Summer in Napa

chapter 6

Marc was in his office, staring out the window and wondering how he’d managed to get himself in the middle of this f*cked-up situation. His celebrity judge, Bo Brock, wasn’t returning his calls, Natasha was still trying to nail him down—catering job or otherwise—and Abby was finally divorcing the jerkwad. A great step for his sister but terrible timing for him, since her full-page “Have You Seen This Dick?” announcement, complete with a picture of Richard, ran concurrently with his Summer Wine Showdown ad.

Now he had to deal with the fact that his best friend was suing his sexy new neighbor because Jeff had made promises he shouldn’t have. And if Jeff didn’t deliver on those promises, Marc’s brothers were going to rip him a new one, because it would cost everyone involved a ton of cash.

“Do you really need her recipes?” Marc asked, angling his chair so that he would be forced to stare at his computer rather than watching the window, hoping to see a construction crew hard at work, or catch a glimpse of Lexi in her apartment cooking in something other than pj’s, anything to reassure him that she was okay.

“Christ, Marc, how many times do I have to explain this?” Jeff’s voice came through the speaker on the phone. “They aren’t her recipes. They belong to the restaurant, always have, and I own the restaurant. She got the house. I got the restaurant.”

They’d been arguing about this on and off for days. Ever since Marc had gotten up the balls to call his friend.

“Yeah, well, this is a small town, and people here don’t give a rat’s ass what some New York judge said or about a house she no longer lives in.”

There was a tense pause. Marc closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. He hated fighting with—well, anyone. It was easier to just stay detached.

“How is she doing?” Jeff asked, and for the first time in an hour his old friend was on the phone. Jeff wasn’t a bad guy; he was just always so focused on newer and shinier things that he had a hard time noticing other people’s shoes, let alone walking in them. “I’ve tried calling her, checking in, but she doesn’t seem receptive to me right now.”

Marc knew the feeling. And telling Jeff about how devastated Lexi had been felt like a betrayal, but he had to tell his friend something to make him see what this was doing to her. “She’s stopped construction.”

Jeff was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, confused. “I don’t understand. That’s all she ever talked about. Hell, there were a couple times over the past few years she threatened to bail on the marriage so she could move home and open that bistro.” The admission surprised Marc. Jeff had alluded to Lexi being unhappy in the marriage, but he’d never been so blunt about it before. “When she decided to sell the house, I didn’t even ask for any of the proceeds because I knew she’d need the money for renovations.”

“According to Abby”—who had threatened to fly to New York and kill Jeffery, very slowly, with a pizza slicer—“Lexi doesn’t want to sink all of her money into a bistro when she doesn’t have a winning menu.”

Wingman’s ears perked up at the sound of Lexi’s name. So did Marc’s pulse.

“So, I ask again, is there any way you can do this without her recipes?”

“I wish, man. But the deal depends on that menu.” Which was what Marc had feared. “When I first met with Montgomery Distributions, I was still clinging to the hope that Lexi and I could make it work, especially if we landed the deal. Monte had a few other restaurants he was talking to, and it was Lexi’s food that raised Pairing to the top of his list. We weren’t the biggest or most financially set of the competition, but we had the best food. To change the game now…there’s no way.”

Last spring, Monte, founder and CEO of Montgomery Distributions, had been in town to meet the youngest DeLuca, Trey, whose tendency toward wanderlust had him out of the country more than in. It also had him at a wine sellers’ convention in Prague—when he should have had his ass in St. Helena—negotiating a deal with Monte that would take DeLuca Wines from specialty shops to supermarkets around the globe. Marc, already feeling guilty for skirting his responsibilities in the family business to get his hotel stable, had agreed to cover for Trey and entertain the man.

Over a friendly glass of DeLuca zin, Marc learned that Monte not only specialized in wine distribution but that he was also looking to expand into the specialty-food sector, to bring five-star, fine-dining cuisine to freezer sections everywhere and pair it with the perfect wine. Monte had the contacts and the interest; all he needed was a restaurant and winery to partner with. And Jeff needed the kind of money that a deal like this could bring. It seemed the perfect fit.

