by Marina Adair
Frankie just stared at the pad and her knees went wobbly. She had a mental barrel of what drove people crazy about her, but she’d never once considered what it would feel like to know what someone liked—no, wait, the list was titled WHY I LOVE FRANKIE—loved about her.
He loved her. Frankie felt her throat start to burn. Luce was right: love was forever. It didn’t matter that he hated when she drank from the carton or used his electric razor to de-knot Mitten’s coat, because even though his need to wash the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher drove her crazy, she still loved him. Always would.
And he loved her.
Nate took her hesitation to mean something else because he quickly added, “I have another two at home. All filled, but I was told it would make me look desperate.” He glared at Trey who stood three booths away and waved. In fact, Nate’s entire family was standing three booths away, listening and watching. “I should have brought the other two. I knew it.”
“I don’t need the other lists,” Frankie whispered and took the pad.
Glancing at the first page, she felt a small smile tug at her lips. Then she took Nate’s hand and pulled him past his smiling family and hers to a small utility room off of the ballroom floor. She didn’t even let him get the door closed before she asked, “Boobs, really? They are number two and number nineteen.”
Nate laughed. It was raw and thick with emotion. “You seem to do better with the heavy stuff if I start with sex as a warm up. And yes, number two refers to how they feel, and number nineteen has to do with taste and page three, number two-hundred and seventy-six, is how they look wet in the water.”
“Isn’t that redundant?”
He shook his head and ran a gentle hand down both of her arms. “I remembered the way they looked after we made love in the lake, and it’s different than in the bath with bubbles. That’s in journal number two. But it doesn’t matter what’s in there, Frankie. What matters is—”
“In here.” She placed her hand over his heart.
“I love you,” he whispered and Frankie stepped forward until their bodies were gently brushing.
He smelled like home and felt like forever, and the way his hands slid around her, pulling her close and trapping a dictionary of words on a legal pad between them, she realized that the only three that mattered crept inside her heart. “I love you, too.”
Nate kissed her lips. “I know.”
“And what you did for my grandpa, for my family.”
He cupped her face between his warm hands. “I did that for you, Frankie. Everything I did, I did it for you.”
She leaned up and when their mouths came together, everything that she’d been too scared to say, too scared to think rushed through her chest. Things that four months ago would have terrified her, now made her feel happy, hopeful, free.
“I’m standing in a utility room.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and a small smile tugged at Nate’s lips. “I want to cry because for the first time, in a really long time, I feel as though I fit.” She delivered a gentle kiss and whispered against his mouth, “With you I fit.”
“Which is why I need you,” Nate said roughly. “To understand that aside from all logic, I am ridiculously in love with you, Francesca.”
With a final brush of the lips Frankie pulled back and when she looked up into those warm-brown eyes she knew she was staring at her forever.
READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK OF MARINA ADAIR’S NEXT ST. HELENA VINEYARD ROMANCE!
Be Mine Forever
Available February 2014 on Amazon.com
Trey DeLuca hated hospitals. Almost as much as he hated himself right now.
Seven calls. He’d received seven calls over the past two days from his family, which he’d selfishly chosen to ignore. Three texts came in while he’d been in transit from Paris to San Francisco. All from his oldest brother, Gabe. And all with the same message: Call me.
So he finally had. And was sent straight to voicemail.
Trey hurried through the emergency waiting room of St. Helena Memorial and was hit by the smell of ammonia and a nervous hum that gave him the willies. It was a pretty quiet night. Most of the industrial-grey seats in the waiting room were empty. Then again, St. Helena, California with its not-quite six-thousand residents wasn’t exactly a hive of activity.
Finding the room where the hospital attendant had directed him, he rested his hand on the doorknob and closed his eyes. God, he just needed her to be okay.
With a deep breath he opened the door, took one step inside, and froze.
Holy Christ Almighty, if the smell of Bengay didn’t make him want to run for it, the sight of saggy breasts slung up in sequins did.
