They walked into a large farm style kitchen, with more grapes, and Frankie grabbed a bottle of her Cab off the table and four wine glasses. Pricilla pulled a sanitizing wipe from somewhere inside her crocheted purse and went about wiping the table down.

ChiChi opened and closed every last cupboard and shook her head. “Child, how long have you been living here?”

“Since Monday,” Frankie admitted.

“How have you managed to eat when you don’t have a single plate, cup, or fork in the entire house?”

Frankie looked at Luce who was stroking Mr. Puffins and rolled her eyes at ChiChi’s outrage over Frankie’s lack of homemaking skills. Luce was the one person who completely understood Frankie. They were two peas in an extremely screwed up pod.

“I have cups.” Frankie held up her wine glasses and smiled.

“You’ve got a set of shot glasses too. The ones I brought you as a housewarming present,” Luce added with a grin.

“Yeah, but no water to wash them. I guess Saul had the same tank working both the house and the vineyard.”

“I already called Walt,” Luce said. “He’ll be over first thing Monday to check out the water tank and see if he can get the water running, at least to the property.”

“Shot glasses. No indoor plumbing,” ChiChi chided as though she didn’t, on occasion, sip homemade Angelica, aka fancy people’s moonshine, from teacups. “You two are as bad as my grandson, Trey. Boy doesn’t even have a place of his own and he’s coming on thirty.”

“Lexi sent paper plates and plasticware,” Pricilla said. “So stop harassing the poor girl and help me serve before it gets cold. And Trey would get himself a place if you all didn’t pamper him.”

ChiChi harrumphed but took her seat. In minutes, supper was being spooned up, plates were being passed, and a comforting hum of chatter filled the room. Frankie looked around the table at three incredible women whose friendship had outlasted wars, marriages, funerals, and feuds and found herself smiling. What would she give to belong to something as special as what they’d created?

Oh, she had friends. There were Jordan Schultz and Regan Martin—well, Regan DeLuca now—but for whatever reason, Frankie had never been able to fully open up. Not the way these women did. There was nothing hidden between them. Even when ChiChi had married Geno DeLuca, breaking Charles’s heart and starting a feud that would forever change the shape of St. Helena, never once had their friendship waivered.

The humbling part: They’d always made room for Frankie in their group, especially after the divorce. Going out of their way to include her in all of their plans, their crazy and sometimes illegal schemes, to make her feel a part of something. Which was why, when Frankie looked up from her nearly devoured dinner to find the grannies’ plates virtually untouched and all bifocals on her, she stopped, fork in midair. “What?”

They exchanged worried looks, then Luce spoke. “How are you doing? After today?”

“Great,” she lied, taking another forkful of green. Usually she hated anything green on her plate, but Lexi always managed to make it taste just like bacon. And Frankie loved bacon.

“Stubby seemed concerned with your money flow,” Luce said, referring to Judge Pricket. After a very brief and, according to Luce, unsatisfying affair during the Nixon administration, she’d resorted to calling him Stubby.

Frankie almost reminded them that there was to be no stupid men talk, then decided it was a waste of breath. If they wanted to talk about the land or Charles, they were going to talk. And talk. And talk. Until Frankie answered.

“Besides the small issue with the water tank and sharing soil with a DeLuca”—she looked at ChiChi—“no offense”.

ChiChi waved a dismissive hand. “None taken. I know how rigid my Nathaniel can be.”

“Which is why I need to know if you can do this,” Luce said. “You two have been at each other since high school when he won first in the science fair for his studies on Motzart’s effect on Merlot.”

“It was rigged,” Frankie insisted. And the biased science fair wasn’t the issue. It was that Nate had felt Frankie up on a Friday night in Saul’s vineyard, ignited civil war within her family on Sunday, and asked Sasha Dupree to prom the following Tuesday—in front of everyone. “His dad was a judge.”

“So was yours,” ChiChi countered, forgetting that having her father on a committee in a contest that he felt should be a man’s challenge wasn’t the same thing.

“And you both want this land,” Luce went on. “But Stubby was serious. If you two can’t make this work he’s going to rezone the land to residential.”

Frankie stopped chewing. “Rezone it? He didn’t say anything about rezoning it in court.”

God, if he did that then there would be a big ugly tract of identical taupe boxes stinking up the land between the Baudouin and DeLuca vineyards. Talk about running the property value into the ground.