Gabe had disagreed, adamant about not mixing friends and the family business. But Jeff had always talked about expanding Pairing, taking it to a national scale; he just lacked the backing and support to get there alone. Marc knew what that felt like. In fact, Jeff was the only one who had wholeheartedly supported Marc’s decision to buy the Napa Grand, which was why Marc had wanted to see this partnership work. So at the risk of pissing off his brothers, he’d made the introduction. Only now he wasn’t so sure that he’d made the right decision.

“Does she know about Monte? About my family’s role in the deal?” At this point, Marc wasn’t sure he even wanted to know.

There was a long pause, as though Jeff was weighing his answer.

“No.”

Marc felt his body relax a little.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” Jeff said. “She had already checked out on the marriage and the restaurant. I knew she’d move home, and I didn’t want to drag you into the middle of everything.”

Funny, because the middle was exactly where Jeff had stuck him the minute he asked Lexi out sophomore year—even though he knew Marc had a thing for her. And the middle was starting to piss him off. Sure, Marc had had a weakness for just about anything with pom-poms—still did—but Lexi’s pom-poms were different. They always would be.

“I know this is a lot to ask,” Jeff went on. “But you guys used to be friends, and this deal needs to close. Until that happens, I need you to keep an eye on Lexi, make sure she doesn’t sink this just because she’s pissed at me.”

“So you want her to be pissed at me? Because the second she finds out we even talked about her—”

“She’s going to be pissed either way, Marc. That’s just Lexi.” Not the Lexi that Marc knew. Then again, he had never been married to her.

Marc closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. So much for not wanting to stick him in the middle. But Jeff was right: this deal couldn’t fall apart. Not now. Not after Marc had defended his decision to bring Jeff in on the deal to his brothers. But the thought of Lexi’s dreams shattering didn’t sit right either.





It’s just a cookbook, Lexi. Get a grip.

But she couldn’t. Just like she couldn’t believe that after almost twenty-four hours of culinary bliss, this was happening.

Last night, after covering her ex in a mosaic of spit wads and promising Abby she wouldn’t give up, Lexi had called her grandmère and agreed to cater for the Daughters of the Prohibition.

Yes, she hated catering. But she loved her grandmother. And with Pricilla being the only real family Lexi had, her grandmother’s dream of a bistro trumped everything, so she got her butt in gear, threw on an old CD mix she’d found from high school, and stayed up all night cooking, experimenting, and for the first time in months finding a sense of peace.

In fact, the more creative she got with the traditional Summer Showdown menu, the more her creative block seemed to crumble. Which was why, when she looked up from her Pacific sea bass sashimi with papaya and avocado mousse to find three innocent, smiling grannies, a cat trying to pass for a sunflower, and a worn leather book that predated even Pricilla, Lexi got a bad feeling in her gut.

Forcing an innocuous smile, Lexi threw a towel over the dish and said, “What are you guys doing here?”

They didn’t answer.

Lexi watched the inquisitive eyes studying her hidden appetizers, the cat sniffing wildly, and she stepped forward, placing her body between the welcoming committee and the entry to the kitchen.

“What’s that?” Pricilla asked, smoothing down her halo of gray after ducking under Lexi’s outstretched arms, which were now braced on either side of the kitchen counter, to pull off the towel.

“Oh, that? Nothing. Just dinner.” Lexi dropped her arms when ChiChi and Lucinda, who was carrying Mr. Puffins, skirted around the other side of the counter. All three grannies and the cat huddled around and stared suspiciously down at the dish, as if they were expecting it to walk off the plate.

Mr. Puffins looked hopeful.

Pricilla, proud.

The other two—completely at a loss.

“I think it’s fish,” ChiChi said to the others as though Lexi wasn’t standing two feet away.

Lucinda, needing a closer look, set Mr. Puffins on the counter. She extended one bony finger—everything about the woman was sharp edged—and poked the fish, frowning when it jiggled. “How long did you cook it?”

