by Marina Adair
“What’s that?”
“This.” He tightened his arm around her waist, holding her snug against him. “Now go to sleep. Your man wants a big breakfast in the morning.”
CHAPTER 15
Lexi stood at the back of the St. Helena Courthouse. Even though she was strategically positioned by the door in case she needed to make a quiet escape, she could still smell the roasted figs and baked gorgonzola wafting from her dish, which sat at the front of the room.
She warily glanced around the courtroom and felt a bubble of panic rise up. The room was large, with a domed ceiling and enough mahogany benches and paneling to build life-sized replicas of the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. Which was a good thing, since half the town had turned out to see who would win: a disaster of a divorcée or a busty gold digger. The judges were seated, in the jury box to be exact, the plates had been served, and rumor had it that Mrs. Rose, current wine commissioner, was allergic to peanuts. Lexi didn’t know if pistachios would be a problem, but she noticed that Mrs. Rose was picking out anything remotely nut-shaped.
“Why is Mrs. Rose sitting at the judge’s bench?” Lexi whispered to Marc, who stood right beside her. He was wearing khaki shorts and a gray UC Berkeley tee that did amazing things to his eyes, and looked relaxed and irritatingly sure of himself. Then again, his talent wasn’t on the chopping block.
He tilted his head in her direction, and for a moment Lexi thought he was going to kiss her. Something warm and soothing washed though her. Then he dropped his voice and spoke, and Lexi realized that he just hadn’t wanted to be overheard.
“The only way she’d agree to give up her Saturday skeet-and-trap-shoot time was if we held it in the county courthouse with her as presiding judge. ChiChi even snuck into the judge’s chamber and borrowed Judge Pricket’s robes and gavel.”
“Don’t forget that Nate had to cough up a case of his new reserve,” Abby added, coming up from behind to join them. She wore a cute sundress that highlighted her figure. The woman might be vertically challenged, but she was a mass of sleek curves. “He was pissed.”
Lexi looked up at Marc, who winked. He had been about to kiss her, she thought giddily, but then Abby had crept up. Not able to look at Marc without going warm, she turned her attention to the other DeLuca brother in question.
Nate sat in the jury box, wedged between Hard-Hammer Tanner and an empty seat, with the mayor on the far end. He was glaring at Frankie, who was chasing Simon around the witness stand and glaring back.
Simon Baudouin had the markings of a dairy cow, the body of a small boar, and the face of a gremlin after a head-on collision. Showing his fangs, he skirted around Frankie with a low snort and barreled toward the jury box.
“Simon, stop,” Frankie snapped.
Simon did stop, his fat belly shaking with excitement, as he gnawed on the leg of the mayor’s chair. Frankie drew close, cornering him and grabbing him around his abnormally wide girth. She hoisted him up, his little legs still moving as though trying to get traction on the air, and plopped him on Nate’s lap with a growl—it was Frankie growling, not the dog.
Unaffected, Simon snorted happily up at Nate and then took to gnawing on his watch.
“Seems like that’s not the only favor he had to pull to make today happen,” Lexi said, feeling guilty.
“Nah, Nate and Frankie have been trying to kill each other for years. It’s kind of entertaining,” Abby noted.
And if that wasn’t enough, the DOP senior league, huddled around the prosecution’s table, was shooting rubber bands at the junior league, who’d settled themselves primly behind the defense. It was like Iron Chef meets the Hatfields and the McCoys, and somehow Lexi’s dish, and her and Marc’s relationship, were at the center of the feud.
Isabel Stark turned around and saw Abby. Her eyes went wide, and she started waving, with a smile that was both caffeinated and kiss-ass. Just watching her was exhausting.
Abby nodded back. “Oh God. That woman has been calling me nonstop, asking if I need to talk about Richard, wanting to know how I’m holding up, if Nate is looking to settle down.”
“According to Isabel, she’s the F to your BFF,” Regan said, waddling through the doors, one hand on her belly and the other tangled with Gabe’s. “Hey, Lexi, we came to wish you good luck.”
