by Marina Adair
“Why the hell not?”
Nate knew as well as Frankie did that for a company like DeLuca Vineyards or Baudouin Wines, location wasn’t as crucial. They were the big guys of wine. People would seek out their booths, if only to brag that they’d rubbed shoulders with a wine tycoon. But to a fledgling winery like her own, who needed as many people as possible to taste, love, and vote for her wine, location could mean the difference between paying Tanner off and having to sell her grapes.
“Because I won this and you know it. And as soon as you’re ready to admit it to me and everyone here, let me know so I can pick my table and everyone else can pick theirs.”
Nate smiled, his whisky eyes dropping to her mouth. “Are we arguing?”
“I don’t know, are we?” And to Frankie’s horror she sounded breathy instead of angry—and she’d moved closer. The worst part was that she couldn’t even remember what they had been arguing about.
“I sure as hell hope so,” Nate whispered, the space between them quickly disappearing.
Before she could get out another word, or tilt her head up so he could reach her more easily, a shot rang out and juice splattered all over Frankie’s top.
* * *
“Now, seeing as there are no rules for this kind of situation, I get to make the rules. Anyone got a problem with that?”
Nate sure as hell didn’t. Not when Mrs. Rose stood—rule book in one hand and the starter’s pistol in the other—with her teeth bared and her frosted bun glistening under the afternoon sun.
Frankie, however, had other ideas, and opened her mouth to speak when Mrs. Rose pointed her .45 with perfect accuracy at Frankie’s scale. “Rule One: Another peep out of you and I start firing.”
Frankie looked at Nate’s scale. Dripping with juice and pulp, his needle now teetered between one hundred and five and one hundred and six pounds. With a sigh, she wisely closed her mouth, but not before letting loose a series of colorful opinions under her breath.
“Good. We’re in agreement.” Mrs. Rose went on. “Rule Two: You both have three minutes to decide who wants what table or I start shooting crates until you are both underweight, we have a new winner, and I get to go eat some of Pricilla’s Chocolate or Die Cake. Understand?”
What Nate understood was that the starter pistol wasn’t loaded with blanks, and if he and Frankie couldn’t come to some kind of agreement, then Charles would win by default. Something he wasn’t willing to let happen. Not after the look on Frankie’s face when her cousin had approached her at the start of the race. He didn’t know what had been said, but he knew that Kenneth had hit the intended target with painful accuracy.
Nate looked at Kenneth, who was preening, and back to Mrs. Rose. “Five minutes, no shooting, and I will buy you an entire Chocolate or Die cake. Deal?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t have the patience or the self-control. Instead he took Frankie’s hand and pulled her toward town hall, surprised when she laced their fingers and followed without argument. Which was a damn shame, because he wouldn’t mind a little verbal foreplay to get things sparking for the discussion they were about to have.
Weaving through the rows of vines, he took her around the back of town hall and out of sight of all the onlookers, to the utility shed. He pulled her inside and shut the door. And then his hands were on her. Gripping her hips, and backing her up against the door.
Her hands, however, were crossed over her breasts. Her full breasts. Her full, they’ve got to be Ds, breasts. What he wouldn’t give to know if the lace matched the shirt, both up and downstairs. But he only had five minutes—well about four and some change and that wasn’t enough time.
“I say we race the length of the park,” she said. “Fastest one wins.”
“I didn’t bring you in here to talk about how to settle this.”
“Then why are we in here?”
“Because last time I kissed you in public, you kneed me.” He leaned in, he couldn’t help it, and trailed little kissed over her jaw, her neck. God, she smelled good, like hot chick and Pop Tarts or something. All he knew was that she smelled good. Better than good. “And since I’ve been rock hard for a solid week, I didn’t want to risk it.”
Her hands fisted in his hair and she brought his face to hers. “Are you going to kiss me or do I need to start yelling?”
“Oh, I’m going to kiss you until you start yelling”—he smiled—“my name.”