“It’s, um, sashimi.” When all three ladies pursed their lips in confusion, Lexi added, “Raw fish.”

The grannies shared a silent look of concern while the cat gingerly sniffed the air, his eyelids going heavy and his whiskers working overtime. At least someone appreciated good fish.

“It isn’t perfected yet. I’m still tinkering with the balance of the papaya—”

“We have reservations,” Lucinda pronounced, grabbing Mr. Puffins before he could take his first lick of the mousse.

“But you haven’t even tried it!” Lexi said, feeling her entire body deflate.

“At Stan’s,” ChiChi cut in, smacking Lucinda on the hip with the back of her hand. “For dinner. We have reservations at Stan’s for dinner.”

“I didn’t know Stan took reservations.” Nor did she know why she was calling them on the lie. Two minutes ago she would have given her left ovary to get them, and that recipe book, out of her kitchen. But it hurt that they were dismissing her plate on design alone. “Isn’t it more of a serve-yourself kind of place?”

ChiChi draped a regal hand down her form to highlight her cream pantsuit as though her St. John ensemble was solid proof that they had reservations for a bowl of soup at the service station.

“I’d ask you to join us, dear,” Pricilla said, gently rubbing Lexi’s shoulder. It was a sign that she knew Lexi was upset. “But you have your date with Vince.”

Lexi looked down at her striped pajama bottoms, at the well-used kitchen, at the fresh ingredients still waiting to be transformed, and groaned. She had totally forgotten about her dinner plans with Mr. Friday Night Lights, who was old enough to have played in the actual football game that inspired the book.

“I got so busy cooking I lost track of time. I’ll just call him and reschedule.” She pulled out her phone, hoping the ladies would take the hint and give her privacy—or better yet, leave. And take with them the traditional Showdown recipe book, which had been created by Lucinda’s and ChiChi’s mothers and had served as the culinary bible for every Showdown since.

“Nonsense, child, we’re just dropping by. Wanted to bring you this.” ChiChi opened the book to the first page and slid it closer to Lexi.

Lexi studied it for a long moment, not touching it. One look at the diagram of how to poach cod in milk was enough to cause her head to pound. It started as a slight pulsing behind her right eye, but by the time she got to the instructions for roasted squash and fig mash, a sharp pain crept down to the base of her skull.

“The tasting is set for Wednesday at seven at the Back Barrel,” Pricilla said, clapping her hands. “Bring one appetizer and one entrée with a side dish.”

“Of course, for the Showdown you’ll need to make each of the different courses for guests to choose from, including the traditional fish, pork, and beef entrees,” Lucinda added.

“Traditional. Of course.” Lexi reached out, intending to pick up the menu, which ChiChi seemed so insistent that she hold, but only managed to trace a shaky finger across its bottom edge, fearful that if she actually grasped the book it would go off like a live grenade, demolishing all creativity and culinary ability in a seven-mile radius—and all of the progress she’d made last night.

She looked at her beautiful dish, with its bright-orange drizzles and brilliant-green mousse, and straightened her shoulders. Abby was right. It was her life. Her cooking. Her clean slate.

“I was actually going to play with the menu a little. Update it. Take the traditional and make it retro.”

“Retro?” ChiChi said, her face going white.

“Yes, a remodeled menu for a remodeled venue.” And a remodeled me.

“Remodel this—”

“Why, Lexi—” her grandmother intercepted Lucinda, who was moving toward Lexi at an alarming pace. “A little updating would be nice.” Pricilla shot a reprimanding glance at her two cohorts before giving Lexi a placating smile. It was the same smile Lexi had received when she was nine and told Pricilla she wanted to add mango to her summer tarts. “What a great idea. Perhaps salmon instead of the cod.”

Lucinda nodded.

ChiChi forced out, “Salmon sounds lovely.”

