Be Mine Forever (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (4 page)

“They’re DeLuca grapes,” Abby explained. “Half of the plants are from the original DeLuca vines. The others are the Rossis’.”

“No kidding.” Nate smiled and, Jesus, the guy looked like he’d just gotten a pony for Christmas.

Two down and Gabe to go. And in Gabe’s hormonal, my wife-is-pregnant-so-I-have-to-be-a-sensitive-prick state, it probably wouldn’t take much. Meaning, Trey would have to be the bad guy.

“I was thinking that we could build the vacation destination here, and a smaller house, just for the family back here so it would be private.” Abby leaned across the table and pointed to an empty patch right by the cliff’s edge—overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. “You know, a place where we could all visit. Vacation together as a family.”

“How did you find out about this?” Gabe asked. And yup, he was on board. Any hesitation about being stretched too thin, international headaches, and cash flow were replaced with Holly and Sofie running down to the beach with their cousins, pails in hand, the Italian coastline at their backs.

“I’ve always dreamed of designing a place in Italy and thought it would be special if it was in the village where Great Grandpa was born,” she explained, really piling on the family-history and roots BS. “A few years ago, I found out where he grew up and contacted the owners. At the time, the Rossis weren’t interested in selling, so I made them promise to call me if they ever changed their mind.”

“And they changed it?” Marc asked.

Trey sat back and shook his head. Couldn’t they see that Abby was using the same magic she wove when they were kids?

“What about the new vineyard Nate just bought, or the distribution deal we signed last year? I think we have enough going on,” Trey pointed out, trying to be the voice of reason. But when his brothers just glared, he knew he was the odd man out.

“One week, Trey. That’s all I need.” Then Abby went and said something that nearly broke his heart. “It’s what Mom and Dad would have wanted us to do.”

And damn if Trey didn’t have an answer to that.

“Twenty-five hundred dollars?” Sara asked over the sound of the air compressor. She stared down at her engine, wondering how there was so much damage. “It’s a bumper.”

“The bumper isn’t the problem,” Stan O’Malley, the local mechanic and owner of Stan’s Soup and Service Station, called out from under the car. “It’s the blown head gasket.”

She had no idea what a head gasket did, but for that much money, it had better make her coffee in the morning. What she did have though, was a better idea of why her insurance company was being so difficult. A lost bumper claim was not two-and-a-half grand.

“How long did you say you were driving around with that log sticking out of your grill?”

“It was more of a twig,” she clarified, and Stan rolled the dolly out far enough so that only his forehead and eyes could be seen—eyes that were calling her a big fat fibber. Sara took a sip of latte and admitted, “Okay, maybe it’s a branch and since Monday night.”

She hadn’t lied when she said the minivan was fine. She’d just left out that, in order to avoid hitting it completely, she must have jerked the wheel, because when she got out to inspect the damage, her car was partially up on the curb, its front end making nice with a giant shrub.

“Well, that
branch
went through the grill and pierced your radiator.” Stan rolled the dolly all the way out and slowly stood. The man was agile for being somewhere between seventy and one of the original settlers.

Grabbing a work rag he wiped off his bald head then dragged it down his face and shaggy beard, making more of a mess than anything. “Which means you’ve been driving around town with a cracked radiator for the past four days. Surprised it didn’t blow sooner.”

He tapped what she assumed was the radiator.

“I should have just called you.”
Or let Trey take a look at it
, she silently admitted. But she’d had a sleepy son to get home to and an embarrassing situation to run away from, which included the sexy do-gooder whose sense of chivalry she’d mistaken for interest. “How long will I be out a car?”

“Let me go see how soon I can get the parts, but best guess is a week.”

“A week?” How was she supposed to get Cooper to school, buy groceries, do all of the things that single moms did, without a car? Not to mention, a week’s worth of damage sounded like a whole lot more than she could afford.

Stan must have seen the panic in her eyes because he gently patted her on the arm and said, “Don’t worry, Sara, we’ll get you fixed up. But while I’m checking on the parts, could I interest you in a bowl of my famous chili? On the house.”

“No, I’m fine,” she said, holding up her coffee.

“Suit yourself.” Stan stopped at the door to his office. “But if you change your mind, I’ve got a box of sweets on the tool bench.”

