Summer in Napa

chapter 3

Marc smiled as she led him around the store, those heels of hers slapping the ground and a delicate, feminine scent lingering behind her. “A few things” didn’t even begin to describe what she was buying. She loaded up the basket with a loaf of herbed focaccia bread, a block of wasabi gouda, adding an apple and some kind of bone that Biff wrapped specially for her. He had no idea what she was going to use it for, a broth maybe, but the way she carried it instead of dropping it in the basket told him that it was important.

Then she added in a jar of fig preserves, and Marc wondered what he was doing. He had run into the store to grab a quick lunch, which he’d done. And now he was good to go.

Hell, he needed to go. Needed to get out of this store. Away from Lexi before he did something that he wouldn’t be proud of—like break man law and kiss his best friend’s ex-wife.

Plus, instead of playing “carry the hot girl’s books to class” he should be in the truck, halfway out of town already. He’d promised a buddy in Sonoma that he’d drive over the hill and pick up ten cases of wine slated for the Showdown wine tasting.

He’d been looking forward to getting out of town since last week. No office meant no e-mail, no phone calls, no BS. Just him, his dog, and a winding country road.

Then he saw Lexi in that sundress and those shoes, looking frazzled and adorably irritated, and his plans changed because she appeared as though she needed the time away as much as he did.

Maybe more.

He’d overheard Nora giving her a hard time. Saw the look on Lexi’s face when she was trying to figure out what was wrong with her dress. And wanted to tell her she was perfect, that nothing was wrong. Hell, Lexi could be inspiring in a freaking potato sack. Then he’d touched her hair and, Christ, all he could think about was touching her more.

“That all?” Marilee asked, snapping Marc out of his daze.

Mrs. Craver was glaring at Lexi, who was too busy repacking what the bag boy had already packed up to answer. She carefully separated everything in two bags, so intent on her project she didn’t realize they were holding up the line.

“I think so,” Marc said, taking out his card and adding his items to the total.

He signed the receipt and grabbed the bags when Lexi looked up. “I have to pay.”

“Already did, cream puff.” And with a “good day” to Marilee, he ushered her out the door.

They were halfway to his truck, Lexi digging through her wallet and following him blindly, when Wingman spotted them.

“Wingman, stay,” he commanded, and like any good dog, Wingman leaped out the window with a bark and ran—right up to Lexi.

Squatting down, she hugged the lucky mutt and didn’t even complain when he licked her face.

“You shouldn’t run around like that. You could get hit,” she cooed, and Wingman, being a male confronted with a soft, curvy female, dropped to his stomach and rolled over, letting her give him a nice belly rub.

When the dog was all but moaning, with his eyes rolled back into his head, Lexi stood and extended her arms. For a split second Marc though she was offering him a belly rub.

“My bag. I’ve got to get going.”

Bag. Right. “I’ve got it.”

“Yes, well, you’re going there”—she looked pointedly at his truck and then to the bakery across the street—“and I’m going there.”

“Great. Then it shouldn’t take too long. Let’s go.” After locking Wingman back in the cab of the truck, he walked across the parking lot, biting back a smile when she came clacking up behind him.

“I can carry my own stuff.”

“Never said you couldn’t.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “At least tell me how much I owe you.”

Marc reached the curb and stopped. “I have a better idea.” It was a stupid idea. One of the worst ideas he’d ever had. “My buddy’s wife just went into labor, and I said I would pick up his wines for the Showdown. Buy me a tank of gas, come with Wingman and me for a ride, and we’ll call it even.”

She didn’t ask where he was going or when he’d be back, just stared at the bakery, which housed three silvered grannies staring back, and said, “Okay.”

“Really?” And just like that he went to half-mast. The image of her riding next to him on his truck bench, straddling the gearshift—

Ah man, he was toast. That mountain would force him to change gears at least twenty times each way. Which meant he’d be brushing up against her thigh at least twenty times each way. And man law or not—that was way too tempting.

Before he could rescind his invitation, she nodded and looked up at him with those big, mossy eyes and he was lost.

What the hell had just happened?

He was supposed to offer, and she was supposed to refuse. It was how they worked. How they had always worked.

“I mean, if you can wait,” she began. “I’m making lunch for our grandmas and Lucinda as a thank-you for, well, everything. And they’re waiting on me.”

So that’s what they had told her.

“It will be about an hour. Is that okay?” she asked, resting a hand on his arm.

“I can wait.” Hell, if she kept touching him like that, he’d wait all afternoon. Not that he’d be waiting that long. He’d give her two minutes tops, and then they’d be on the road.

