“Yes, it would seem you are.”
“So I’m right.” He leaned closer. “Will you tell me?”
When her shoulders tensed and her fingers shook ever so slightly, he actually felt his heart shift a little.
“If I don’t,” she said, “you’ll guess it all anyway or suss it out with that amazing gut instinct.”
Eventually, he would. “So, what’s the story? How did you grow up? When did you lose your family?”
“I grew up…carefully,” she said softly. “I was told my parents were killed in a car accident when I was five, and I ended up in the foster care system.”
He frowned, something not fitting. “You were told?”
“There’s nothing, not a single shred of a paper trail, that leads to them,” she said. “My mother’s name was Celia, and I only know that from one intrepid investigator, though I’ve been through three of them over the years, and worked with a California organization that specializes in helping foster children find their birth parents.”
“Did you do a DNA test? Because one of those changed our entire family tree.”
“Yes, twice, but the results were really unsatisfactory.”
“What did you find out?”
“When the first one claimed I’m nearly forty percent Hispanic, with ancestors in South America, it seemed like a mistake, based on my coloring. But the results were almost the same from the second test. So apparently, this blue-eyed blonde is a Latina.”
“Entirely possible,” he said. “In France, I worked with a brilliant chef from Argentina, and he was a blue-eyed blond.”
“Argentina was on the list, but none of the potential relatives were from outside the US. The only names I was given were likely third and fourth cousins, and I contacted them. No one had ever heard of anyone named Donovan anywhere in their family tree. No one had ever had a relative in California. Another dead end.”
“California? That’s where you’re from?”
“I guess. That’s where I ended up in the foster system.” She took a deep breath and let it out with a ragged sigh. “Fact is, I don’t know who I am, who my family was, where or what I come from, or…anything. Blank slate.”
He sank deeper in his seat, the weight of her words pushing at him, making him ashamed that he’d so casually claimed to resent a family that was…his. Real, whole, and by his side, while she…
“Brick walls,” she said under her breath.
“What you put up so no one gets too close?” he guessed.
She gave a sad smile. “Yes, that, too, but I meant that someone, somewhere spent an incredible amount of time or energy or money to be sure I only run into brick walls when I dig into my past. I cannot track down my family.”
“I can’t imagine what that’s like.”
“I’ve accepted it,” she said. “And I’ve spent way too much of my own time, energy, and money on the problem, but ended up with nothing to show for it.”
“And the years in foster care? You weren’t adopted?”
“Nope.” She shook her head. “I was shuffled from family to family, no more than eighteen months or two years in any one place. But…” She held up a hand as if she expected pity. “I’m the first to admit, I didn’t have any horrible experiences. I ended up in decent homes, with good families, just…never adopted.”
The crack in her voice was like a knife in his heart. Who wouldn’t want a sweet little girl named Grace?
“I was smart,” she said quickly, as though staving off his pity. “And intelligence is an asset in that world. I zipped through school, no matter where they put me. Four high schools, and only because I graduated early. About six elementary schools. I ended up getting many scholarships, because it turns out the education system has an open pocketbook for foster kids. I actually made money going to college and got my advanced degree on grants. I outsmarted the system, and I’m fine.”
But, good God, she didn’t sound fine. Her voice was strained and thin as she told her story, her hands fisted, her gaze averted toward the end, as if eye contact would literally hurt.
“So that’s why the soft spot for abandoned puppies?” he guessed, trying to lighten the conversation.
“I don’t have a lot of soft spots, as you might have noticed. Attachments are…difficult. But there is something about siblings. I’ve always wondered…” She closed her eyes, fighting so many emotions he couldn’t begin to name them all. “Alex, can we change the subject? Please?”
“Of course. I’m sorry.” He took that fisted hand in his and tried to loosen it so he could wrap his fingers around hers. “What do you want to talk about?”
She swallowed, rooted for composure, and found it. “An agenda for our meeting on Tuesday?” she suggested with false brightness.
