“And yet everyone expects me to believe you had no idea I was in the middle of negotiating a deal with Susan Jance? Which her client passed on, by the way.”

That was not what he wanted to hear. “I swear I didn’t know, Frankie.”

She made a disbelieving snort.

“Fine, I knew she was talking to other wineries. I even heard that your grandpa was trying to butt in on the deal, but I had no idea you were even in the running.” Okay, once again, that was not the thing to say. “That came out wrong.”

“You think?”

“What I meant was that you won’t have a product for at least two years. She needs supply now.”

“When did you become an expert on what I do or don’t have?”

“I’m not. I just assumed—”

“Yeah, well, can you stop doing that?” She threw her hands up. “Because every time you assume, you make an ass out of me. Not you, me! Get it, golden boy?”

Yeah he got it. He got that the tornado of attitude she usually wore like armor was gone and that you-can’t-touch-me thing she did so well with her eyes wasn’t anger. Today it was hurt. Maybe it always had been and he was too busy being busy like everybody else in her life to tell the difference.

He also got that Frankie’s life, although chaotic and complicated and not how he’d choose to live, had been going just fine until he photo-bombed it. Well, until he’d bullied her into sitting on the Tasting Tribunal. The kiss only made it worse.

And admitting that Trey had sold the woman Frankie’s grapes, grapes which at the time of the sale they had assumed would be theirs, probably wouldn’t help anything right now, except make him look even guiltier. But Nate was all about honesty in business and in life, and Frankie deserved to know the truth.

“The grapes Susan contracted are yours.”

Frankie froze. “Excuse me?”

“When we bought the land, Saul led us to believe we were buying the entire twenty acres and all the grapes.”

“Which you pre-sold to Susan,” she finished for him and he saw his entire day turn to crap. “So the other day, the ‘we’re partners and we’re in this together’ bullshit, was that just a way to screw me out of my grapes? Make sure I have to sell them to pay off Tanner?”

“You know me better than that, Frankie. I don’t work that way.”

“I want to believe you, I really do. I want to believe you’ve always out-sold, out-performed, or out-shined me because it just wasn’t my day or because I hadn’t had my chance to show what I can really do yet. But now I am beginning to wonder if maybe I’ve been playing against a stacked hand this entire time.”

No way was he letting her believe that. “I know how this looks but I’m not your grandpa.”

It was as though he’d slapped her. Frankie took a step back, her eyes round with hurt, her face slack with humiliation. And his heart went out to her.

“I didn’t say that to hurt you, I said it because it’s the truth.” He took her hands and laced their fingers, surprised when she let him. “Our situation is tricky. We’re roommates, competitors, and I hope, after all of this, still friends. I am beyond sorry that you lost the contract with Susan, but I’m not going to pretend I’m not proud for landing it. That would be a lie and I would never lie to you. And I would never set you up to fail.”

When she didn’t speak, just stood there watching him, he tugged her closer. “I don’t know what you want me to do here. Susan’s client bought the DeLuca name, not those grapes. She wanted a brand with proven history and a winery with experience.” And one that could provide enough wine to fill the client’s cellar and his hotels’, something Frankie could never do with her ten acres. “So even if I could call Susan and back out…”

Which he could not. Would not. This was about more than him and his wine. This was about his brother’s belief in him, his dad’s Opus—a whole lot more than chemistry and a pretty woman. Although, if he were being honest, and it was only him who would take the hit, Nate would walk away and give Frankie the deal. In a heartbeat.

“She what?” Frankie dropped his hands and shrugged. “She wouldn’t want me?”

“Frankie, that’s not—”

“Two reasons to zip it before I put my boot print on your ass.” Frankie glared at him with pointed disregard and raised a finger. “I don’t need you to do anything for me, especially since I can see your superman complex is sprouting another head.

“Second,” she ticked off and there went another finger. It wasn’t a coincidence that it was the middle one or that she dropped her index finger. “I don’t need you to back out, Nate.” Of course she didn’t. Frankie never took anything freely offered. Not that he was actually offering. “Because I’m not selling my land or my grapes, so you might want to give good old Susan a call and let her know you may have the history, but you’re about six tons of grapes shy of a deal.”