They crossed Main Street, and when they reached the other side, she took the smaller bag from him. “This is for you. It’s healthier than the beef jerky. Plus, the fig jam on that gouda is incredible. Oh, and—” She dug through the bag, coming up with the bone. She unwrapped it. “This is for Wingman.”

“Marc?” A sugary voice came down the street and right into the moment.

He watched as his newish assistant, who was stacked, blonde, and looked like she was more adept at navigating a pole than a spreadsheet, made her way past the hotel and toward them. Even though she was dressed in the standard Napa Grand uniform of a black skirt and fitted blazer, in the sunlight, seeing her through Lexi’s eyes, suddenly there was nothing standard about the way it fit.

“Hey, Chrissi,” Marc said. “Have you met Pricilla’s granddaughter? Lexi, this is Chrissi.”

“Ohmigod,” Chrissi squealed. “I love her chocolate croissants. The ones with the tiny pieces of sea salt sprinkled on the top. Yummy.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Christie,” Lexi said.

“Chrissi, with an i,” she corrected, and Marc felt his left eyelid twitch.

“My apologies,” Lexi said, sliding him an amused glance.

Chrissi blinked up at Marc with her big eyes, and her even bigger breasts strained against her blazer. “I’ve been trying to find you. Gabe called, something about a missing case of wine. And I ordered lunch. Your favorite. It’s getting cold.”

“Well, then, I won’t keep you,” Lexi said, giving his arm a little pat. “It was nice to meet you, Chrissi.”

Marc watched her walk off, knowing what she was thinking, knowing that she was wrong, and hating that he cared.

Thanking Chrissi for lunch and apologizing that he would be out of the office the rest of the day, he took off after Lexi.

“I still have your kumquats,” he shouted.

Lexi stopped under the red-and-white-striped awning of the patisserie. When he caught up, he said, “And you stole my lunch.”

“Actually, I left so that you could get to your lunch.”

Marc looked up at the sky and counted to ten, letting her words settle. Surprised by how much they rubbed him the wrong way, he actually had to go up to fifteen. “It’s not what you think.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” Marc kicked at the ground, irritated that he was irritated.

“I get it, remember?” she said softly. “I’m the one who breaks up with girls for you. As long as she’s a consenting adult, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Exactly. So why did he want to so badly?

“For the record, Chrissi is my assistant. She holds a double degree in marketing and hospitality management. And although she’s a little flighty and way too perky—”

He stopped when Lexi snorted at his word choice.

“Sorry, go on.” She placed a hand over her mouth, but he could still see her eyes glistening with humor.

“She’s bilingual, great with customers, and was hired by my sister-in-law.”

With that, Marc spun on his heel, took two steps, and stopped. Yeah, it looked bad; he got it. And it sucked. So he stalked back. “And I don’t sleep with my staff. Ever.”

And he stormed off for the second time. Only this time he didn’t make it more than a step when he felt her hand on his arm—again. And this time he couldn’t ignore that some serious sparks of lust shot straight down to his groin at the simple contact. “I never thought you would.”

Then why did he feel like he was lacking?

He released a breath and faced her. “People change, Lexi.”

“Okay,” she said, her expression soft and genuine, which pissed him off even more.

Because it wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. He’d never felt the need to give an explanation before. Not even to his brothers. So why was he chasing her through town to give one? Now that Lexi was back in St. Helena, something had changed, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Hell, he wasn’t sure how he felt about anything.

With a soft smile, she held out her hand. “You still have my kumquats.”

He handed them over. “You’re not going to come with me, are you?”

“I promised the grannies. And even though it would be fun to ride around like old times, the longer I avoid…” She stared at him a moment. A long moment, before finally shaking her head. “Maybe another time.”

“What if I told you that there is no lunch with the grannies? That this is a setup for your Mr. Tuesday Lunch?”

“What?” Lexi made her way to the window and cautiously peeked in. He knew what she would see. Jay Sanders, a decent-enough-looking middle-school history teacher. He would be nice and charming and laugh at her jokes. He’d stick to bland crap like kids and travel and his favorite movies. And he’d be a safe bet.

“There was no Mr. Tuesday Lunch. How did you know?”

Marc came up beside her. “Pricilla runs a blog with everyone’s days on it. Bios. Everything but their criminal records.” From inside, Jay waved and so did Pricilla. “Go for a ride with me, Lexi.”

Lexi gave Mr. Safe a hesitant wave back, and Marc had his answer.