“So I really have the job?”
“Yes.” The sweet laugh was back in her voice. “You have the job.”
“Thank you. And as far as the agenda, I’ll wing it.”
“Wing it?” She looked horrified. “Not this control freak’s favorite two words.”
“Don’t worry,” he assured her on a laugh. “I’ll do my homework and come prepared. Trust me, okay?”
“You do know this is probably the most important professional opportunity I’ve ever had?”
“Then you’ve got the ideal partner. And you did a great wedding here. You’ve got the venue stuff covered.”
“But not the wine stuff,” she said.
He squeezed her hand. “Just promise them the wine of their dreams, and we’ll figure it out.” Then he ran his thumb over her soft, silky knuckles, already knowing if they felt this good, the rest of her would probably drive him crazy. “You can kill yourself by burying too many feelings, did you know that? It’s a scientific fact. You like those.”
She angled her head and very slowly eased her hand from his, standing up to end the dinner and all the personal talk. “I’ll take my chances, Alex.”
Chapter Eight
Grace awoke on Tuesday morning with a tight chest, a fluttery stomach, and a low-grade throbbing in her temples. So, the usual amount of stress before a big meeting. She dressed and then set up the conference room with coffee and cold drinks, notebooks, and a collection of some of the most stunning wedding pictures taken at Overlook Glen, the whole time mentally rehearsing the tour and her pitch for the important guests.
She organized her work at the round meeting table, opened her file, and glanced at the two business cards stapled to the inside, sent with the original request for wedding information. One was formal, feminine, and printed on see-through indigo vellum with raised white lettering.
Denise Cooper, Event Manager for Blue. The pop star’s famous single name was written with a flourish of a B that looked like a calligrapher had drawn it on a wedding invitation.
The other card was thin, white, and inexpensive. Joel Rosen, In Charge of Gigs & Shit. On the back was Scooter Hawkings’s square, scratchy, industrial logo.
Grace couldn’t be the first person to wonder what had brought together these two marquee names with such shockingly different styles and audiences. Rumor had it they’d met when Blue drove up to a party at a music producer’s mansion in Nashville, saw Scooter, and thought he was the valet, ordering him to park her car. He played along, came into the party with her keys, and by the time the night ended, they left together.
Could they do something with that? she wondered. Great-looking models as valets? Denise Cooper wouldn’t give her a clue what they wanted until they met today, and after that, she could present her ideas.
“Special delivery!”
She lifted her head from studying the file in front of her, frowning at the male voice.
Alex. And, of course, butterflies in her stomach took flight.
Pushing up, she headed toward the reception area, already hearing the barks, and her heart suddenly fluttered for a whole different reason. “You have the puppies?”
She rushed around the corner and practically sla
mmed into Alex, carrying a large wire crate and looking like Santa himself bearing gifts.
“I swung by Waterford this morning and checked on them, and Molly said they were cleared to go. I thought they’d bring us good luck today. I hope you agree and aren’t overwhelmed.”
“Oh, Alex.” She dropped down to look at the three of them. “I’m thrilled. Are you sure they’re okay to be here?”
“Some restrictions,” he said. “They shouldn’t walk on grass that has been used by other dogs, which I didn’t think would be a problem. They have a special diet, which I have covered. And Garrett has started running a social media campaign using this address as their location. And if their mother shows up, they’ll be with her that much sooner. She’s the one thing they need the most, according to Dr. Molly.”
She looked up at him, cursing the unexpected lump in her throat. “Oh, that’s…thank you for getting them.” She stood and lifted her arms, reaching for him in a gesture that felt oddly natural.
Of course, he folded her in his arms with nothing unnatural or clumsy about his moves. “But I can’t let you think I’m an actual knight in shining armor. Truth be told, I went to Waterford before dawn to use the kitchen, since Santorini’s kicks into breakfast gear pretty early. But Waterford has a double oven and a helluva better cooktop than my apartment. I ran into Molly, and she told me they were good to go today. So, I snagged ’em. Plus, I got this oversized crate so they can all be comfy and together during our meeting.”
