“Didn’t expect to see you here,” NFL said with a smile—a smile that Nate did not like the look of. It was the same one he’d just given Frankie. “Figured you’d be over with your grandma, protecting those hands of yours.”

“Just because my brothers subscribe to some sort of boy’s club, doesn’t mean that my talents should go to waste. Plus, these hands of mine—” She holstered her clippers in her tool belt and wiggled her fingers. “Lethal.”

“I know,” Jack said.

Oh, hell no. Old instinct kicked in and Nate took a huge step forward. So did Gabe and Marc. It wasn’t just Tanner’s tone; the guy was actually sizing up his baby sister. And business partner or not, Tanner held the team record for the most pass receptions, on and off the field. And Abby was still reeling from her impending divorce—an easy target for a guy whose nickname, Hard Hammer Tanner, was derived from how hard he nailed the opponent.

“What the hell, Tanner?” Marc said, pressing his size in Tanner’s face, which was kind of ridiculous. Even though Marc was by far the biggest of the brothers, Tanner still had a good two inches and thirty pounds on him.

Then again, the DeLucas had two extra sets of fists and a combined ninety years of practice beating the crap out of anyone who messed with their sister.

“Oh. My. God.” Abby leapt between them, swinging a set of clippers in one hand and shoving Tanner behind her with the other, like a referee at a WWE tournament trying to call a time out. Lucky for Tanner, none of the brothers wanted to tangle with Abby. She fought dirty when she was mad. “And you guys wonder why I never date?”

“Are you saying this is a date?” Tanner said, laying his fucking hand on Abby’s shoulder.

Abby turned, pinched his nipple, and twisted, taking Tanner to his knees in one swoop. “No, I don’t date my students. And because you’re being a total idiot, you get to practice chopsticks all week.”

“Better than Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” Tanner mumbled when Abby let loose of her death grip on the man’s pecs.

“That’s next week,” she said then stormed off to take her place, second leg in. Great, she would be competing directly with Tanner.

“You going to blow this to impress my sister, or do I need to replace you?”

“We’re good,” Tanner said, but his eyes were on Abby’s retreating backside.

“Uncle Nate!” Holly squealed and launched herself into his arms, saving Tanner from a fat lip.

“Hey, kiddo. I missed you.”

“Guess what? Frankie gave me ten dollars this morning, all in dimes and pennies, and she is almost out of dirty credits,” the “Crush This” mascot said. She was wearing a pink tank, dark jeans and mini combat-boots. A real ball-buster—just travel-sized.

“Dimes and pennies?” Nate said, looking at Frankie who just shrugged. But, he noticed, sadly, she was a whole lot farther away than she had been a second ago.

She continued to edge away as Gabe took Holly and by the time he’d tossed her in the air and delivered a big kiss to each flushed cheek, Frankie was standing on the outskirts of the group, checking and rechecking her tool belt.

“Where are my other kisses?” Gabe smiled at Regan, who was bouncing on her toes with Baby Sofie in a sling. Still holding one daughter, he kissed his other on the forehead, and then his wife until everyone looked away. “Did you come down here to wish me good luck?”

“No.” Regan stepped back, proudly pointing to her shirt. “Team Frankie. I’m their ringer. And I have been given strict orders that there is to be no fraternizing with the enemy. So no more kissing until we kick your,” Regan looked at Holly, who, eyes wide and lips parted, was waiting for the twenty-five cent fine to be spoken, “pants.”

Holly sighed, deflated.

Gabe frowned, about as pleased by that comment as Nate was. “No way. You aren’t going to be squatting down and cutting vines in your condition.”

“It’s called motherhood, not a condition.” Regan gave Gabe a pat on the cheek.

“And she isn’t bending or cutting. Frankie will be doing her leg of the race,” Jordan said staring right at Nate. “Regan’s just going to be pushing the grape cart.”

“With the baby?” Marc said it as though they had this in the bag.

Gabe snorted. “Have you seen my wife juggling both kids while navigating a full cart at Costco? It’s impressive.” He reached down and, while smiling at his wife, pulled his daughter out of her sling and nuzzled her close. And Nate felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest—jealousy.

“I’m dropping the kids off with ChiChi in a second. Imagine how impressive I’ll be then,” Regan teased.