Abby rolled her eyes, and Lexi noticed it was not directed at Regan, but rather inclusive of. Their relationship had been rough at the start, but Abby was genuinely trying to make Regan feel welcome in the DeLuca brood. Lexi knew it was hard on her friend and was proud of the progress she’d made. It was one step closer to her letting go of the past.
“Looks like you’re up,” Marc said, taking Lexi’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Ready?”
“Yup.” She gave a decisive nod.
Both sides had delivered all three courses. Natasha had just finished a beautiful presentation, which would be hard to beat, and taken her seat next to her friends. Now it was Lexi’s turn. She was to approach the bench and stand next to the jury box, ready to answer any questions that the Tasting Tribunal might have. Only she couldn’t seem to get her feet to work. Part of the problem was her shoes. She’d worn them because they were sleek and sexy and turned Marc on, which she’d thought would help her feel a little naughty and a lot kick-ass chef. She’d thought wrong. The only thing her designer peekaboos had helped was the blister forming under her big toe. The other part of the problem was sheer nerves.
It had taken three pep talks, two sex marathons with Marc, and a plate of éclairs to relax her enough so she could walk through this door. Now, after seeing that half of the town had turned out—mainly the retired half—and that Natasha had gone more traditional, Lexi decided that her appetizer was too edgy, her rolled boar loin too gamy, and her chocolate-or-bust bonbons too small and that she might not win this thing. And if she didn’t win—well, she couldn’t think about that right now.
She’d put herself on that plate, and that was all that mattered. Or at least that’s what she told herself as the five judges studied the dish in front of them. Well, four judges studied while the fifth was busy growling at a cork-sized dust bunny and nipping at the mayor’s ankles.
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Rose said, her voice booming though the microphone and giving a screech of feedback. The room went silent, and all two hundred sets of eyes turned to Lexi. Who forced a smile.
Mrs. Rose was on the far side of eighty, a fire hydrant of a woman who loved hunting and guns, and when dressed in black robes with a gavel she could easily be mistaken for the Honorable Judge Pricket—who was male. Something Lexi had done once in the eleventh grade and hoped never to repeat again.
Mrs. Rose poked at Lexi’s first course. “Is this raw? My Barney died eating raw fish.”
“Raw?” Isabel Stark said, rising to her feet, hand over her chest. “We can’t serve raw fish. There are several pregnant women from Mommy and Me coming. They can’t eat raw fish.” She looked at the junior league in horror. “Who serves raw fish to pregnant women?”
A series of concerned and shrill whispers erupted from the defense.
“Your husband died, God rest his soul”—ChiChi paused to make the sign of the cross—“of a heart attack.”
“Which was brought on by too much raw fish.”
“Last I heard they fry their fish at McDonald’s.” ChiChi pointed to Lexi’s plate, adding, “And her fish isn’t raw. It’s called sashimi.”
“Actually—” Lexi began to correct ChiChi, but no one was listening. They were too busy wagging fingers at each other.
“Which is raw,” Isabel pointed out.
“It’s delicious,” Lucinda said, taking to her feet to join in the fight. Lexi doubted that the woman ever ate anything but meat—on the bone—but her support was appreciated.
“It’s cliché,” Natasha mumbled with an elegant eye roll.
“So is using your silicone wiles to land a man, dear, but pointing things like that out is rude,” Pricilla said, sweet as can be
.
“Order!” Mrs. Rose slammed down the gavel so hard a piece of wood splintered off. But to Lexi’s surprise, she was the only one who jumped. Everyone else looked from the defense to the prosecution and back to the judge, waiting to see who was going to be held in contempt. Everyone except Simon, who was standing on the table and showing Mrs. Rose just how sharp his canine teeth were.
“Why don’t we let the chef explain her dish,” Marc said and, as casual as ever, leaned down and whispered, “By the way, nice shoes, cream puff,” right before he smacked her on the fanny and sent her down the aisle.
Lexi stifled a yelp, but she was already in motion heading toward the bench, suddenly happy she’d worn the shoes.
“Well, which is it, missy?” Mrs. Rose snapped, still poking at her dish when Lexi had made it to the front of the courtroom.