“Why were you cooking before dawn?” she asked.
“For today. Gotta show the guests what I can do. Come on. I have the Santorini’s catering van outside and a ton of stuff to unload.”
“But no one is expecting food today. They already told me it’s a brief meeting to go over logistics, then they’re driving to the next winery.”
“Where they’ll get lunch and forget we exist.”
We. Her heart slipped around her chest for a moment. “I like the way you think, Alex Santorini. And I love the way you cook.”
He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “We’re going to kill this, Gracie.” Then he tapped the top of the crate and leaned over the pups. “Sit tight, kids.”
She followed him to a white van with his restaurant’s name on the side, where he opened the double doors and started hauling out coolers, platters, and canvas bags overflowing with fresh vegetables.
“What is all this?”
“This is me winging it.” He winked at her. “Go big or go home, right?”
“Right.” How could she argue with someone who seemed to want this business as much as she did?
After a few minutes, they had everything unloaded, and he insisted on driving the van around the side so their guests wouldn’t see it and come in with the preconceived notion that they were getting Greek food.
After giving the puppies some playtime, they set up the crate in the corner of the conference room so Grace could keep an eye on them while she worked.
“What work is left to do?” Alex asked as he looked around the carefully arranged table and the wall of giant wedding photo blowups.
“I have to rehearse my speaking notes.”
“Speaking notes?” He gave a dry laugh. “Now those, I don’t have.”
“You don’t need them,” she assured him. “I’ll be running the meeting, and I have a very specific agenda from beginning to end.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” He gave a mock salute and inched back, giving her a slow up-and-down, taking in her cream-colored linen shift and dark pumps, his gaze slow and appreciative. “You do look extremely professional. And gorgeous.”
She smiled. “As do you.” He wore a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into khakis. It was the most dressed up she could remember seeing him, other than in a tux at his mother’s wedding.
“I trimmed. Can you tell?” He lifted his chin from side to side, showing his dark whiskers cut short and neat.
“You look…” Hot. “Like a very competent chef.”
He smirked. “Flew by competent years ago, honey. How much time until they get here?”
“Two hours and nine minutes.”
“And thirteen seconds.” With one knuckle, he raised her chin and forced her gaze right on him, not that it was ever anywhere else when he was in the room. “Relax, Gracie. We got this. You rehearse your well-planned agenda and leave their stomachs to me.”
Her stomach did a somersault as he inched infinitesimally closer, and she could have sworn he was about to kiss her.
“Yes, Chef,” she whispered.
He backed away and headed for the kitchen.
The somersault feeling in her stomach evaporated as Grace worked on her notes, only to be replaced by a gnawing hunger thanks to mouthwatering aromas that wafted from the kitchen.
Tangy onions, sweet, buttery pastry, the earthy scent of mushrooms and red wine, lemon, basil, thyme, and nutty cheeses. It was accompanied by a music playlist that consisted of nothing but the driving country twang of Scooter Hawkings’s greatest hits, alternated with the cherublike ballads sung by Blue.
The only other sound was the almost constant bark and scrapes of the dogs, who seemed content in their corner, all together.
Between songs and barks, during a brief few seconds of silence, Grace heard two voices and a car door closing through her open window.
“They’re here?” Thirty…six minutes early? She stood and hustled to the window, but couldn’t see the other side of the parking lot from that angle.
As she darted into the hall, the music from the kitchen was even louder and the aroma even stronger, and all her butterflies and tension and nerves kicked into high gear as she crossed the stone floor to open one of the two massive doors. Time to welcome the event manager and the guy in charge of Gigs & Shit.
But she knew instantly that’s not who was heading toward her.
“Well, will you take a listen to that?” A man stopped in midstep next to a petite brunette in a flowing lavender maxi dress. He took off a black cowboy hat and cocked his head.