He shouldn’t have felt disappointed. But he did. “I guess I was wrong about people changing. Have fun on your date, cream puff.”





“What can I get you? The regular?” the bartender asked.

Every Thursday night for the past eight years, ever since the youngest DeLuca brother, Trey, became of legal age to partake in public, Marc and his brothers had met at the locals-only bar, the Spigot. After a couple rounds of pool and a couple more rounds of beer, they would come up with a couple really satisfying ideas on how to catch and castrate their sister Abby’s SOB of a husband.

Six years ago Richard, who suffered from wandering-dick-and-sticky-fingers syndrome, got caught having an affair. Shortly after, he disappeared—taking with him twelve million dollars and their sister’s heart. The four brothers had sworn to get both back.

Tonight was a Wednesday, though, and Marc hadn’t come to shoot a game, the shit, or otherwise. He’d come to unwind—alone. He’d managed to avoid a meeting with his brothers, claiming that the first shipment of wine for the Showdown was expected to arrive, which it had. It had also taken three extra guys and an afternoon of paperwork to get the cases settled properly in the wine cellar.

Okay, so maybe the paperwork took a little longer because he still couldn’t get his mind off what Lexi had said yesterday. More specifically, what Lexi hadn’t said. She’d stood there silent while he justified how he’d chosen to live the past ten years—to her!

The more he thought about it, the more irritated he got.

So he’d grabbed his keys, locked up the office, and found himself standing at her back door, ready to explain just how much he’d changed. And apologize for his parting remark.

Then he realized that he didn’t do explanations—or apologies. They were too close to the truth, which made things too serious—another thing he didn’t do. He also reminded himself that this was Lexi, the woman who’d been married to his best friend. The same best friend who had not only helped Marc get through the single most painful experience of his life, but had stood by his side as Marc spun himself out of control. Jeff had never judged Marc for his reckless behavior after his parents’ deaths, like his brothers had. Never told him to grow the f*ck up and get serious about his future. No, Jeff had understood that Marc needed to lose control before he could find it again, needed to deal with the pain of losing his parents in his own way.

So instead of knocking he kept walking, straight through town, straight through the bar, and straight through his second drink.

He’d barely started on his third when two familiar and, by the looks of them, pissed-off Italians flanked him on either side. Not bothering to hide all their big-brother bullshit, Gabriel and Nathaniel, the oldest of the DeLuca boys, elbowed and pressed in on him as they took their seats at the bar.

“You want to tell me what the hell you were thinking?” Gabe said in greeting.

Since Marc wasn’t sure exactly what he was being accused of, though he was pretty sure he was guilty on several counts, he remained silent. When he picked up his beer, purposefully tuning out his brothers and tuning in to the ball game playing on the plasma screen behind the bar, Nate slid the day’s issue of the St. Helena Sentinel in front of him.

Marc looked down at the headline advertising the St. Helena Summer Wine Showdown and felt himself relax. They weren’t here about Lexi or Natasha or the fact that two contenders had almost pulled out of the Showdown because his “qualified” assistant had forgotten to send them the proper paperwork.

“You’d better start explaining, and fast, since I’m about two seconds from kicking your ass, stealing your beer, and moving the Showdown to the family winery.”

“I heard that the second trimester’s rough,” Marc said, biting back a grin and sliding his beer toward his oldest brother. “I didn’t know all the nagging and hormonal crap was contagious, though.”

Gabe shot him a look that was intended to intimidate him into compliance, but all it accomplished was making Marc laugh. Even after their parents died and Gabe stepped up to run the family winery and raise his younger siblings, he’d always managed to keep his easygoing attitude—that was, until his new wife announced that they were expecting. Regan, outside of a few bizarre cravings, had had an easy pregnancy so far. Gabe, on the other hand, was a complete mess.

“Regan’s not nagging,” Gabe defended.

“Says the man who has a flat of Rocky Road ice cream stashed in his truck,” Nate said, waving the bartender over.

“Which is melting.” Gabe looked down longingly at the beer before slowly sliding it back toward Marc with a mumbled curse.

Marc took one look at the constipated expression on Gabe’s face, noticed the three gray hairs that had sprouted overnight, and slid the beer back. “You go ahead. You need it more than I do.”

Gabe held out a weary hand, waving off the beer. “Can’t” was all he said.

“Since Regan was totally alone through her first pregnancy with Holly, Gabe said he wanted to be a part of every step of this one.” Nate managed to hide his smirk but not the tone in his voice that said dumb-ass. “If Regan is awake, so is Gabe. If she wants ice cream, it’s what’s for dinner.”

