  With a breath, she lifted the wine bottle to the table. “This, this is the wedding wine,” she told him. She sneaked a glance back at the cottage. They still had privacy. The signal was when she let the cork fly. “We could serve it on Saturday.”

  “Serve it where?”

  Now or never. Sink or swim. Die or fly. “At our wedding.” She reached across the table to grab his hand. “What do you say, Penn? Will you marry me?”

  The blank expression on his face rattled her. Had he lost his hearing? Had she not said it right? Was the sex not as good as she thought?

  He continued staring at her, his hand frozen beneath hers.

  “P-Penn?” She held her breath, willing him to agree. This was the only plan she’d come up with to save the winery. “Say yes.”