“We’ll, see,” she whispered before dragging his head down and crushing her mouth to his.
His body went haywire, with all of the emotions and pent-up tension from the past week tangling into one complicated, and really freaking hot ball that settled right in his groin. Especially when her hands smoothed down his chest, teased across his stomach, and—bingo—right over the front of his pants. Her fingers traced the hard ridge of him through his denim and before he could return the favor, his zipper was down, pants around his ankles, and her warm hands were firmly wrapped around him.
Her hands. Oh my god, her hands officially blew his mind. Which was the only excuse he had for bucking into them. Because they cradled him, while stroking from base to tip, tightening a little more every time the motion was repeated, driving him closer to the edge with each pass.
Nate’s eyes rolled back into his head and he had to reevaluate his earlier statement. This was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.
“Christ, Frankie, I already said we weren’t racing, so slow down. You’re killing me,” he growled. And of course Frankie, who never listened to a damn thing he said, picked up the mind-blowing pace. A part of him died at the thought of her stopping. Another part of him knew that if she stroked him one more time with those hands, this would all be over. And he was, after all, a gentleman.
Grabbing her wrist, he stopped her and for several intense breaths he held perfectly still, afraid that if he moved, even an inch of friction would set him off.
“Slow down? We only have like a minute and you’re almost there,” she murmured, her mouth still working his.
Almost didn’t even describe how close he was.
“Like it or not, sweet cheeks, I am a DeLuca and in my world, it is always ladies first,” he whispered, then took her mouth in one hell of a hot kiss. A kiss that got a whole lot hotter when Frankie started using her teeth and tongue to nip and tease at his lips.
With a low growl, he pressed her to the wall, pinning her with his hips, and freeing up his hands to do some exploring of their own. He ran a palm down her breasts, over her stomach, and following her lead, right down her pants and—holy hell.
He felt her breath catch and his hands stopped when they met lace. Sexy, skimpy, and extremely wet lace.
“You’re wet,” he whispered against her neck while he kissed his way to the creamy swells pushing out from beneath her shirt. “What color are they?”
“Black,” she moaned. Her hands were now fisted in his hair and, lucky guy that he was, holding him to her, so he buried his face into cleavage. “And yes, the bra matches.”
Everything inside of him demanded that he rip off her clothes and check for himself, because he could tell she was lying and he wanted to know why. But she was right, time was running out. And there was no way she was going to beat him twice in one day. Oh, he knew she’d won—she’d out-cut every damn man there—but he wanted to rile her a little first.
And rile her, he had. Her body was so primed it was humming when he pulled the lace to the side and slid one finger in, meeting more of that sweet moisture. Her whole body tensed, so he slid in another, loving the throaty sounds she made and the way her body gave itself over to him.
“Christ you feel good,” he rasped. And he meant it. Tight and hot. The way she closed around his fingers when he sank them even deeper was enough to drive a man insane.
Slowly, he started pumping and her hips shifted to deepen the friction. This was what he wanted, what she needed, a taste of what was to come. She pressed forward, her thigh rubbing
against his dick and things got serious, real fast.
Breathing turned nonexistent, his chest felt too big for his skin and Frankie was so damn close.
“That’s it,” he whispered, curling his fingers and hitting the right spot.
He took her mouth right as she screamed out and her body exploded around his hand. And Jesus Christ the woman never did anything small or half assed.
Nate rode out her orgasm with her, slowly slipping his fingers out and delivering easy, languid kisses. Every time he thought to pull back, let her catch her breath, one or the other would prolong the kiss, tighten their grip, press closer.
So he didn’t stop, not until he felt her body sag against his and her eyes start to flutter open.
“Better?” He gave her a little kiss.
She nodded.
“Are you going to admit that you missed me too?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged, but she was smiling. That blissful smile that only comes from a great orgasm.
Nate let her lean against him while he zipped her pants back up and straightened her clothes as much as possible.