“Each plate has two bite-sized potato pancakes topped with asparagus mousse and a balsamic glaze, which are all locally grown and produced. The one on the right is a more traditional take, using smoked wild salmon, whereas the one on the left uses locally caught, sashimi-quality sea bass.” Lexi held up her finger to silence Isabel. “Which is raw, yes, but since I have paired traditional with the experimental, there will be something for all.”
Lexi went on to explain the rest of her menu, highlighting how each course paired the new and the old, and all used locally sourced products. When she finished she resumed her place next to Marc at the back of the room, and waited.
She waited as the judges tasted and compared, waited while they huddled around the bench and held hushed conversations about her food. She even waited through Mrs. Balldinger’s entire cell-phone slideshow of Jeffery and Sara’s honeymoon photos. Finally, Mrs. Rose tapped the mic.
The muffled sound echoed off of the plaster walls. “Quiet, please. We have reached a decision. Would the jury please rise and state their choice.”
Simon let out a low moan. The poor thing seemed to be panting as he turned toward Nate—and threw up the entire contents of his stomach.
“What the—” Nate jumped up.
Frankie praised the dog.
And Natasha stood and started clapping. “That’s one vote for me.”
“How’s that?” Lexi asked, passing Nate a roll of paper towels from her bag.
“He ate mine first and seemed fine. It wasn’t until he got to yours that his stomach rebelled.”
“It’s not like we can ask him his opinion,” Nate muttered, wiping off his lap.
Lexi was about to ask the tribunal how they had intended on weighing Simon’s vote when Mrs. Rose rapped her gavel. “Has the jury reached a decision?”
“We have, Your Honor—um, Mrs. Rose,” the mayor said, standing from the first juror’s seat. He was a tall man, with long limbs, a beaked nose, and a wiry mop of gray hair. He was also looking directly at Natasha as he made a big ordeal out of opening the results, which made Lexi’s heart drop to her toes.
“It doesn’t matter what happens here,” Marc whispered in her ear, brushing a kiss against her hair. “You’ll get your bistro.”
Lexi looked up at him and offered the best smile she could pull off. Apparently it was already one vote Natasha, Lexi zero.
“I hope so.”
“Oh, sugar, I know so.” He lightly tugged her hair, and she felt a simultaneous tug in her heart. Those simple words, spoken with so much conviction, made Lexi believe. Faith was something that she’d thought she lost in the divorce.
There were no words to explain what he’d just done for her, so she gave him a gentle kiss.
“In the case of the junior league versus the senior league, the jury finds in favor of the plaintiff.”
The mayor finished and no one spoke. They were too busy trying to figure out who the plaintiff was.
“Pricilla’s girl.” Mrs. Rose smacked the gavel. “They choose for Pricilla’s girl to cater the Summer Wine Showdown.”
“What?” Natasha snapped, looking at Isabel and her league. “There is no way she won. You said I had this in the bag.”
“Yes, well, this town likes their food like they like their girls,” ChiChi said proudly. “Homegrown and good-natured.”
“I was born here. I’m homegrown,” Natasha argued, crossing her arms under her chest.
“Not all your parts, dear,” Pricilla said with sweet smile.
Before Natasha could respond, the courthouse doors blew open, bringing in hell with a cane.
“Overruled!” Charles Baudouin yelled, raising his cane in the air and waving it angrily.
Marc barely ducked out of the way. The man might be old as dirt, but he still had a lethal swing. He also had terrible timing. Just a moment ago Lexi had been so excited, so proud of what she had accomplished. And now she just looked confused—and sad.
“You don’t get to overrule a verdict,” Mrs. Rose said, standing up before Marc had the chance to tell the man to get the hell out—in the most respectful way possible, of course. “You’ve got to be wearing a robe to do that. And I’m the only one here wearing a robe!”
“Then I’m requesting a change of venue.”
“Enough,” Marc said, approaching the old man and grabbing his cane before he started swinging again. “Whatever your beef is with my family, it has nothing to do with today. Lexi won on her own merit—”
“I don’t care about the caterer.” Charles looked as confused as Marc felt. “I’m demanding a change of venue for the Showdown.”