She offered him a broad smile and turned to leave. “Oh, and Nate. Experience this.”

Frankie pulled a ball cap out of the waistband of her pants and shoved it on her head. With a smart-ass salute she marched right out the front door. But not before Nate read the writing on her cap: RYO WINE’S FLAGSHIP CHAMPION. RED STEEL: CRUSHING THE COMPETITION.

The words wouldn’t have hurt so bad had they not been surrounding a picture of a combat boots coming down on—Christ, was that a pair of testes or grapes?

CHAPTER 9

Frankie parked her bike in front of Bottles and Bottles, the local pharmacy and wine shop, and realized she still had to talk to Walt. She unclipped her helmet and, ignoring the urge to tell him that they’d decided to go with his bid and worry about finding the money later, focused on what was important—finding Charles.

She stepped off the curb and made her way across the street toward the hardwood store. Situated on the south end of Main Street, right next to Picker’s Produce, Meats, and More, St. Helena Hardware and Refurbish Rescue had been in Uncle Walt’s family since his great-great-grandfather first opened their doors back in 1874. Well, the hardware part had, and the refurbish rescue was Connie’s addition to the family business. Although it had been renovated over the years, the clapboard building looked exactly like the photos that hung in town hall, only with a little extra harvest spirit.

Frankie shoved through the door, a cowbell clanking in her wake. The scent of sawdust, motor oil, and all things home repair greeted her. So did her Aunt Connie’s voice.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” she beamed from underneath a purple feathered lampshade. “Just setting up my new display.”

Her aunt loved to decorate, considered herself a decor doctor extraordinaire. What started out as a way to pass time by fixing flea market finds became an all-encompassing passion when her kids moved out. It didn’t take long for her “projects” to overrun their home, so she sweet-talked Walt into selling her unique wares out of the shop. “Unique” was what she called her Dr. Seuss-meets-Tim Burton spin on interior decorating.

Connie’s claim to fame was that there wasn’t an abandoned piece of furniture she couldn’t match with a forever home.

Apparently not the case, Frankie thought as she fingered the arm of a recliner, which was wedged between a zebra print couch and a dozen or more dressers. There wasn’t a spare inch of room in the entire store.

“Isn’t that a beaut?” Connie asked, making her way toward Frankie. She was short, squat and wore more velour than should be legal. “A couple special ordered that and then returned it. They said the color made their eyes bleed. Eyes bleed? Can you imagine someone saying that about such a unique piece?”

“I can’t imagine why,” Frankie said noncommittally. Connie was the gatekeeper, and there was no sense in offending her because tonight was Friday. And Friday nights were home to the Veteran Vintners of the Valley’s Put up or Shut Up. Held in the basement of Walt’s shop, entry by invitation only, it was a weekly game of high stakes poker where vineyard owners from St. Helena came together to settle their battles over a hand of Seven Card Stud. There were only three rules: no weapons, no women, no whining.

And Charles was down there.

A handful of people saw her storm out of Picker’s wearing a Ryo Cork Crawl hat—a handful and one nosy Nora Kinkaid. A photo was already up on Facebook. She checked. It was accompanied by a poll asking who the town thought had the biggest grapes in the valley. Frankie was not only winning by a landslide, but they had also given her three-to-one odds that she’d crush what little grapes Nate DeLuca had left by the end of the Cork Crawl. It was good to know she had supporters.

What was not good was that the town gossip vine was already chattering, and even though Charles was technologically challenged, there was still a risk that he would find out before she had the chance to tell him. A mistake she did not want to repeat. If she was going to do this, she would do it like a Baudouin and face the consequences head on. Which was why she asked, “Is this shag carpet?”

“Faux shag,” Connie said as though faux made it better. “I tried to take it home, but Walt said no, then he cut off my credit and won’t let me buy anything else until I get rid of this eyesore. His words not mine. I’ve marked it down twice, but so far no takers.” The older woman wedged herself behind the counter. “You in the market for a new reading chair? I bet it would look lovely looking out that bay window in the front of your new house.”

“Sorry, redecorating isn’t in my budget right now.”

“Well, after what you did, I might just give it to you.”