Nate might have said goodbye, he couldn’t be sure because a flat-cart of barrels rolled by on its way to the tally room. He started stacking and restacking the winery brochures. A clear sign that he was nervous. The sweaty palms, shouldn’t-have-had-that-second-helping-of-chili kind of nervous.

After eighteen years of coming to the Cork Crawl, the past eleven making a Cork Crawl clean sweep, he wasn’t used to nervous. He’d spent the past six hours fielding questions from amateur wine enthusiasts, wine critics, and his family. Although, ChiChi was less interested in wine and more into what was going on between him and Frankie, and his brothers’ interest was securely invested into how he managed to stick his head so far up his ass.

A fair assessment since he’d been distracted at best, and flat out brain-dead at worst. Instead of focusing on his job, selling DeLuca wine into hearts and cellars around the world, Nate had fixated his entire attentions on Frankie who, one row over and two booths down, wore a red silky number up top, a black skirt that hugged every one of her incredible curves down below, and strappy black heels. Heels that had him wishing it were nighttime and they were alone.

A ping sounded from his back pocket. He fished out his cell phone and saw he had one text in his inbox.

YOU’RE STARING & MAKING LISTS. SHOULD I BE NERVOUS?

He glanced at the paper attached to the clipboard and smiled. Covered in lists. When had that happened? He caught Frankie’s eye, she smiled, he smiled back, then replied.

IT IS MY “WHAT’S UNDER FRANKIE’S SKIRT?” LIST. LACE, SILK, PINK, THONG… SO MANY CHOICES…

His phone pinged again and man, just the sound had his body humming. Her two typed words had him breathing heavy.

ABSOLUTELY NOTHING

Nate looked up, trying to figure out if she was playing him. But she was in a deep conversation with a group of tasters. All men. And all checking out Frankie’s packaging. Probably trying to figure out what she had on under her skirt.

“Couldn’t you have at least stopped drooling over the competition for two seconds and pretended you were interested?” Trey said. “That was Alan Fielding.”

Shit. Nate put his cell away. “Remington’s VP.”

“Yeah, and the one guy”—Trey held up a finger just in case Nate’s head was lodged so far up there he couldn’t hear—“I needed you to be on your A-game for.”

Nate looked across St. Helena Community Park and watched Alan bypass Frankie’s booth without a glance and walk right up to Charles, who was holding court under a flapping Baudouin Wines banner. Dressed in trousers, a sweater vest, and a floppy beret, he looked like the resident authority on wine. All Nate cared about was that the old man hadn’t looked at Frankie once. And Nate realized that was why his stomach was in knots. He wanted today to go perfect for Frankie. He was nervous—for her.

For the entire morning and most of the afternoon, he’d watched her watch Charles and never once had her grandfather paid her any attention. Just like Nate hadn’t paid his family—or his job—any attention.

“I’m really sorry guys. I’ve been distracted.” Nate ran a hand through his hair.

Gabe picked up a brochure with lists scribbled down the back as evidence. “You think?”

“If you want, I can invite Alan to the vineyard, give him a private tour,” Nate offered.

He hated giving private tours, and usually left that responsibility to Trey, who was a charlatan of the people-peddler kind. But he’d screwed this up, so he’d fix it.

“Don’t worry about Alan,” Marc said, patting him on the back. “I met him last year at a hospitality conference in Chicago. He can’t stand Charles. Apparently, when Alan was just starting out, he tried to line up an exclusive deal with Baudouin Wines for some small hotel chain in Poland. Even though the offer was more than fair, Charles refused to sell, claiming his wine was too superior for their clientele.”

That sounded like a Charles thing to do. Man couldn’t even look at his own granddaughter. At least her brothers and aunt had taken turns helping her run the booth, so she hadn’t been alone, but still.

“Plus, Susan said Remington is set on going with DeLuca. There is no way Charles can weasel his way into this,” Marc added. “Lexi invited Susan, Alan, and his wife to the bistro for dinner last night. They talked food, we talked hospitality, and in the end Lexi closed strong with a pairing of a DeLuca late bottled vintage port and Pricilla’s éclairs.”

“Did they sign the contract?” Nate asked, surprised no one had told him. Then again, not all that surprising since he hadn’t seen his brothers in over a week.

“What do you think? It was Pricilla’s éclairs,” Marc said as though that was answer enough. And it was. Pricilla’s éclairs were world famous. A life-altering culinary experience, according to Martha Stewart.