Lexi snorted. It did not sound lovely. It sounded safe, boring, the kind of thing one would expect at a catered event. And salmon was even worse than cod for a large group. It was a fish that needed to be cooked to order, freshly prepared and immediately served. Not poached in mass quantity only to sit in a lukewarm bath of milk sauce.

“But I wouldn’t go too far,” Lucinda warned. “The other girls received their menus last week. And I know that they are thrilled by the opportunity to pay tribute to the history behind these dishes.”

“Other girls?” Lexi gasped. “Abby made it sound like the job was mine if I wanted it.”

“She is just confident in your ability. We all are,” ChiChi soothed, patting her hand. But the gesture wasn’t soothing. Nor was the presence of all three grannies smiling serenely at her over oval-rimmed glasses.

Lexi knew that getting the Daughters of the Prohibition to agree on a different menu, one that used the traditional ingredients with a fresh spin, would be a challenge. But she had no idea that she’d have to audition for the job against other caterers who were content to ruin a delicate fish by boiling it in milk.

“Don’t worry,” Pricilla said. “None of these girls have your training or palate. The tasting is merely a formality.”

“Formality my butt,” Lexi mumbled after the grannies left. Who needed training or a palate when the recipe was so explicitly detailed, complete with a diagram showing how the fish should be placed atop a bed of five balanced asparagus spears and at a forty-five-degree angle to the half cup of whipped mash?





Bo Brock’s hotel reservation had been canceled. Marc hoped to hell it was some kind of glitch and not his celebrity judge pulling out. But the fact that he wasn’t returning any of Marc’s calls felt like a rock in his gut.

Marc pulled up a fresh e-mail and began typing, outlining the exact terms of their agreed-upon contract, when a light flicked on across the alley. He turned in his chair just as a figure walked across the room toward the stove, drawing him in. A figure with really great boobs, wavy blonde hair, and an ass that had kept him awake all week.

Gone were the pajama bottoms and stained tank from earlier. In their place she wore a slinky red top that dipped way down in the front, and he wasn’t sure if she was wearing slacks or jeans, didn’t care. They looked damn sexy on her. They also covered her bare feet, which she was currently slipping into a pair of red strappy heels, helpfully bending over to give him a great view of her lacy bra that made looking away damn difficult.

She fastened the shoes around her slim ankles and picked up a bottle of—well, shit, that girl had guts—Pricilla’s homebrew. She hopped up on the counter, then poured a cup, a full cup, and went to take a sip, then stopped. She glanced out the window and, before he could turn back to his computer, looked right at him. Then she did the damndest thing—she lifted her glass in salute, offered up a sad smile, and drained the entire thing before refilling it.

Wingman whined.

Marc leaned down and patted his head. “I know, boy. I want to go over there too. But keeping an eye on her and keeping my distance are two separate things.”

Both were equally stupid.

“How about a man night? You and me and a couple bloody steaks. I’ll even let you have some of my beer.”

Wingman didn’t answer, just stared across the alley.

Finishing her second drink, Lexi slid off the counter, set the cup in the sink, and wiped her hands across her mouth. Then she smiled over at Marc and gave him a little wave. He waved back. And his smile came out stupid and big.

“Too bad man night excludes the girl next door,” Marc mumbled, right as his phone rang. He looked at the screen, saw Trey’s number, and hung up.

He didn’t have time to listen to his kid brother lay into him over something he had or hadn’t done. He was too busy trying to figure out where Lexi, who had grabbed a small handbag off the table and sashayed her ass out of sight, had disappeared to. And why she wasn’t returning his calls.

Marc walked to the corner of his office and peered out into the parking lot at the back of the bakery. He didn’t see Lexi, but he did see a tool in slacks and a polo strangling a bouquet of roses on her back stoop.

“Dumb-ass,” Marc muttered. Lexi hated roses. Thought they were cliché.

His phone chimed that he had a voice mail. He dialed and listened.

“Answer your phone, will you? I need to get a hold of your buddy.” Marc could tell by the way Trey said your buddy that what little love there had been between the two was long gone. Not good. “I know he’s away on his honeymoon, but he still owes me some financials. Monte is on my case about it. So if you hear from him, tell me what he says.”