He’d been played. His brothers had dangled his grandmother’s health in front of him and he’d come running. But instead of lying on her deathbed with his family standing in silent vigil, Nonna ChiChi Ryo stood at the back of a small cafeteria, where the tables and chairs had been shoved up against the wall to create a makeshift dance floor, draped over some silver fox’s arm as though he’d caught her mid-faint.
Dressed in a flowy red dress, matching orthopedic shoes, and enough hairspray that would ignite with a single spark, ChiChi sashayed around the floor, twirling through a good portion of the town’s retired sector, and going for the dramatic dip under a giant poster that read: ST. HELENA’S SALSA SOCIETY. WE PUT THE HEAT BACK IN WINTER.
“Trey?” ChiChi said mid-toe-flick, looking about as startled to see Trey as Trey was when she adjusted her goods and—ah, Christ, he had to look away. “You came?”
“You say that as though you didn’t leave a half-dozen cryptic messages on my cell implying I needed to come home before it was too late.”
“And here you are, such a good boy,” ChiChi praised, smoothing a hand over her grey up-do and coming over to give him two kisses to the cheeks. “Just in time for—”
“You’d better say to resuscitate.” He ran a hand down his face. “I thought you were…”
Dead. He’d thought she was dead. He’d spent the past eighteen hours on an airplane after rushing out in the middle of a business meeting, praying he’d make it in time to tell his grandmother that he loved her, berating himself for being a selfish prick for staying as far away as possible from his family. He wasn’t even sure what time zone he was in anymore. “Christ, Nonna, you said it was a matter of life and death.”
“Watch your language,” she chided. “And this is life or death. The Winter Garden Gala is just three weeks away. And you, my favorite grandson, get to be my dance partner. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Yeah, wonderful.
Trey ran a hand down his face, working overtime not to lose it. St. Helena might not be Dancing with the Stars, but people here took their swing time seriously. And the Winter Garden Gala, a Valentine’s celebration put on by the St. Helena Garden Society, was pretty much the hottest ticket in town. The last time he’d gone, Trey had been fifteen and his mom a nominee for Winter Garden of the Year. With his dad stuck in a snowstorm in Chicago, his brothers cursed with two left feet, and Trey having seven years of enforced dance lessons, he was the only possible candidate to partner with his mom in the Winter Garden Waltz.
Only Mollie Miner, with her blonde hair and way-too-full Cs for a freshman, had asked him to meet her in the garden. Even at fifteen Trey knew she wasn’t looking to Waltz. And since dancing with his mom in front of the entire town sounded like social suicide, he’d snuck out to meet More Than a Handful Mollie.
They rounded second that night, Mollie turned out to be a bra stuffer, Trey missed the Winter Garden Waltz, and three months later his mom died.
“Gabe is your favorite.” And better with this kind of stuff, he thought, pulling ChiChi in for a big hug. Underneath the anger at being played, deep relief poured through his body. She was okay. His nonna was alive and okay.
“Yes, well, Gabe is busy being a husband and proud papa.” She pulled back and patted his cheek. “And you drew the short straw.�
�
“I wasn’t here to draw,” Trey argued.
Every year the brothers drew straws to see who “got” to escort ChiChi and partner with her in the Winter Garden Waltz. And every year Trey somehow managed to weasel out of it. Apparently this Valentine’s Day, his brothers and Cupid had their pointy little arrows aimed at Trey. Too bad for them, tomorrow morning he was going to be on the next flight back to Anywhere But Here.
Being home was hard enough. Being home around Valentine’s Day was not going to happen.
“No, you weren’t,” ChiChi tutted. “You were off to God knows where, with God knows who.” Trey had been at a wine conference. In Paris. Alone. Selling the family’s wine. “So, I drew for you.”
“And just how many straws were there to draw from?”