“What do you mean you’re pulling two legs?” Nate asked Frankie after Regan took Holly by the hand and led his two nieces toward the stands. “It’s the Pick Till You Punt. A relay race. Meaning you have to punt the baton.”

“I am.” Frankie stared up at him defiantly. “I’m passing to Abby who passes to Jordan who passes back to me. The rules say that the teams have to be comprised of four members. Nowhere does it state that they all have to cut or push.”

Marc shot Nate a worried look. “Is that even legal?”

Not only was it legal, it was smart. Nate was ticked that he hadn’t thought of it first. Frankie’s team wouldn’t lose any cutting time while running the crates up to the platform. He gave a terse nod. “Yup.”

She must have seen the realization register on his face because she sent him a slow and downright sinful smile, and every dream he’d harbored over the past week came back with alarming accuracy.

“Well, see you at the finish line, golden boy.” Frankie gave his arm a gentle nudge, and man, just her hand on his shoulder shot his concentration to hell. Or maybe it was the view he got as she walked toward her row of vines—which, wouldn’t you know it, was right next to his—her jeans pulled tight, leaving a lasting impression and making him consider things. Stupid things, such as dragging her to the utility shed over by the back entrance to town hall and picking up where they had left off.

His dick showed support by pressing painfully against his jeans. His common sense told him that until they talked about last week, about what taking this further meant, conferences of any kind that were labeled “private” would be a bad idea.

CHAPTER 12

Eyes on the golden grapes in front of her, Frankie rolled on the tips of her toes, waiting for the sheriff to sound the bell while doing her best not to openly stare at Nate, who was one row over and three legs down. Apparently he was their closer, which meant they’d go head to head in the final sprint of the race. He was also staring right at her. She could see him out of the corner of her eye.

She could also see he was wearing a grey DeLuca t-shirt that clung like a second skin to his broad chest, a chest that she’d been within licking-distance just a week ago. His jeans were faded in the most impressive spots and hung low on his narrow hips. Today he had forgone the loafers, instead wearing a pair of worn work boots that had her sucking in a breath.

Gone was the starched scientist with the stick up his ass, and in his place was a let’s-get-down-and-dirty grape grower with a butt that made her lady parts tingle.

Since staring ahead wasn’t working, Frankie closed her eyes. Even though it was already late September, heat radiated off the ground and had begun to seep through her clothes. She swept the sweat off the back of her neck and wished she’d agreed with Abby on shorts rather than fighting for jeans.

The air was thick with the sweet scent of grapes as Frankie inhaled, blindly maneuvering the crate in her hand to shape and weigh it. It looked like it held ten pounds of grapes, but this year the committee had sloped in the bottom and, at best guess, it probably held nine to nine and a half pounds, which meant that she’d fill up three to four crates among her six vines. A good possibility since the vines were full and the grape clusters heavy.

Winning the Pick Till You Punt wasn’t just about being the fastest cutter or having the strongest back. It would come down to the person who could accurately estimate how many grapes equated to one hundred pounds. Her hands, and gut, were telling her that her team needed eleven full-to-the-brim crates to win. With a few extra clusters thrown on top to be safe.

Frankie set the crate on the ground and placed it between her feet, scooting it back and forth down the line to get a feel for it and to create a smoother path for when the race started. When she got to the end of her row, she carried it back the other way, dropped the other three crates an appropriate distance apart and then positioned the arch of her boot in the perfect place on the lead crate.

“I can’t believe you showed up.”

Cracking her neck from side to side to release the sudden tension, Frankie looked over her shoulder and saw Kenneth. He was beanpole tall, dressed in Baudoiun colors, smarmy as ever, and in her face.

“I can’t believe they let you hold a sharp object.” She looked at the clippers in his hand and then to the Baudouin flag flapping three rows to her right. There were already three men in place, four of the fastest cutters her grandpa employed, including one imported all the way from France. “Plus, only industry professionals are allowed on the field. And since you don’t know a grape from a prune, the only reason Grandpa is even considering you is to get back at me.”

Kenneth shrugged, apparently unconcerned with how he inherited the vineyard, just that he did. “Says the girl whose future is going up in flames. You dug your hellhole with the old man, not me.”