“On what grounds?” Marc snapped.
“On account of the fact that your family has botched this thing up at every turn. And you may have saved the food, but from where I’m sitting, you’re still one person shy of a tribunal.”
“Have you met my friend Tanner?” Marc asked with a smile. Tanner waved. “Local hero and former NFL superstar.”
“Look at you grinning like you’ve already won. You’re just like your grandfather, so full of sh—”
“Charlie,” ChiChi scolded, and the man’s face immediately reddened. “There are ladies present. And that is my grandson you are speaking to.”
Charles took off his hat and covered his heart with it. “Sorry about that, Chiara. I let my mouth run away with me.”
“Well, it’s not the first time.” ChiChi walked over to Charlie and rested a pudgy hand on his arm. The man who just a second ago had been all piss and bluster was now blushing like a schoolboy. “And sadly, I don’t think you’re ready for it to be the last. When you are, let me know.” And after a congratulatory kiss to Lexi’s cheek, ChiChi left, looking much older than she had when she’d entered.
Charles watched her leave and then mumbled a few choice words, too low for Marc, or the ladies, to make out, but his emotion was clear. He was watching the woman he loved walk out—again. Only this time he wasn’t losing her to someone else. He’d lost her all on his own.
Lexi stood in her apartment kitchen wearing her purple apron, peekaboo shoes, and nothing else. The sun was slowly creeping across the valley floor, and Main Street had yet to wake. But Lexi was awake; she had never actually fallen asleep.
After last night’s win, Marc and his family had taken Pricilla and Lexi out for a celebratory drink. She’d forgotten how great it felt to be a part of people’s lives. Back in New York, she’d been so busy trying to keep the restaurant afloat and her marriage intact she had lost touch with all of her friends from culinary school. But here, back in St. Helena, she felt like she had connections, roots. She felt like she belonged.
After drinks, they’d picked up Wingman and come back to the apartment, where Marc had slowly peeled her clothes off and made love to her—all night. Sometime between washing each other’s backs—and fronts—in the claw-footed bathtub and making out on the couch while watching late-night television, Lexi had realized that she was in love with Marc, in every way possible. She wasn’t sure if he was in love with her, but she had no doubt that he cared deeply for her. It was in every touch and smile.
The water t
urned on in the bathroom, and her panties—had she been wearing any—went wet. Just the thought of him naked in the shower was enough to make her hot.
She reached behind her and grabbed a skillet, her heels clicking against the wood floor. She’d never cooked in the buff before. Then again, she’d also never had a sexy man in her shower who had a thing for her apron. The apron that she’d embroidered, in a moment of sheer giddiness, with the words Morning, Hot Stuff.
After pouring the eggs in the skillet, Lexi slid the frittata in the oven when a low whistle of male appreciation greeted her.
She closed the oven and turned around. Marc leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, in nothing but a towel and wet skin. Lucky girl that she was, the towel was around his neck and not his middle, which was wide-awake. She stood there for a moment savoring the view of him. Thankfully, she had closed all of the blinds, because the man was so handsome he was dangerous—naked, he was lethal.
And this morning he was all hers.
“Hey,” she said, surprised at how shy her voice sounded. At how shy she suddenly felt as his eyes dropped to her morning greeting plastered across her chest.
He didn’t speak, just flashed her that heart-melting grin of his and twirled his finger in the air, motioning for her to turn around. Slowly, she obliged, giving a little shake when her back was in view, before facing him again.
Without a word, he moved in. Three strides and he had her pinned between the counter and the hard planes of his body. Then he kissed her. She opened immediately and moaned when his tongue slipped inside. He tasted like toothpaste and rugged man, a combination so potent it had her shaking worse than her usual double dose of espresso.
He was warm, strong, and 100 percent male, which left her feeling very feminine. She could get used to mornings like this. The way he was pressed against her, running his big hands everywhere he felt bare skin, made her wonder if he was thinking the same thing.
When they came up for air, her arms were circling his neck, legs tight around his waist, and she was seated on the counter, the cool tile pressing against her skin.
