by Marina Adair
“Bought some of those last week. Biggest mistake of my life.”
Lexi turned and found Nora Kincaid, current treasurer of the Daughters of the Prohibition and a big enough busybody to give ChiChi a run for her money, hunched over her shopping cart, her teeth bared in what appeared to be a smile.
“Why’s that?” Lexi asked, even though she knew better. But she was having a crisis of the culinary kind and needed help.
“Bitter, I tell you. Made me salivate until my Harvey though I’d gone rabid.” Nora grabbed the orange and set it back in the barrel with a disgusted tut, and Lexi wasn’t so sure it was the salivation that had led Harvey to that conclusion. “If you ask me, things here have been going downhill ever since Marilee started selling produce from Chile.”
Nora shot a glance at Marilee, who was standing behind the cash register, and dropped her voice. “I hear it’s because Biff told her that real Americans didn’t sell foreign wares and he would have nothing to do with it. She told him that real men don’t need so many little blue pills to make it happen down there and then started importing things from all over.”
Nora leaned in closer. “My Harvey never needed any of those blue pills. His plumbing works just fine, and I do my job as a wife.”
“Um, congratulations,” Lexi said, looking around, not sure what she was supposed to say.
“Oh my. This is awkward, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to imply—” Nora glanced down at Lexi’s bare ring finger, and before Lexi could defend herself against the nonimplication, Nora changed the subject. “Nonetheless, I’m glad I ran into you.”
Lexi wasn’t sure she could return the sentiment.
“Your grandmother signed on to provide all the pastries for the Book Walk this Saturday.”
“I saw it on her calendar.” The Book Walk was run by the Community Action Committee and helped the library raise funds for new books. Pricilla had been the food vendor of choice ever since Lexi could remember.
“Last month we advertised her being there, and she only showed up with enough pastries to feed a handful of people,” Nora sniffed. “So unless you can promise me provisions for half the town, I’m going to have to give her contract to someone else.”
“What?” Lexi stammered. “No, my grandma loves that event.” She had no idea what the real story was, but if Pricilla was shorting her customers, then it wasn’t good. “There’ll be more than enough for everyone. I promise.”
“Good, because my grandson Grayson is taking you to BoVine Thursday night, and he doesn’t like flaky women.” The woman gave Lexi a slow and thorough once-over. The wag of her head told Lexi she’d come up short. “He’s also never needed a blue pill. But just to be safe, try dressing to inspire, dear.”
Lexi looked down at her dress. It was fun, cute, and showed just enough cleavage to be flirty. She set her basket down and tugged at the neckline of her dress. Still not satisfied, she gave another tug.
“Any lower and Mr. Craver might just fall over the counter.”
She looked up. Nora was gone and—
Great.
Marc leaned against the display housing cucumbers and zucchini. Dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, a gray shirt that hugged his muscular chest, and a navy baseball cap, he held a bag of beef jerky, a power drink, and enough raw testosterone to make what should have been vineyard casual look ruggedly sexy—and extremely inspiring.
“It’s the hair,” he said, and she agreed. He had really great hair. Even though it was only peeking out the back of the cap, she knew it was dark and thick, and she understood why women would want to run their fingers through it—other women, that is, not her.
She’d given in to lust with Jeffery, and look where that had gotten her. Nope, not a cycle she was interested in repeating anytime soon.
“I meant your hair,” he said, reaching up and taking out the elastic band she was wearing. Her hair came loose and tumbled down her back.
When he ran his fingers through it a few times and then pulled it forward over her shoulder, his hand grazing her bare skin, her body started to tingle. And when he murmured, “Hair like yours should never be pulled back,” that annoying tingle became a full-blown hum.
No way in hell, she thought, taking a step back. Not him.
She didn’t have the time for men right now. And she didn’t have the experience with men to tangle with a guy like Marco DeLuca—ever.
Her first thought was to grab her oranges and run. Then she remembered that Marc loved food almost as much as she did. That she still hadn’t figured out what was wrong with her sauce. And that she was tired of running from men.
Sexy hum or not.
She grabbed a dark-chocolate bar from her basket and broke off a square. “Open up.” He did, and she shoved it in his mouth. “Now smell this.” She placed the Valencia orange to his nose.
“It smells really”—he cracked a smile—“orangey.”
“Orangey? That all you’ve got?”
“Fruity?” He shrugged matter-of-factly, but his eyes were twinkling with humor.
“Never mind, smell this.” She grabbed the sour orange and put it to his nose.
His nostrils flared, and he scrunched up his face. Dang it. Why was this so hard? She was picking out an acid for her sauce, for God’s sake. It was Cooking 101.
“What were you hoping for?”
“Well, not fruity or orangey, and definitely not—” She mimicked his disgusted expression, and he laughed. “I was hoping for more tart, I guess. It’s for a sauce to go over a pepper-crusted lamb chop.”
He turned the bill of his cap backward and surveyed the choices. Lexi was too busy trying not to survey him to notice how many varieties of oranges the store offered.