“You going to admit that I out-cut you?” she said, finally letting go and scooping up her hat off the floor. He had no idea when that had gone flying and by the confused look on her face, neither did she.
“Maybe,” he laughed, bending over to get his pants, a difficult task since he was still painfully hard.
“Well, then.” Shoving the hat on her head she said, “Go.”
“God damn it, Frankie,” he yelled after her, but she was already halfway across the park and he was still standing there fully loaded with his pants around his ankles. By the time he’d gotten himself calmed down enough to zip his fly, Frankie had picked out their two tables, the rest of the teams were selecting theirs, and his brothers were sending him shit-eating grins.
He flipped them the bird and walked up behind Frankie who was in a heated discussion with her cousin. Nate picked up the pace and Kenneth, smart man that he was, made himself scarce before Nate approached.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, which were so tense there was no give. “Everything okay?”
Frankie turned around, her face tight. She wasn’t looking relaxed or like she’d just had a standing O in the utility shed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.”
Okay, not the answer or warm reception that he was expecting after what they’d just shared. Hell, he was still flying at half-mast and she was looking like someone had just told her that Pop Tarts filed for bankruptcy. “Why don’t we go get a piece of Pricilla’s cake or maybe a cold beer and talk about it?”
It was weird: She was looking at him, but she wasn’t really looking at him. “Um, that sounds good, but I have to meet you there.” She blinked and added, “Okay?”
She didn’t even wait for his answer before she turned and walked through the crush of people headed toward Main Street. He watched her get on her bike and head north, leaving him wondering what the hell had just happened and with no option other than to wait. Which he did.
He waited through two helpings of Pricilla’s burnt almond cake, Holly’s explanation of how Baby Sofie grew on a vine, and through the entire Harvest Happy Hour Wine Rush at the Spigot. He waited until his brothers were on their second pitcher of beer, Lexi was practically sitting on Marc’s lap, and that look on Frankie’s face was so cemented in his memory, he couldn’t wait any longer.
Dropping a twenty on the table, he said his good-byes and was gathering his coat when Jonah approached their table, expression dialed to extra-serious. “You seen Frankie?”
“You mean before or after she kicked my brothers’ asses?” Abby said and the group laughed.
Nate shot them all a dark look. “She was actually supposed to meet me a couple hours ago, but never showed. Why?”
Jonah sighed. It was long, and tired, and not a good sign. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of her for the past hour and she’s not answering my calls.”
“She’s not answering mine either,” Jordan admitted, and that heavy feeling Nate had been carrying around the past few hours fell hard in his stomach.
The deputy pulled out the stool, his way of asking if he could join them. And if Nate weren’t so worried about Frankie, he would have laughed—it was such a Frankie move.
Nate resumed his seat. “What’s going on, Jonah?”
The sheriff looked longingly at the beer. If the guy wasn’t on duty Nate was pretty sure he’d drink the entire pitcher. “This isn’t widely known yet, so what I say here doesn’t leave the table.”
After a silent agreement passed among the table, Jonah spoke. “The fire reached our South Yenz Vineyard.”
“Ah man, Jonah, I’m so sorry,” Gabe said. “How bad is it?”
“Bad,” Jonah said, his entire frame deflating. “Lost half the vines.”
Silence fell. Fierce competitors, ridiculous feud, Baudouin or DeLuca, it didn’t matter; when a fellow winemaker lost their vines it hit everyone hard. And this loss was enough to topple Charles’s entire legacy.
“Does Frankie know?” Jordan asked.
“That’s why I am trying to find her. Adam called me earlier this morning to fill me in and we both decided to wait and tell Frankie. We didn’t want to stress her out before the competition. I just hope we didn’t wait too long.”
“Kenneth,” Nate said, already on his feet. Son of a bitch. “Kenneth told her.”
