Marina Adair - Autumn in the Vineyard

“And she called me to say that Frankie’s wine was good enough to give her pause. At least until after the Cork Crawl. She wants to make sure her client is getting the best.”

“We are the best and she knows it.” Frankie could almost hear Nate give one of his confident shrugs. The one that used to bug her but now she found kind of cute. “She either buys now at a reduced price or later. Eventually she’ll come around and when she does, it will cost her double per case if she wants to play.”

“If she plays. You’re making a lot of assumptions here. Frankie doesn’t have enough vines to offer the quantity Remington will require for his own needs let alone his hotels, but if she wins it could be a game changer. The price of her barrels would skyrocket and Charles could easily weasel his way in with Remington, and we’d have to find ourselves a new collector in a tight market.”

Remington Hotel? No wonder Susan didn’t even bother to entertain Frankie’s wine as a fit. Wouldn’t matter if Red Steel boasted a perfect hundred from Wine Spectator, there’s no way her ten acres could support his hotels.

“What do you want me to do, Trey? Say I fucked up? Make Frankie sell us her grapes, tell her she can’t compete, force Abby to take back her sponsorship? I blew it, okay? I should have dug deeper with Saul’s deal, but I didn’t. But Frankie has as much of a right to compete as anyone else.”

“I’m not saying to hardball her into anything.”

“Good, because I did that at the Showdown and I won’t do it again,” Nate said leaving no room for argument.

“So instead you sell us out.” Frankie had never heard Trey sound so—deadly. “You trashed the deal I set up with Susan, put us all in a tight spot and for what? So you could play house with the competitor?” Frankie swallowed hard as that knot in her stomach twisted tighter. “If you weren’t thinking with your dick you’d realize that maybe Old Man Charles is playing us and she is playing you.”

“Not Frankie’s style,” Nate growled.

“Maybe not, but it’s Charles’s. For all we know he’s using her and she just hasn’t figured it out. Either way, we lose those grapes and this deal and we’re ten acres short and three years behind on the game plan that cost us double what you estimated all so you could fuck around with a woman whose own family doesn’t even support her.”

“Shut the fuck up, Trey,” Nate barked.

Frankie’s chest constricted and she threw open the door and stomped down the hallway, hating how those words hit her like a blade to the ribcage.

Nate was the peacekeeper of his family, the rational arbitrator. His ability to remain calm in the shitstorm that was his family was something Frankie had always secretly admired. And though Nate’s earlier words had stung, she didn’t want them arguing—not about her. She’d had a lifetime of practice at dividing families. Adding Nate’s to her count would only ruin what they’d both fought so hard to create.

Ignoring that she had on a pair of pajama shorts, pink with SWEET stitched across the butt, she walked into the kitchen where four tall, dark, and oh-so-Italian men stared back at her. Well, three sat at the table, one stood against the counter—a good five feet and one heated argument away, arms folded, scowl rigidly in place.

“Great, the DeLuca invasion has begun,” she said, but made sure to send Nate a little smile.

Then all four men were standing, offering the traditional DeLuca chivalrous welcome, ChiChi would be so proud, but Frankie just wanted them to sit down. Formal manners made her feel all girly, and when issued by a DeLuca, they made her sweat.

All four DeLucas though, with their bedroom-eyes, alpha-male presence and super-boost, testosterone-loaded smiles, were enough to make a girl—even one who owned steel-reinforced, ball-buster boots—clamor. Marc was the biggest of the brothers but Gabe was easily the most intimidating. And Trey, well, he was just plain annoying. Hot, but annoying. And he knew it. Which is why he kept winking at her.

And, good Lord, why were they all still standing?

“You can put all the Prince Charming shit away,” she said walking past the Italian trifecta to get to the one DeLuca who mattered. The only one who got under her skin and flustered her. Growing up with three older brothers, she knew that if she went in defending Nate, it would only make things worse—for him. “I’m just grabbing some dinner.”

“I was going to cook us something as soon as I got rid of my brothers,” Nate said, propping up the entire counter with his body and effectively blocking the only cabinet she needed to access. His smile said he knew it.

“Yeah,” Marc snorted. “He was making Lexi’s lamb recipe.”

All three guys started laughing. Nate did not.