No, Lord, no. That was no man. No regular man. That was—
“They’re playing your song, sweetheart.”
The woman paused, listened, opened her mouth, and belted out the next line. “And that’s why they call me crazy…” She beamed up at him, tossing back a lock of waist-length glorious dark hair that had to take a team of five people to color and curl. “Crazy for you.” On tiptoes, she kissed him. “And I am, Scooter Hawkings, hottest human on God’s green earth!”
He threw his head back with laughter. “Lord Almighty, what did I do to deserve my sweet Blue Belle?”
“Blue Belle now? An hour ago, you called me Blue Balls.”
“’Cause we were at your parents’ house.” He nuzzled her neck and gave his crotch an adjustment. “You got rid of mine, thanks to that little detour back there on the back road.”
Grace stood dumbfounded and slack-jawed, almost unable to process…anything. An old terror crept up her back, stealing her breath, pressing her chest. Change. God, she hated it so much.
“Hello,” she managed with a croak in her voice. “This is quite a…surprise. I was expecting Denise and Joel.”
Arm in arm, six-foot-two Scooter and barely five-foot-three Blue, approached Grace, both of them exuding some kind of mystical larger-than-lifeness that was probably the secret to their celebrity.
“Oh, we shit-canned those two,” Scooter announced on a snort, stretching out his free hand. “James Harvey Hawkings, ma’am, but if you don’t call me Scooter, I’ll have to shoot you.”
Grace blinked and gave a nervous laugh, but Blue jabbed him with an elbow. “Shut up, cowboy. He wouldn’t shoot a mouse, and we didn’t fire anyone,” she said, her speaking voice just as raspy and distinctive as her singing voice. “I’m Blue, and you must be…God, I forgot what Denise said your name is.”
“Grace Donovan, and welcome to Overlook Glen Vineyards.” She gave Blue’s
delicate hand a shake. “I really wasn’t expecting…you.”
“I know,” Blue said, sailing by to enter the winery on her own. “But Scooter and I were visiting my folks, and I thought it might be fun to do a few of the venue reviews ourselves. Wow, this place is beautiful. Scoot, get in here, honey. It’s like a freaking medieval castle. Be my knight in shining armor, Sir Scooter!”
He hustled in past Grace, leaving her standing on the stone stair trying to reconcile reality with expectations, barely able to breathe through the drowning sensation that she’d lost control.
“And now they’re playing some real tunes,” she heard Scooter say as Alex’s playlist switched to a screaming guitar and a loud cry of “Kick your boots and booties higher, we’re gonna set this place on fire!”
Pivoting, Grace caught up with the couple as they made their way around the oversize reception area, toward the wide, curved stairs with a wrought-iron railing. She could do this. She had to.
“That makes a beautiful setting for a bridal photo,” Grace said, launching into her speech, even if this wasn’t where she liked to start the tour.
But they breezed right past the stairs, noses in the air, noisily sniffing.
“Holy Mother of Culinary Insanity, what is that smell?” Scooter asked.
“It’s heaven, Scoots.” Blue grabbed his arm and started tugging him toward the kitchen. “We died and went to food heaven.”
“I’m happy to give you a tour and…” Grace’s voice faded as they trotted off and disappeared into the hall that led to the kitchen, laughing and singing and forgetting Grace existed. “Or you can just go surprise the chef,” she whispered.
She hustled to catch up, and they beat her to the kitchen with Scooter bellowing his own song as they entered. Grace was right behind them, with a perfect view of Alex as he turned from his beloved pastry oven, holding a tray.
“Greetings,” he said with barely a flicker of surprise. Maybe he didn’t know what Scooter Hawkings and Blue looked like. “Porcini mushroom tartlets, anyone?”
Scooter and Blue shared a jaw-dropped look like little kids who’d been offered tickets to Disneyland.
Three Dog Night (The Dogmothers Book 2) Page 8