“One. Congratulations, dear.” She clapped as though he were the luckiest man in the world. And maybe he was. His grandma was alive. Which was the only thing keeping him from wringing her neck. But there was no way he was going to that dance. One of his brothers would just have to man up.
The door to the cafeteria opened, causing everyone in the room to turn, and every man in the room to smile. Trey glanced over his shoulder as a tiny woman, burrowed under a bright yellow rain slicker and a sorry looking blue and white knit cap that screamed handmade, entered. She was carrying a broken umbrella, which explained the drowned kitten look, and a duffle bag big enough to hide in.
“Sorry, I’m late,” a sweet, but slightly harassed voice came from beneath the slicker as she struggled to pull it over her head, but the wet vinyl got stuck. “Some jackass in a minivan parked diagonally taking up three spaces so I had to circle the lot a few times.”
“Maybe they were in a rush, had a family emergency,” Trey said, sending ChiChi a stern glare.
“Yeah, well,” the woman, who he assumed was the dance instructor, said, dropping the broken umbrella to the floor to work harder on her raincoat. “There were no more spots, I looked. So after five laps I decided to squeeze in beside him. I mean, I figured my car was a compact. It should fit, right?”
Trey hoped to hell it had. Otherwise he was going to have to explain to his brother Marc how he’d “borrowed” and dented his new minivan. Which kind of served him right for trading his truck in for one.
“Wrong.” Giving up on the buttons, she reached down for the hem and tugged up. “I heard the scraping of metal and instead of stopping I panicked and gunned it.”
“Oh dear, are you okay, Sara?” ChiChi said, concern lacing her voice as she took a step forward. Several other worried hums erupted from the senior gallery.
“Outside of eating my front bumper, the minivan looks fine.” Which explained her shaking hands. And the way she was frantically fumbling to get out of her coat. “I left a note, but the wind blew it away. So I stood out there for a few minutes waiting for the owner to come out.”
Her movements were jerky with what Trey thought was frustration and a good dose of adrenaline. In fact, if she wasn’t careful in her disrobing someone was going to get hurt. One of the senior males with bad hips and dentures was already closing in to help.
With a frustrated huff, Sara dropped the duffle bag, bent at the waist and started shimmying out of the slicker and—holy shit—a shapely, sequined-clad, nowhere-near-qualified-for-a-senior-discount ass emerged from underneath the raincoat. He’d always considered himself a leg man, loved them long and wrapped around his middle. But after seeing that exquisite heart-shaped handful, he was a changed man. Not that her legs weren’t toned and silky. But that backside. Perfection.
“You need help?” Harvey Peterson, the town’s podiatrist asked, his hands already reaching for her waist.
“No, I’m fine. Really, Harvey.” If anything, Mr. Peterson’s offer got her moving even faster.
Harvey, however, looked disappointed. Trey felt for the guy.
He stepped around the forming crowd so as not to lose the view as Sara wrenched and yanked the wet material until she made some progress and—thank you, Jesus—it got stuck on an even more incredible set of breasts—on the smaller side, maybe a full B, but incredible all the same. And they were just as slick as the rest of her.
Always the gentleman, Trey stepped forward to do his part, lending his hands to the cause. “Here, let me help.”
“I’m fine, really,” she said, her hands batting at his, which rested on her hips to steady her. And yeah, she was tiny but packing a ton of delicious curves.
“Sorry, can’t hear you through the material,” he lied, grabbing her wrists and guiding them to the bottom hem of her thin, tank-style shirt. “But if you don’t stop flopping around you’re going to take someone out. Or give Harvey over there the chance to goose you and call it an accident.” She froze. “So, work with me here. Hold your top down so I can pull the slicker up and…”
“Okay. Better?” Sara whispered.