“More important question,” Trey asked, his gaze narrowing in on Frankie. “How do you think she’s doing?”

Nate took a deep breath. He’d been meaning to talk to his brothers about Frankie’s grapes, but between preparing for harvest and organizing everything for the Cork Crawl, he hadn’t found the time. Okay, so he’d spent most of the time he could have been talking to his brothers about issues, which in the long run wouldn’t matter, getting lost in things that would—like Frankie.

“I think she’s going to win,” Nate said and to his surprise Marc and Gabe smiled. Trey, not so much.

“Why is everyone smiling?” Trey growled.

Gabe laughed. “Have you tasted her wine?”

“If he did, he wouldn’t be asking,” Marc said and Trey glared. Being the youngest, Trey hated feeling left out. Even more so, he hated to lose.

Poor Trey, Nate thought. He was about to have a rough day. What Trey was missing was that Frankie winning wouldn’t hurt their business. The DeLuca reputation was based on quality, quantity, and a long history of taste. Frankie was quality all the way. Her wine was bold and exquisite and would lure in the high-end brokers and collectors. Not that Nate didn’t want to compete in that market—he would with his father’s Opus—but he also knew that in the end it wouldn’t matter who landed what account, as long as it was a fair fight they’d both win.

“She wins and we lose more than some stupid crown,” Trey said.

“It wouldn’t have mattered, Trey,” Marc said, sending Nate a smile that he had a hard time interpreting. “Even if she lost, Nate wouldn’t buy her grapes.”

“Why not?” Trey asked. “She has to pay off Tanner somehow. If she loses, she’ll have to sell to someone. Why not to us?”

Nate looked Trey directly in the eyes “I didn’t hook Frankie up with Tanner in hopes that she’d fail and lose her grapes.”

“Then why the hell did you do it?” Trey asked, sounding equal parts confused and pissed.

“And that is why you are single,” Gabe said, slapping Trey on the back.

“No.” Trey stepped back and shot each one of his brothers a horrified look. “I’m single because there seems to be a severe allergic reaction that happens when DeLuca males come in contact with domestication. The symptoms include but are not limited to, asinine diets, obsessive texting, and irrational and illogical decisions, all of which are hazardous to this family’s stability. Hell, at this rate I’m surprised I’m not carrying around one of those needles that people stab in their hearts when they go into shock.”

“An EpiPen?” Gabe offered.

“Yeah. A fucking EpiPen.”

* * *

Frankie stood in her booth and signed the questionnaire that yes, she’d had a great experience at the Cork Crawl, and yes, she would be coming back next year. Only she would be ditching the heels and black skirt. The location of her booth had brought more tasters than she’d anticipated and once the sun had come out from behind the clouds, the temperature had shot up to a suffocating ninety degrees.

A thin sheen of perspiration beaded on her forehead and, because there had been no mid-morning or late-afternoon lull as promised, Jordan’s unwanted advice on shoes had cost her a blister on both big toes. Not that she was complaining, Frankie had spoken to more buyers in the past six hours than she had in the past fifteen years working for Charles—and she’d done great. She had a dozen business cards, all from prospective and very interested collectors and two brokers. Not Susan Jance level, but still impressive nonetheless. If it hadn’t been for Abby reeling her back in, Red Steel would have sold out before lunch. Bottled and futures.

“There’s a group of brokers and buyers standing over by the tree waiting to talk to you,” Jordan said. How was it that her friend had stood in the same intense heat all day and wasn’t even glistening?

Frankie walked out from under her tent. Sure enough, there was a group of about seven buyers, sweating like they’d just run a marathon in loafers, huddled under the tiny bit of shade offered by the mostly molted maple tree. They were talking among themselves, but when Frankie emerged they went silent, looking at her expectantly.

“They collected the barrels over an hour ago.” Which was why most people had taken to the large tent set up on the south side of the park. It was shaded, air conditioned, and there was an abundance of hors d’oeuvre and wine—for those who hadn’t already tasted themselves three sheets to the wind yet. “What are they doing?”

“What part of, ‘Waiting to talk to you’ did you miss?” Jordan said.

“They know you won,” Abby said, her hair a cluster of wild curls from the heat. “They know that any offers not seriously entertained before the corks are finished being tallied will be tossed out.”