“How about this?” He broke off a chunk of chocolate and held it to her mouth. When she didn’t open, he teased it across the seam of her lips until she parted them on a gasp. He slid the chocolate in and she nearly moaned, because of the chocolate or the fluttering going on in her girly region, she didn’t know.
Marc reached behind him, and when he turned back around, he stared down at her with those intense brown eyes and cocked a brow. She figured what the hell and opened.
“Oh my God,” she moaned, savoring the bitter and tart and dissecting each individual taste. “Is that a kumquat? I never would have thought to add that. It’s incredible.”
“Yes, you would have. You made me a chocolate cake with these things on the top for my eighteenth birthday.”
She had. How had she forgotten that? And why had he remembered?
“How many do you need?” he asked, smiling smugly.
“About twenty, I guess. They’re so small.”
Marc bagged her citrus and dropped it in her basket. Bending over, he grabbed the handles and strode off—with her groceries.
“What are you doing?” She followed behind him.
“What else do you need?” He didn’t slow down.
“What I need is to carry my own basket to the counter and pay so I can get home.”
“Great, checkout it is.” He never broke his stride and wouldn’t give up the basket.
“Fine,” she conceded, looking at his groceries, “but I need a few things first.”
CHAPTER 3
Marc smiled as she led him around the store, those heels of hers slapping the ground and a delicate, feminine scent lingering behind her. “A few things” didn’t even begin to describe what she was buying. She loaded up the basket with a loaf of herbed focaccia bread, a block of wasabi gouda, adding an apple and some kind of bone that Biff wrapped specially for her. He had no idea what she was going to use it for, a broth maybe, but the way she carried it instead of dropping it in the basket told him that it was important.
Then she added in a jar of fig preserves, and Marc wondered what he was doing. He had run into the store to grab a quick lunch, which he’d done. And now he was good to go.
Hell, he needed to go. Needed to get out of this store. Away from Lexi before he d
id something that he wouldn’t be proud of—like break man law and kiss his best friend’s ex-wife.
Plus, instead of playing “carry the hot girl’s books to class” he should be in the truck, halfway out of town already. He’d promised a buddy in Sonoma that he’d drive over the hill and pick up ten cases of wine slated for the Showdown wine tasting.
He’d been looking forward to getting out of town since last week. No office meant no e-mail, no phone calls, no BS. Just him, his dog, and a winding country road.
Then he saw Lexi in that sundress and those shoes, looking frazzled and adorably irritated, and his plans changed because she appeared as though she needed the time away as much as he did.
Maybe more.
He’d overheard Nora giving her a hard time. Saw the look on Lexi’s face when she was trying to figure out what was wrong with her dress. And wanted to tell her she was perfect, that nothing was wrong. Hell, Lexi could be inspiring in a freaking potato sack. Then he’d touched her hair and, Christ, all he could think about was touching her more.
“That all?” Marilee asked, snapping Marc out of his daze.
Mrs. Craver was glaring at Lexi, who was too busy repacking what the bag boy had already packed up to answer. She carefully separated everything in two bags, so intent on her project she didn’t realize they were holding up the line.
“I think so,” Marc said, taking out his card and adding his items to the total.
He signed the receipt and grabbed the bags when Lexi looked up. “I have to pay.”
“Already did, cream puff.” And with a “good day” to Marilee, he ushered her out the door.
They were halfway to his truck, Lexi digging through her wallet and following him blindly, when Wingman spotted them.
“Wingman, stay,” he commanded, and like any good dog, Wingman leaped out the window with a bark and ran—right up to Lexi.
Squatting down, she hugged the lucky mutt and didn’t even complain when he licked her face.
“You shouldn’t run around like that. You could get hit,” she cooed, and Wingman, being a male confronted with a soft, curvy female, dropped to his stomach and rolled over, letting her give him a nice belly rub.
When the dog was all but moaning, with his eyes rolled back into his head, Lexi stood and extended her arms. For a split second Marc though she was offering him a belly rub.
“My bag. I’ve got to get going.”
Bag. Right. “I’ve got it.”
“Yes, well, you’re going there”—she looked pointedly at his truck and then to the bakery across the street—“and I’m going there.”
“Great. Then it shouldn’t take too long. Let’s go.” After locking Wingman back in the cab of the truck, he walked across the parking lot, biting back a smile when she came clacking up behind him.
“I can carry my own stuff.”
“Never said you couldn’t.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “At least tell me how much I owe you.”
Marc reached the curb and stopped. “I have a better idea.” It was a stupid idea. One of the worst ideas he’d ever had. “My buddy’s wife just went into labor, and I said I would pick up his wines for the Showdown. Buy me a tank of gas, come with Wingman and me for a ride, and we’ll call it even.”
She didn’t ask where he was going or when he’d be back, just stared at the bakery, which housed three silvered grannies staring back, and said, “Okay.”
“Really?” And just like that he went to half-mast. The image of her riding next to him on his truck bench, straddling the gearshift—
Ah man, he was toast. That mountain would force him to change gears at least twenty times each way. Which meant he’d be brushing up against her thigh at least twenty times each way. And man law or not—that was way too tempting.
Before he could rescind his invitation, she nodded and looked up at him with those big, mossy eyes and he was lost.