“If she can’t drink alcohol, neither can he?” Marc added, seeing where this was going. Dumb-ass didn’t even begin to describe what Gabe was if he willingly agreed to that setup.

Gabe rested his elbows on the table and dropped his face into his hands. “I haven’t slept in three weeks, my pants are tight, and I swear, if I have to eat one more pickled-beet salad, I think I’m going to puke.”

But he’d man up and do it. Gabe had already proven that he would do anything if it meant making Regan happy.

“So can you explain to me what kind of idiot agreed to this so I can go home, snuggle with my wife, and eat a bowl of Rocky Road while watching another Nicholas Sparks movie?”

“There he goes, being all hormonal,” Marc joked.

“You think he’s bad, wait until Frankie gets a hold of this. She’s going to castrate you. Slowly,” Nate said.

Marc picked up the paper and studied it, at a total loss for why his two brothers were looking at him like he was in deep shit. Sure, he’d approved the article, even had Regan look it over to make sure it would pop. Nothing.

Gabe opened the paper and once again rested his head in his hands. “Fourth column, down at the bottom. Third name under the Tasting Tribunal.”

Marc scanned the article, found the list of judges for the blind wine tasting, and drew a blank. “Simon Baudouin, so what?”

“So what?” Gabe snapped, looking up and pinning Marc with a glare. “You want to tell me how the hell that happened?”

Marc couldn’t understand what had his brothers so pissed. A hundred years ago the DeLuca and Baudouin families held the first annual St. Helena Summer Wine Showdown in the dining room of the Napa Grand as a way to settle a friendly dispute over whose wine was superior. Over the years the tasting grew to include the entire valley, and it eventually became a platform for winemakers and enthusiasts from around the globe to compete and show off their new wines. It was also where his grandparents met and fell in love, and even where his parents had their wedding.

And had the Napa Grand not closed its doors twenty years ago, this year would have marked the hotel’s centennial year of hosting the event as well as his parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary. Which was why Marc had agreed that, even though his hotel wasn’t quite ready for an event of this caliber, the Showdown needed to be brought home—back to the Napa Grand. It had long outgrown the opera house two towns over in old town Napa, where it had been held the past twenty years.

“There’s always been one DeLuca and one Baudouin on the tribunal,” Marc defended. “It’s written in the bylaws. So if Frankie’s bitching because they only get one spot, tell her to suck it up.”

“Frankie doesn’t bitch.” An extremely loud and extremely ticked-off voice echoed throughout the bar. “Frankie delivers a donkey kick to the nuts.”

All three brothers turned toward the entrance, took one look, and instinctively dropped their hands to cover their goods because there—dressed in a shirt that read Bite Me, shredded jeans, and a pair of steel-toed boots—stood Francesca Baudouin.

“Ah shit,” Nate whispered.

Frankie was tall, curvy, supposedly tattooed, and hot in that I-can-maim-you-with-my-bare-hands kind of way. She was also considered one of the most promising up-and-coming vintners in the valley, which ticked Nate to high hell—and she was the granddaughter of Charles Baudouin, placing her on the wrong side of the sixty-year-old Baudouin-DeLuca feud.

“Is this another one of your stupid jokes, Nathaniel?” Frankie demanded when she’d made her way across the bar and right into Nate’s face.

No one knew what Nate had done to get on Frankie’s shit list, but whatever it was had landed him permanently at the top. Not a good list to be on, since Frankie was a master grudge holder—and dartboard champion.

“Why are you looking at me? I make wine. He’s the one planning the Showdown,” Nate said, pointing to Marc and selling him out. So much for brotherly support.

“Yeah, well, if your goal was to humiliate me, the DeLucas get a gold star.” She held up a copy of the newspaper as proof. “Do you know how hard I’ve worked to be taken seriously in this industry?” That she’d had to work twice as hard to gain any respect from her family went unsaid.

“No one’s questioning your qualifications, Francesca.” Nate’s expression was soft, but his body was ready to respond should Frankie start donkey kicking. “We were as shocked as you were when we saw the article.”

“How can you be shocked? You were the ones who ran the list, which pretty much says that a dog is more qualified to represent my family than I am.”

“A dog?” Marc gasped.

“Simon is old man Charles’s bulldog,” Gabe supplied, picking up Marc’s beer. The foam hadn’t even touched his lips when he stopped and with a mumbled curse slammed the glass back down.