The message ended. Marc hung up. He could tell Trey exactly what his buddy had said.

I know this is a lot to ask, but you guys used to be friends.

Marc and Lexi had never stopped being friends. In fact, Marc, abiding by man law, had vowed to keep his distance from her, and over the years he’d done his sex proud. But when Lexi stepped out on her porch, too-big grin in place, tottered a bit on those heels, and then stumbled right into Mr. Friday Night’s arms, friend was the last person Marc was capable of being. Especially when Dumb-Ass pulled her closer, resting his hand pretty damn low for a first date, and tugged her toward his shiny sports car.

Wingman growled, baring his teeth and his obvious dislike for Lexi’s date.

“Me too,” Marc said.

The silver-streaked hair, corporate-branded shirt, and overcompensation with a spoiler told Marc that this was Vince Jones, a local dot-comer who specialized in social media and younger women. He was twenty years too old and Lexi was already three shots too far gone for this to be a good idea.

Wingman jumped at the window, barking up a storm and practically foaming at the mouth to rip the guy apart.

“Give me the first shot at him.” Marc grabbed Wingman’s leash and was already reaching for his keys when he added, “If he’s too stupid to listen, I’ll give you ten minutes in a dark room with the guy.”

Which was how Wingman ended up eating kibble for dinner and Marc found himself at the Spigot, wedged between an irrigation specialist and an investment banker, nursing a warm beer and watching Lexi wobble around on those ridiculous heels while Vince supplied her with enough tequila to get an entire crew of vineyard workers hammered.

Lexi licked the tip of a dart, took aim, and leaned over a bar stool for balance, causing the denim to stretch even more tightly across her incredible backside. Marc zeroed in and choked on his beer when she threw the dart and gave an excited little wiggle. He couldn’t see what she was aiming at, but it must have been a bull’s-eye because she started bouncing up and down on her toes—and then all thinking became impossible.

God, the woman had an incredible body.

A low, appreciative whistle sounded from his right, and Marc realized that the irrigation specialist—and half the freaking bar—was just as interested in the sight of Lexi jumping up and down while holding a weapon. But when Dumb-Ass leaned in, getting all up behind her to help line up her next throw, it took everything Marc had not to do some lining up of his own.

“I’m her Friday after next,” the investment banker bragged, swirling his glass of cabernet. “Got tickets to see Phantom of the Opera in the city. Also booked a room at the Fairmont. Just in case it gets late.”

“I hope they’re refundable,” Marc muttered, dropping a ten on the table for his drink and a text to ChiChi about inviting Pricilla and her granddaughter to their family dinner that Friday.

Lexi, out of darts, said something to her date and then disappeared down the hall in the direction of the ladies’ room. Vince flagged down the waitress to place another order, his grin a little too confident for Marc’s liking.

Marc made his way through the bar, saying “hey” more times than he wished since everyone knew everyone here, and glanced out the window. He took one look at Vince’s car and smiled. Not only did it serve as a public service announcement to women everywhere that the man needed help in the form of a little blue pill, it also sagged drastically to the right.

“Hey, Vince, hate to interrupt,” Marc lied, taking him by the shoulder and pointing toward the front window. “But I think some idiots were out there messing with your car.”

Actually, it was only one idiot. And he was digging himself in deeper when it came to Lexi, because no matter how many times Marc told himself to keep a safe distance, there he was, repeating history and inserting himself between Lexi and another man. Only this time he wasn’t sure that he would be satisfied staying stuck in the friendly middle.

“What the—” Vince didn’t even wait for Lexi to return before going off to check on his car. He exited the bar, letting loose a whole lot of questionable language when he saw exactly how flat his right-side tires were. Even flatter than Marc had intended.

Marc followed him outside. “You got a jack?” He knew damn well that a Mercedes SLR wasn’t the kind of car you just up and change the tire for. Not to mention Vince wasn’t the kind of guy to even know where the jack was, should he have one. “Otherwise it might start to bend the rims.”