Abso-fucking-lutly. First, the woman did just as he asked—that in itself was a miracle. Second, she pulled a tad bit too hard, causing the scoop of her neckline to ride blessedly low, giving him an inspiring view of teal-lace and tan cleavage. The best part was when he gave the final tug, and the slicker and knit-cap came up and off, leaving behind the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Which didn’t make sense. Trey had been around a lot of beautiful women. Spent the past ten years traveling the world and getting up close and personal with a lot of them. Women who were stilettoed, stacked, smoking-hot, and satisfied with one night. This woman was maybe five-two with bouncy brown hair, girl-next-door freckles, and a pair of no-nonsense shoes that were definitely more Mary Anne than Ginger. And he was a Ginger kind of guy. Always had been.
Nothing about her said simple, short term, or easily impressed. So why then was he having a hard time breathing?
Dry spell. That was it. The main reason he was staring at Pollyanna had nothing to do with the way those big brown eyes seemed to look right through all of his bullshit or the way her sweet kiss-me-mouth curved up into a smile that made his pulse pound. Nope, the simple truth was, it had been way too long since he’d gotten laid.
“Isn’t this interesting?” ChiChi murmured, patting Trey on the back, no doubt already picking out great-grandbaby names. “This gentleman here is my grandson. My favorite grandson.”
“Thank you, favorite grandson.” Sara smiled, two little dimples winking his way. He’d never been into dimples, but on her they worked.
“My pleasure,” Trey said, wondering what kind of dance she taught and if she would be open to a private lesson—of the tangled-sheets variety.
He flashed her that smile he knew women loved, because why the hell not? Flirting with a pretty woman seemed like a much better way to spend his evening than arguing with his brothers or picking out funeral arrangements.
She tried not to smile, but one slipped out and—hello sunshine—it even lit up her eyes. Message received and reciprocated. Sara with her sunny smile and pert nose was aware of him in a purely male-to-female, let’s get down and dirty kind of way.
“Shouldn’t you two exchange information?” ChiChi nudged.
Right. The minivan. “It seems silly since I’ve already helped you undress, but it seems that we’ve reached the information portion of the evening where I ask for your name, number, and if there is anyone at home you can call?”
A hint of pink tinted her ears, which he found oddly endearing, and she looked up at him with those big bottomless eyes, practically slaying him right there on the spot.
“Information? Okay, um, no, there is no one at home.” She wiggled a naked ring finger and before Trey could clarify the reason behind his questions, she pulled out a business card and handed it to him. “My number is on there and… what?”
“Bolder Holder?” He read the frequent buyer card she’d handed him. He was right—a 32-B. “Your local lingerie pusher-upper.”
“Oh, God.” She snatched it back and produced another card. Still not the insurance card he expected, b
ut before he could explain, she looked around at the room of students who were all smiling back and damn if her entire face wasn’t glowing with embarrassment. “I’m Sara Reese and as you can tell I’m not really good at this.”
Even her name was sweet. And flirting disaster would be putting it mildly. Not that he minded. There was something about her shy interest that got to him.
“Trey DeLuca,” he said. She placed her hand in his extended one. Her skin, soft and a bit chilled, packed one hell of a punch. “I’m the asshole who ate your bumper.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my editors Eleni Caminis and Lindsay Guzzardo, and the rest of the Author team at Montlake, for all of the amazing work and support throughout this series.
As always, a special thanks to Jill Marsal for being the best agent in the world and loving Mittens the alpaca as much as I do.
A huge thanks to my best friends and partners in writing. For all of the laughs, tears, and edits that you suffered through during the plotting, re-plotting, writing, deleting, restructuring, and re-writing (to the fourth power) of this book. To Diana Orgain, one of the biggest dreamers I know, thank you for sharing your dreams and allowing me to share mine. And to Miss Marni Bates for being my constant cheerleader.
A special thanks to my go-to-wine-guy, Gary Galleron of Galleron Signature Wines, for answering all of my questions about wine and grapes—even the ridiculous ones.
Finally, and most importantly, thanks to my daughter Thuy for being the most amazing kid in the world—and for loving Buffy the Vampire Slayer… Buffy nights with you are some of my most treasured times.