“This is going to make the Summer Wine Showdown look like some kind of redneck moonshine crawl.”

“You really didn’t know?” Frankie asked, her eyes narrowed in disbelief.

Marc put his hands up in surrender. “I followed the bylaws to the letter. Five people sit on the Tasting Tribunal: the mayor, the wine commissioner, a celebrity judge, and one member from each founding family. We chose Nate. Your grandfather chose Simon.”

Which made no sense at all. Sure, a lifetime ago Charles Baudouin and Geno DeLuca had been the best of friends; they had also fallen in love with the same woman. And Charles had chosen Geno’s wedding day to publicly express his undying love for Marc’s grandmother, ChiChi. The ceremony continued, a lifelong friendship ended, and the feud between the DeLucas and the Baudouins began.

Although the dog would complicate things for Marc and his family, it would also hurt the town’s reputation. And Charles Baudouin might despise the DeLucas, but he loved St. Helena.

“My grandpa did this?” Frankie held the paper limp in her hand, and had she been any other woman, Marc would have sworn she was about to cry.

“Looks like it.” Marc shoved back in his chair. “I worked my ass off to get the town behind hosting this event at my hotel. Not to mention I have so much money tied up in this thing if it goes under, I go with it.”

“Christ, Marc, you said you had this under control,” Gabe said, going all brother-knows-best.

“It is under control,” Marc defended.

“You have a f*cking dog for a judge.”

“I’ll check the bylaws tonight. See if there is a clause that states the representative has to be human.”

“You should have done that before you announced to everyone that you were going to host the Showdown.” Gabe shook his head. “This is why I told you to wait a few years, to make sure your foundation was laid so you could handle it.”

“The town council approached me about hosting the event, remember? And this,” Marc said, pointing to the headline announcing the Showdown, “will shave five years off my ten-year plan. I knew the short timeline was going to be a challenge, but I would have been an idiot to turn them down. They wanted it brought back to the Napa Grand for the centennial, and it’s a chance to really show what the hotel can do.”

“You’re willing to bet everything you’ve built because you want to challenge yourself? And you choose the most high-profile event you can find to do it?” Gabe shook his head.

“A lot of people are counting on this fund-raiser,” Nate said in his most inoffensive tone, which Marc took immediate offense to. The only thing missing in this touching moment of brotherly bonding was the youngest DeLuca. Thankfully for Marc, Trey was in Madrid, selling a hotel chain on DeLuca Wines as their house specialty of choice.

“We are talking hundreds of thousands of dollars that this town needs,” Gabe said, as though Marc didn’t already know. The Summer Wine Showdown was elaborate, exclusive, and at a thousand dollars a plate, the dinner and wine tasting raised close to a million dollars every year for the local hospital and schools. Which made it a high-visibility event, and if it went bad, it would go bad under the watchful eyes of every media outlet in the food, wine, and travel industries.

“Did you even think about how this will affect the family if it goes south? Ryo Wines is one of the main sponsors, and the last thing Abby needs right now is her company connected to another disaster.”

Marc wanted to laugh at his brother’s family-first speech. Hell, just last Christmas Gabe had given the family an ultimatum: either welcome Regan and her daughter, Holly, into the family or he’d walk. A hard thing to ask since Abby’s husband, Richard, who had been carrying on an affair with Regan for over a year, was Holly’s biological father. Regan hadn’t known that Richard was married, but the affair had shattered Abby’s world regardless. Now that Regan was officially a sister-in-law and expecting the first DeLuca great-grandbaby, Marc was surprised that Abby hadn’t relocated to one of their Santa Barbara properties.

Not wanting to argue in front of half the town, especially on a topic as delicate as Regan and Abby, Marc picked up his beer and took a drawn-out pull, making sure that Gabe saw every last drop disappear. Then he licked his lips and considered ordering another one just to mess with his brother.

“I want to see this work,” Gabe finally said. “For everybody.”

“I can do this.” Marc had to do this. It was the only way to prove to his family, and himself, that walking away from his role in DeLuca Wines was a smart move. That he wasn’t that same impulsive screwup he’d been after his parents died. That he’d grown into the kind of man his father would have been proud of.

“I don’t doubt that you will. I’m just afraid that one day you’re going to play it too fast and too risky and end up blowing something important.” Gabe shook his head, then changed his tone—trying for light. “At least tell me you found a caterer.”

“Handled,” Marc lied.

Gabe took one last look at Marc’s beer. “Hopefully better than you handled announcing a dog as a f*cking judge.”