“Shit.” Vince was on it, frantically reaching for his phone while trying to use the weight of his body to push against the car and lift it a little—his drunk and sexy date no longer even registering on his list of things to think about.

Marc crossed his arms and leaned back against the right side of the car next to Vince, going for casual and pretending to do his part to help. The Benz groaned under the pressure. So did Vince when the shop said it would take fifteen minutes to get there.

“How about you stay here and wait for the guy while I go fetch your date for you?” When Vince looked up confused, Marc jutted his chin toward the window. Inside, Lexi had returned. So had the waitress. Lexi tossed her blonde curls over her shoulder and the shot of tequila down her throat.

“She must be a handful. I’ve never seen her drink like this.” Marc patted Vince on the back before heading toward the door. He reached for the handle and paused. “You know, if you want, I can take her home. It’d be no problem to drop her off on my way to the hotel.”

Vince hesitated, watching Lexi bend over and line up her next shot. Her silky number rode up her back, and the dart flew right past the board, taking out a beer mug on a nearby table.

“You know what, never mind. I wouldn’t want to ruin your fun. So I’ll go keep her company while you wait for your guy. I’ll even make sure the bartender gives her a plastic bag—just in case.”

Marc stepped inside, smiling when Vince called after him, “No. You’re right. She’s having fun, and I have to get this taken care of.” He nodded to his car. “Tell her I’m sorry and I’ll make it up to her.”

“You got it,” Marc said over his shoulder, and then lower, “and good luck with that.”

The guy was a bigger dumb-ass that Marc originally thought if he assumed he’d get a second chance like the one he’d just blown. No, Lexi wasn’t one to get drunk—often—and Vince wouldn’t get another date with her. Marc would make sure of that.

Determined to keep it light and easy, Marc made his way across the bar, slid onto the stool next to Lexi’s empty glass, and watched patiently as, dart after dart, she carefully aimed, drew back, threw—and hit the wall, a chair, the floor. By the time she had cleaned out her ammo, she’d also cleaned out the entire section of customers.

She slowly backed away from the dartboard, stopping abruptly when she turned and found Marc waiting for her, glass of water in hand. She still held a single dart, which she pointed in his direction.

“You.” It came out part greeting, part accusation, and completely slurred.

“Me.” He flashed his best bad-boy grin. The one that showed all his teeth and made his normally hidden dimple stand out. The same one he’d learned early on that no woman could resist.

“God, it’s like I stepped in a big hunk of…of you and everywhere I go it stinks up the room.”

No woman except Lexi.

“And that”—she motioned to his face with the dart and continued—“is insulting. I’m not one of your women, so the charming little smile and flash of dimple won’t make me forget that you’re trying to screw with me.”

Marc didn’t know what had happened to make that sweet Lexi from three hours ago, who had waved and smiled to him through the window, vanish completely. In her place was a woman with a dart aimed to lodge in some poor guy’s jugular.

“And you chased my date away!”

“I did.” No point in lying. Sure, she was mad, but not about Vince’s departure. Just in case, Marc covered his neck when he said, “Cream puff, if I’m screwing, there won’t be any trying about it. And trust me, you won’t forget.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re in my seat.”

“So I am.”

“Move.”

“As you wish.” He scooted back—an inch—braced his feet on either side of the stool, and patted the now vacant part of the seat. “We can share.”

To his surprise she didn’t toss the dart to maim, nor did she shove him off the chair. Instead she walked forward, wobbling a little, to right between his legs, nudging them farther apart with her hips and stepping so close he could smell her perfume. It was light and floral and it took everything he had not to lean in for a better whiff. He worked hard to ignore just how far the vee of her top dipped into her glorious cleavage.

But when she looked up at him, her eyes full of hurt, all he could feel was the way his chest clenched up on him and his heart kicked into a painful overtime.