His was too busy taking in her tank top and shorts—which suddenly felt too low and too high—and her bare legs. Between Nate’s inventory and the suffocating sexual tension, it was hard to move. Plus, it was more than obvious that her nipples were in full party mode. A fact that Nate addressed when he finally met her gaze, eyes hot—apologetic, but hot.

“I’ve already got dinner covered, but thanks.”

When it became clear he wasn’t going to move, she reached past him and silently cursed when the sensitive tips of her breasts brushed his chest and sent her lady parts into overdrive. Making a point not to make eye contact, she opened the cupboard and rolled on to the tips of her toes to grab a new box of Pop Tarts.

Nate, never one to miss a detail, tucked a finger under her chin, tilted her face to his, and said softly enough that only she could hear, “Are you blushing?”

“No. I’m probably still hot from my shower.”

Nate wasn’t buying it. “And this isn’t dinner.” He grabbed the box and started reading the ingredients. “It’s not even food.”

“You act as if I was offering to share. I’m not.” She grabbed for the box but he held it above his head, so she crossed her arms and glared. “And for your information, it contains three of the major food groups.” He raised a disbelieving brow. So she ticked them off. “Fruit, grains, and icing.”

“Icing isn’t a food group.”

“It’s the best food group.” She lunged at him, stretching upright as he stepped even closer, close enough that their bodies brushed in all the right places. Close enough that all she could smell was sexy, fresh-from-the-shower man. It took everything she had not to lean in for a better whiff—and maybe even a little bite.

“Yup, definitely a blush.”

“Ow,” Trey said from behind, cutting off her reply. Which was for the best since she would have had to lie. “I was just trying to read what her shorts said.”

Frankie dropped to her heels and Nate handed her the box, but not before shooting a death glare over her shoulder—most likely at Trey.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to boys’ night.” Frankie opened the fridge and grabbed a beer. Dinner in hand, one family dispute successfully avoided, she headed for her room. But just in case they thought to pick right back up when she left, she added, “Oh, and Nate, when you get a chance to sit in your new chair, pull out that home improvement checklist you’ve worked so hard on, the one that’s itemized and prioritized, and add insulation to your red column. These walls are so thin, I can hear Mittens fart in the pasture.”

What would it take to get in your pants?”

The probationary—aka rookie—firefighter, who looked about twelve, froze mid-demonstration with his pants around his ankles and visibly swallowed.

“I was just wondering if that was part of today’s tour?” Ava innocently clarified and Frankie rolled her eyes.

“I bet he’d let you,” a seven year old boy with freckles and a red stain down the front of his school uniform whispered loud enough for China to hear. “Last year I got to sit in the captain’s seat.”

“And I got to pull his bell,” Holly said.

“His bell, huh?” Ava gave Probie a flirty shrug, sending the strap of her top sliding off her shoulder and him into a coughing fit.

St. Helena Fire Station #1 was giving a tour to the St. Vincent’s Academy’s second grade class, and Frankie had managed to get Jordan and Ava on the list. Something she was rapidly regretting.

“You aren’t going to get any better at this if you won’t go near them,” Jordan whispered.

Frankie looked at the herd of ketchup-crusted ankle biters and shivered. “I am near them, just not close enough to interact.”

Jordan shot her a humored look and Frankie huffed. “Fine. I’ll go engage.”

She watched an ankle biter with a dirty nose and glue stuck in his hair shove Holly aside as he screamed, “I want to pull the bell!”

Frankie palmed the kid’s head and turned it to face her. “You shouldn’t push people smaller than you or someday you’ll be the small one and karma sucks, kid.”

“Is there a problem?” a blonde soccer mom said, placing her hand on Kid’s shoulder.

“Yeah, he pushed Holly,” Frankie said, noticing that her soil-stained jeans and purple hands didn’t really scream qualified chaperone.

“Linden, say you’re sorry.”

“But I want to pull the bell and wear his pants!”

Soccer Mom didn’t even blink when she explained to Frankie, “He’s working on his manners. Aren’t you Lindy? Yes, you are.”

Frankie actually felt sorry for the little bully. Being addressed like a purse-dog would give her rage issues too. “Well, since he’s already mastered pushing girls, maybe he can figure out those manners before he takes on pulling hair.”

“Excuse us,” Jordan said, taking Frankie by the arm and pulling her away. Before Jordan could begin her lecture on what Frankie was positive would be inappropriate adult-child relations, her brother Adam came striding over.