* * *
Frankie pulled a bottle out of her secret stash and popped the cork. Holding the wine opener in her teeth, she grabbed a spare, because it was that kind of night, and walked out to the front porch. The heat of the day had disappeared with the sun but despite the chill in the evening air, the wood slats remained warm under her bare feet.
She dropped down on the bottom step and, not bothering with a glass, took a long swig. Red Steel wasn’t the kind of wine Frankie would normally pick when the sole purpose was to get as tanked as humanly possible, but tonight it felt fitting. Plus each swallow chased away the goosebumps on her bare legs.
“Wark,” Mittens nickered as he ambled over.
“Wine gives you gas, remember? Plus, you already took out my lemon tree. My new lemon tree. A gift from Luce.”
With another low, apologetic “Wark,” he looked up at her through those thick dark lashes.
“Fine,” she huffed.
Mittens took this as a sign of forgiveness and compacted his body to resemble the sphinx. Not having another fight in her tonight, she worked her fingers behind his ears. With a satisfied hum, he rested his head on Frankie’s thigh.
She looked out across the field, toward her grandfather’s house and the single lit window, and any hopes that she had harbored on salvaging their strained relationship died. He’d made it more than clear earlier that evening exactly where Frankie stood in the family—firmly on the outside.
Placing the bottle to her lips, Frankie tipped it on back and, damn, even guzzling it like a brown bag special didn’t diminish from what an incredible wine she’d created. Her dad would have been proud, Frankie thought, and had it not defeated the purpose of this evening, it would have been a sobering one.
After threatening Kenneth with bodily harm unless he told her where Charles was, her cousin dropped the bomb that the south half of the South Ynez Vineyard had burned through the night and was nothing but ash.
Frantic, and convinced that Kenneth was just being his usual lying sack of shit self, Frankie raced to her grandfather’s house. She found him sitting on his favorite porch swing, smoking his pipe, and staring blindly at the gently rolling fields of golden vines. He smelled like cherry tobacco and fresh cut grass, and, when she laid her hand on his shoulder, he felt like home.
It became clear in the first two seconds that Kenneth had been telling the truth, and that Charles wasn’t her home, not anymore.
“I suppose that you’ve come here to gloat about your win,” he’d said.
Frankie didn’t know what hurt more, that he wouldn’t even look at her or that he believed she’d purposefully do something to hurt him—especially under the circumstances.
“I just came to see how you were holding up. See what I can do to help,” she’d said and he laughed. It was low and bitter and filled with disgust.
“You could have helped by sharing the news that Susan Jance was looking to sign a deal that could have saved this winery, yet you didn’t say a word.”
Because it would have placed her between her family and Nate. A position that she’d officially given up. “We could have partnered up: your grapes, Baudouin’s name and wine. We still can. We only lost half the harvest.”
Frankie’s heart had cracked, right then. She thought back to when Trey had implied that Charles was playing her, remembered how Nate had defended her to his family, and knew that no matter what happened she wouldn’t let herself be thrown in the middle ever again.
“It wasn’t my place to share and it isn’t our deal to make, Grandpa. You can talk to Susan, but I already have plans for my grapes. And her collector isn’t looking to fill his cellar with two buck chuck.”
“Then your place is no longer here and the only way you can help is to leave.”
So she had. Fighting back the tears with every step she took through the vineyard, which she had spent most of her life working.
Frankie heard the sound of approaching boots crunching the gravel, drawing her attention to the end of the walkway. She looked up and saw six-feet-plus of pure unadulterated male.
Nate stood just a few feet away, his hands shoved in his front pockets and his attitude set to protect and serve. He was wearing the same clothes from earlier, but for some reason he looked bigger, stronger, and, the way the moonlight played off of his olive skin and dark features, like a walking ad for sex.
“I’ve got a bottle of Wild Turkey that will get you there in half the time.” Even his voice sounded like sex.
“Half the time, but not nearly as fun,” she replied.
“You don’t seem to be having much fun,” Nate said gently.