“So what? So you can share with Jeffery exactly where I am and how he can serve me?” Her eyes never left Marc’s as she drew her hand back and, steady and sure, chucked the dart. Marc leaped off the bar stool, narrowly dodging the pointy tip, which wasn’t aimed at his jugular but at somewhere much more tender. “Or wait, he already did that. Maybe this time you just want to laugh with him about how easy it was to chase off my date so I’d sit here looking like a fool in front of everyone, waiting for him to come back.”

And with that she stormed out of the bar, leaving Marc checking for puncture wounds. His goods were still intact, but he wasn’t so sure about the rest of him.

Dropping enough money on the bar to cover her drinks, he followed her out the door—because when it came to this woman that’s what he did: followed and watched. He’d spent the past fifteen years watching her from a distance without getting caught, and he was tired of it. She was upset and probably embarrassed about being stood up, but he’d be damned if he would let her walk out of there thinking he’d set out to purposefully hurt her.

It didn’t take him long to catch up; her legs were short, the drinks were straight up, and those heels were slowing her down. She was just rounding the corner of the bar when Marc reached her.

“Look, I might act like an ass sometimes.” He took her hand to slow her down.

“Sometimes?” She tried to break free, but he held firm, trapping her hand against his chest and bringing their bodies flush.

One hell of a zing shot through him, and he had a hard time remembering how to breathe. When he saw Lexi’s chest doing a dance of its own, he knew this crazy attraction had sucked her in too. And that scared the crap out of him, because whatever had passed between them in the cab of his truck felt like high-school hormones compared to the insane heat arching between them now.

“I will admit that, although a rarity, it does happen more than frequently around you.” He relaxed his grip and cleared his throat. “But I would never, never laugh about anything that makes you sad. Understand?”

At his words, her hand flattened against his chest. He didn’t let go, and she didn’t move except to sag closer into him. “Then why are you here?”

Because even though I can’t have you, I can’t stay away.

“Because I wanted to make sure you were all right.” His eyes ran over her top, which showed more skin that it covered. Even drunk she still managed to look sassy and sexy and hot as hell. But sexy as she was, this wasn’t the Lexi he knew. “And you should be thanking me. I chased off a guy who was willing to front the bill to get in your very drunk pants.”

“I’m not drunk.” She plucked at her top and took an unsteady step backward, whether to gain distance or because she was swaying on her feet, Marc didn’t know. Either way, she was about to tumble right out of those strappy heels and onto her sexy ass. “Fine. Maybe I’m a little tipsy.”

“A little?” He mimicked her tone as he dropped his free hand to her hip, pulling her closer and holding steady a good portion of her weight. “Cream puff, I haven’t seen you mainline tequila since prom, and that didn’t turn out so well for me or the interior of my car.” That got a little smile out of her.

“What’s going on, Lexi?”

“You knew he was going to sue me, and you didn’t say anything. I didn’t have time to prepare.” She shrugged, her smile now small and sad. “I get that you’re his best friend, but I thought we were friends too.”

Were friends, as in past tense. Not what he wanted to hear.

“I had no idea he was going to sue you. I assumed that all the assets had been taken care of in the divorce,” he said. “And Lexi, we are friends.”

“Friends call, Marc. They check in on each other. Especially when somebody’s world falls apart.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

Somehow, “I’m sorry that your marriage is over, but even though I never stopped wanting you I still can’t ever have you” hadn’t seemed like a good opening. So he’d put off calling her after she left Jeff, telling himself to give her a few days to recover from the blow. But then days became weeks and then months, and finally when the silence had become a knot in his gut, he’d heard from Abby that Lexi was moving home.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call, and I’m sorry that Jeff is such an idiot that he can’t see what he’s doing to you. But your world can only fall apart if you let it.” He pressed a finger to her puckered lips. “Now before you go and say something to challenge my masculinity, all I am saying is that the Lexi I know would get pissed that her plan, for which I am sure you had every last detail figured out, has just been shot to hell, and find another way. Not use it as an excuse to give up.”

“God, what is it with you DeLucas? I’m not giving up,” she argued, but he didn’t hear any fight in her voice. “Tanner starts on the remodel Monday, and Abby is determined that we will open. Eventually.”

