Always the gentleman, Trey stepped forward to do his part, lending his hands to the cause. “Here, let me help.”

“I’m fine, really,” she said, her hands batting at his, which rested on her hips to steady her. And yeah, she was tiny but packing a ton of delicious curves.

“Sorry, can’t hear you through the material,” he lied, grabbing her wrists and guiding them to the bottom hem of her thin, tank-style shirt. “But if you don’t stop flopping around you’re going to take someone out. Or give Harvey over there the chance to goose you and call it an accident.” She froze. “So, work with me here. Hold your top down so I can pull the slicker up and…”

“Okay. Better?” Sara whispered.

Abso-fucking-lutly. First, the woman did just as he asked—that in itself was a miracle. Second, she pulled a tad bit too hard, causing the scoop of her neckline to ride blessedly low, giving him an inspiring view of teal-lace and tan cleavage. The best part was when he gave the final tug, and the slicker and knit-cap came up and off, leaving behind the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Which didn’t make sense. Trey had been around a lot of beautiful women. Spent the past ten years traveling the world and getting up close and personal with a lot of them. Women who were stilettoed, stacked, smoking-hot, and satisfied with one night. This woman was maybe five-two with bouncy brown hair, girl-next-door freckles, and a pair of no-nonsense shoes that were definitely more Mary Anne than Ginger. And he was a Ginger kind of guy. Always had been.

Nothing about her said simple, short term, or easily impressed. So why then was he having a hard time breathing?

Dry spell. That was it. The main reason he was staring at Pollyanna had nothing to do with the way those big brown eyes seemed to look right through all of his bullshit or the way her sweet kiss-me-mouth curved up into a smile that made his pulse pound. Nope, the simple truth was, it had been way too long since he’d gotten laid.

“Isn’t this interesting?” ChiChi murmured, patting Trey on the back, no doubt already picking out great-grandbaby names. “This gentleman here is my grandson. My favorite grandson.”

“Thank you, favorite grandson.” Sara smiled, two little dimples winking his way. He’d never been into dimples, but on her they worked.

“My pleasure,” Trey said, wondering what kind of dance she taught and if she would be open to a private lesson—of the tangled-sheets variety.

He flashed her that smile he knew women loved, because why the hell not? Flirting with a pretty woman seemed like a much better way to spend his evening than arguing with his brothers or picking out funeral arrangements.

She tried not to smile, but one slipped out and—hello sunshine—it even lit up her eyes. Message received and reciprocated. Sara with her sunny smile and pert nose was aware of him in a purely male-to-female, let’s get down and dirty kind of way.

“Shouldn’t you two exchange information?” ChiChi nudged.

Right. The minivan. “It seems silly since I’ve already helped you undress, but it seems that we’ve reached the information portion of the evening where I ask for your name, number, and if there is anyone at home you can call?”

A hint of pink tinted her ears, which he found oddly endearing, and she looked up at him with those big bottomless eyes, practically slaying him right there on the spot.

“Information? Okay, um, no, there is no one at home.” She wiggled a naked ring finger and before Trey could clarify the reason behind his questions, she pulled out a business card and handed it to him. “My number is on there and… what?”

“Bolder Holder?” He read the frequent buyer card she’d handed him. He was right—a 32-B. “Your local lingerie pusher-upper.”

“Oh, God.” She snatched it back and produced another card. Still not the insurance card he expected, but before he could explain, she looked around at the room of students who were all smiling back and damn if her entire face wasn’t glowing with embarrassment. “I’m Sara Reese and as you can tell I’m not really good at this.”

Even her name was sweet. And flirting disaster would be putting it mildly. Not that he minded. There was something about her shy interest that got to him.

“Trey DeLuca,” he said. She placed her hand in his extended one. Her skin, soft and a bit chilled, packed one hell of a punch. “I’m the asshole who ate your bumper.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my editors Eleni Caminis and Lindsay Guzzardo, and the rest of the Author team at Montlake, for all of the amazing work and support throughout this series.

As always, a special thanks to Jill Marsal for being the best agent in the world and loving Mittens the alpaca as much as I do.

A huge thanks to my best friends and partners in writing. For all of the laughs, tears, and edits that you suffered through during the plotting, re-plotting, writing, deleting, restructuring, and re-writing (to the fourth power) of this book. To Diana Orgain, one of the biggest dreamers I know, thank you for sharing your dreams and allowing me to share mine. And to Miss Marni Bates for being my constant cheerleader.

A special thanks to my go-to-wine-guy, Gary Galleron of Galleron Signature Wines, for answering all of my questions about wine and grapes—even the ridiculous ones.

Finally, and most importantly, thanks to my daughter Thuy for being the most amazing kid in the world—and for loving Buffy the Vampire Slayer… Buffy nights with you are some of my most treasured times.

Any mistakes I have made or liberties I have taken are all my own.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Marina Adair is a national best-selling author of romance novels. Along with the St. Helena Vineyard series, she is the author of Tucker’s Crossing, part of the Sweet Plains series. She lives with her husband and daughter in Northern California.