“He can’t do that. The traffic, the noise, the everything.” Her heart started thrashing in her chest. “It would ruin everything.”

“I know, dear.” Luce reached out and uncharacteristically squeezed Frankie’s hand. Which was weird because, like Frankie, Aunt Luce wasn’t one for public displays of affection. “That’s why he said he’d do it. And I think if you two make even one wrong move, he will send in the bulldozers and we all lose.”

No kidding. If the judge rezoned the land as residential, put it back on the market, and blocked the DeLucas from making another bid, there was no way she could afford to buy the other parcel. Then her dream, not to mention the beautiful vineyard next door that she grew up loving, would be ruined.

Talk about pressure. Frankie looked out the kitchen window, past the fence, and felt her breath catch at the never ending rows of vines, heavy with grapes, their leaves already turning the color of fire were swaying in the breeze. She’d spent her life working that land and even though her grandpa didn’t think she belonged there anymore, a part of her would die to see it ruined by a bunch of yuppies with their hybrid kids and entitled SUVs.

More importantly, that vineyard meant everything to her aunt. Luce didn’t have kids or grandkids or a husband. Her life’s work had been preserving the land and traditions that her father had handed down to her and Charles. Frankie didn’t know what Luce would do if neighbors moved in and ruined what she’d worked so hard to create.

“Don’t worry, Auntie. I’ll make it work with Nate. Pricket won’t get the chance to put any McMansions up. And neither of your vineyards will be ruined.”

Luce shifted in her seat, ChiChi cleared her throat, Pricilla started pulling out truffles from her bag, and Mr. Puffins’ ears went back. And suddenly Frankie knew her day was about to get worse—if that was even possible.

“That’s good to hear because we were wondering just how things with you and my grandson are… progressing?” ChiChi asked, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Luce puckered her lips and made kissy noises.

And Pricilla, hand over heart, pretended to swoon.

Frankie was glad she’d already swallowed her wine or she would have choked. “He kissed me! End of story. No progression.”

“Is that right,” Pricilla said, a blatant liar liar in her tone. “Because that looked like some kiss. I mean your hands were—”

“Trying to push him away,” she cut in. “And it doesn’t matter anyway, I’m not his type.”

“Rubbish,” Luce snapped and Mr. Puffins growled, low and throaty. “You are a strong, independent, beautiful young woman.” All of the adjectives not associated with what a man like Nate was looking for. Not that she cared, but Nate tended to date willowy, elegant Soccer Moms in training. They were highly qualified, highly respected, and high maintenance.

“Child, you have—” ChiChi made billowing gestures toward her chest region. “You’re his type.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not mine.” Which was true. Even if she could ignore the fact that the man wore loafers—which was a big if—she knew stoic, starched, analytical types weren’t her thing. Even though that guy had more pent up passion than an Italian army, with a butt that made most women weep…

Walking sex god or not, Nate DeLuca was not what Frankie was looking for.

“If you say so, dear,” Pricilla said as she glanced at the other grannies, clearly not believing her at all.

* * *

Sorrento Ranch’s house was an old Victorian built back in the late eighteen hundreds. Even with its olive clapboard siding, steeply pitched roof, and massive stained glass windows, the only descriptor that stood out was old. As a kid Nate had thought the house was impressive. As its newest owner, he had to admit it looked more like a terrifying theme park ride than a piece of prime real estate.

And it was all his. Well, half his.

After the disaster of a verdict, Nate had spent Friday and the better part of the weekend trying to get a handle on how much power Judge Pricket really held—apparently quite a lot. And how close to empty Frankie’s bank account was—bad but not dire. Now he wanted nothing more than to spend his Sunday evening sprawled out in bed, reading a book, in the blessed silence of his sprawling, modern, and mothball-free house. Only every time he’d turned the page, instead of words, all he saw were Frankie’s lips, full and luscious, mouthing Bite me! Which was why he decided to pack up a few weeks of clothing, hop in his car, drive over to his other house, and change the rules—unannounced.

When he arrived, the curtains were pulled, the lights dialed to go away, and the door locked. He was pretty sure Frankie was out, but just to be safe, he knocked. Twice. Then let himself in. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she came home to find him in her bed—screwing up her weekend.