“That makes me happy.” Not the part about Tanner walking around her shop lifting heavy things and carrying a hammer, but that she was going forward with the bistro. “The question is, does it make you happy?”

She shook her head. “I have to cook salmon,” she said, and to his horror she started crying. Not over Jeff, not over her bistro, but over salmon.

Normally he didn’t mind when women cried. He knew just how to hold them, kiss away their tears, and then eventually distract them with mind-blowing sex. But Lexi was different. This whole f*cked-up situation was different. And for the first time since, well, since graduation night, when the same woman had cried in his arms, he had no idea what to do.

He remembered how crushed Abby had been after Richard left. She had cried all the time, and the only thing that helped was chocolate ice cream and his nonna’s hugs. He didn’t have any chocolate ice cream, and ChiChi was playing poker with her friends. So he opened his arms and pulled Lexi close, wrapping one hand around her lower back and gently patting between her shoulders.

Then he said, “Salmon isn’t so bad.”

“It is when it’s poached and served on a bed of blanched asparagus,” she sniffled and, to his surprise, wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her soft cleavage into his chest and burying her face in the curve of his neck. Not sure what to do next, he went quiet, knowing that the women in his life lived to fill gaps of silence.

Sure enough, after what felt like fifteen minutes, Lexi finally spoke. “Our grandmas invited me do a tasting with a few other caterers at the next Daughters of the Prohibition meeting.”

She sniffled.

He gave another comforting pat on her head.

They both stood in silence. For a long-ass time, because of course Lexi couldn’t be like other women and spill her secrets. That would be too easy.

“That’s great,” he finally said, hating himself for giving in. Men liked quiet. Welcomed it, even. But with her, he had no idea what he liked anymore. All he knew was that if she was catering that event, she wouldn’t hide in her apartment all day, wouldn’t have time to date a bunch of tools, and he wouldn’t have to deal with Natasha.

“No, not great. They invited the celebrity judge for the Showdown to join them.” Sniffle. “Probably because Bo Brock is so hot.”

Lexi thought Bo Brock was hot? Marc was suddenly hoping that the guy was reconsidering. Hell, he might just tell Brock he’d found another judge.

“Abby and I figured that if I catered the event it would be a great way to test my new recipes while building a name for the bistro.”

“Then why the tears?” Marc asked, running his fingers up the back of her neck and easing out some of the tension. He must have hit a sensitive spot, because she gave a little moan and snuggled closer and Marc gave up.

No matter how many times he patted her back or tried to picture Abby in his arms instead of Lexi, he couldn’t come up with a single brotherly emotion. The only thing that was coming up for him was a big problem in his pants, and if Lexi swayed any closer she was bound to notice. And wouldn’t that just make everything a hell of a lot more complicated.

So when she added, “They’re deciding who gets to cater the Showdown, and if they like my food it will be me,” Marc took her by the shoulders and nudged her back a little so that they were no longer touching.

“That’s incredible. Do you realize how much press you could get out of that?”

“That’s what Abby said.” Her lower lip quivered. “But they want me to serve salmon,” she cried. “On a bed of asparagus! How can I make the most boring dish ever and impress them? I mean—”

She froze, her big green eyes large and wet. “Oh God.” She doubled over and covered her face with her hands as though embarrassed for him to see her break down. Her back shook with emotion, and she was making these little mewling sounds that damn near broke his heart.

Marc squatted in front of her, tucking her hair behind her shoulder, and whispered, “Aw, honey, don’t cry anymore, you’re killing me. We’ll figure this out. You and me. I promise. Hey,” he coaxed when she just kept convulsing. He pulled his shirt out and offered it up. “Give a good blow, wipe your tears, and then I’ll take you home. We can talk about this in the morning. Okay?”

Lexi lifted her head slightly, looked up at him with those incredible eyes, and then, for the first time since she’d been served, she reminded him of the girl he knew and loved. She moved her hands and threw up all over his shirt.