What the hell had just happened?
He was supposed to offer, and she was supposed to refuse. It was how they worked. How they had always worked.
“I mean, if you can wait,” she began. “I’m making lunch for our grandmas and Lucinda as a thank-you for, well, everything. And they’re waiting on me.”
So that’s what they had told her.
“It will be about an hour. Is that okay?” she asked, resting a hand on his arm.
“I can wait.” Hell, if she kept touching him like that, he’d wait all afternoon. Not that he’d be waiting that long. He’d give her two minutes tops, and then they’d be on the road.
They crossed Main Street, and when they reached the other side, she took the smaller bag from him. “This is for you. It’s healthier than the beef jerky. Plus, the fig jam on that gouda is incredible. Oh, and—” She dug through the bag, coming up with the bone. She unwrapped it. “This is for Wingman.”
“Marc?” A sugary voice came down the street and right into the moment.
He watched as his newish assistant, who was stacked, blonde, and looked like she was more adept at navigating a pole than a spreadsheet, made her way past the hotel and toward them. Even though she was dressed in the standard Napa Grand uniform of a black skirt and fitted blazer, in the sunlight, seeing her through Lexi’s eyes, suddenly there was nothing standard about the way it fit.
“Hey, Chrissi,” Marc said. “Have you met Pricilla’s granddaughter? Lexi, this is Chrissi.”
“Ohmigod,” Chrissi squealed. “I love her chocolate croissants. The ones with the tiny pieces of sea salt sprinkled on the top. Yummy.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Christie,” Lexi said.
“Chrissi, with an i,” she corrected, and Marc felt his left eyelid twitch.
“My apologies,” Lexi said, sliding him an amused glance.
Chrissi blinked up at Marc with her big eyes, and her even bigger breasts strained against her blazer. “I’ve been trying to find you. Gabe called, something about a missing case of wine. And I ordered lunch. Your favorite. It’s getting cold.”
“Well, then, I won’t keep you,” Lexi said, giving his arm a little pat. “It was nice to meet you, Chrissi.”
Marc watched her walk off, knowing what she was thinking, knowing that she was wrong, and hating that he cared.
Thanking Chrissi for lunch and apologizing that he would be out of the office the rest of the day, he took off after Lexi.
“I still have your kumquats,” he shouted.
Lexi stopped under the red-and-white-striped awning of the patisserie. When he caught up, he said, “And you stole my lunch.”
“Actually, I left so that you could get to your lunch.”
Marc looked up at the sky and counted to ten, letting her words settle. Surprised by how much they rubbed him the wrong way, he actually had to go up to fifteen. “It’s not what you think.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” Marc kicked at the ground, irritated that he was irritated.
“I get it, remember?” she said softly. “I’m the one who breaks up with girls for you. As long as she’s a consenting adult, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
Exactly. So why did he want to so badly?
“For the record, Chrissi is my assistant. She holds a double degree in marketing and hospitality management. And although she’s a little flighty and way too perky—”
He stopped when Lexi snorted at his word choice.
“Sorry, go on.” She placed a hand over her mouth, but he could still see her eyes glistening with humor.
“She’s bilingual, great with customers, and was hired by my sister-in-law.”
With that, Marc spun on his heel, took two steps, and stopped. Yeah, it looked bad; he got it. And it sucked. So he stalked back. “And I don’t sleep with my staff. Ever.”
And he stormed off for the second time. Only this time he didn’t make it more than a step when he felt her hand on his arm—again. And this time he couldn’t ignore that some serious sparks o
f lust shot straight down to his groin at the simple contact. “I never thought you would.”
Then why did he feel like he was lacking?
He released a breath and faced her. “People change, Lexi.”
“Okay,” she said, her expression soft and genuine, which pissed him off even more.
Because it wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. He’d never felt the need to give an explanation before. Not even to his brothers. So why was he chasing her through town to give one? Now that Lexi was back in St. Helena, something had changed, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Hell, he wasn’t sure how he felt about anything.
With a soft smile, she held out her hand. “You still have my kumquats.”
He handed them over. “You’re not going to come with me, are you?”
“I promised the grannies. And even though it would be fun to ride around like old times, the longer I avoid…” She stared at him a moment. A long moment, before finally shaking her head. “Maybe another time.”
“What if I told you that there is no lunch with the grannies? That this is a setup for your Mr. Tuesday Lunch?”
“What?” Lexi made her way to the window and cautiously peeked in. He knew what she would see. Jay Sanders, a decent-enough-looking middle-school history teacher. He would be nice and charming and laugh at her jokes. He’d stick to bland crap like kids and travel and his favorite movies. And he’d be a safe bet.
“There was no Mr. Tuesday Lunch. How did you know?”
Marc came up beside her. “Pricilla runs a blog with everyone’s days on it. Bios. Everything but their criminal records.” From inside, Jay waved and so did Pricilla. “Go for a ride with me, Lexi.”
Lexi gave Mr. Safe a hesitant wave back, and Marc had his answer.
He shouldn’t have felt disappointed. But he did. “I guess I was wrong about people changing. Have fun on your date, cream puff.”