With a heavy sigh, she walked to the pink box—just for a peek. And—well, look at that—it was a mouthwatering selection of pastries from the Sweet and Savory across the street. Thankful she had on her dance pants with the elastic waist, she settled on her favorite, a lemon drop cupcake, and walked back over to her car. Licking off the icing, she peered into the hood, trying to locate the head gasket without much luck.

She didn’t know a lot about cars. Didn’t have to. Garrett could fix anything with wires or wheels. For all she knew, a head gasket cost eleven dollars and Stan was short two grand to his bookie. Although, with his bushy eyebrows and stark white beard, he looked too much like Father Time to take advantage of her. At least that was her hope.

“Well, now I know the secret to getting a peek under your hood,” a low, mellow voice said from beside her.

Sara looked up from the radiator, past the broad chest beneath a dark-blue button-up, past the faint stubble that shadowed his face, and into a set of deep-brown eyes that had her heart crashing to the garage floor.

Taking in her cupcake, he leaned a casual elbow against her fender and Sara forced herself to swallow a huge bite of frosting because it wasn’t just any man. It was the hot man whose car she’d “gently tapped,” then asked out to coffee, only to flee the scene after he helped her out of her clothes.

The same man who had called three times over the past four days, and she still hadn’t found the courage to pick up the phone. Was that the equivalent of a dating hit-and-run?

“Stan is a licensed professional,” Sara said, dragging her gaze to his face. “He also bought me coffee.”

Trey leaned in and the movement caused the collar of his shirt, which was unbuttoned at the top, to open and his slacks to pull taut in the back.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.

So of course she let her eyes wander down to take a peek and,
whoa,
he sure could fill out a pair of pants.

“Pumpkin-spice latte?” He sniffed. “Good choice.”

“My favorite.” Sara forced her gaze to his mouth, which was turned up in an amused smile.

“And if it was credentials you wanted to see, you should have said so. Under-the-hood assessments are my specialty. I’m also good with wet rain slickers.”

Sara found herself smiling, just like the other night. Trey had an easy way about him that was infectious. And after a long chat with her insurance company, and then hearing Stan’s preliminary estimate on her car, she needed a reason to smile.

“How did you know I was here?” she asked.

“The sign on your studio said, ‘Gone to Stan’s, be back in ten minutes.’ That was an hour ago.” Which explained the wet hair and shoes. “And since you don’t seem to be returning calls, or at least my calls, I figured this was the best way to see you.”

“I am so sorry, I’m not avoiding you.”

He raised a disbelieving brow.

“Okay, I am avoiding you, but not because I don’t intend to pay you for any damages. I do. And I know how this must look, but to my credit I was waiting to get Stan’s assessment before I called, because my insurance company is being impossible.” She took a breath and went for honesty. “And because I was too embarrassed to ask you if we could avoid the insurance company all together and make some kind of deal, you know,” she lowered her voice and peeked to make sure Stan wasn’t around, “just between us.”

“Between us,” he rolled the words around and leaned even closer, enough that she could smell the rain on his skin. “I like the sound of that.”

“Me too,” she admitted, her heart in her throat, because, she was flirting. And she was pretty sure that he’d started it.

“But if we’re going for honest, I came here to cash in my rain check for coffee.” His eyes dropped to the cup in her hand. “But it looks like I missed out, once again.”

“What about your car?” Every message he left specifically referenced the minivan.

“Not a scratch. I was using it as an excuse to see you.” His eyes sparkled with a boyish gleam and something crackled between them. It was definitely chemistry—and completely mutual.

Before Sara could process what
that
meant, or the way it made her thighs tingle, Stan came out of his office with a printout in hand. “All right, the parts are on order. I put a rush on ’em so they should be in by Monday. And your car will be my top priority.”

“Thanks, Stan,” Sara said, taking the bill and choking. Apparently the twenty-five hundred had been for parts only.

“I’ll give you a call when it’s ready.” Stan disappeared toward the front of the shop to help another customer.

“Can I give you a ride home?” Trey asked.

Yes. That was all she wanted to do. Go home, take a hot bath, and go to sleep—for a year. But she pictured the stack of billing statements sitting on her desk that needed to be stuffed and sent out first, and the downstairs toilet, which, due to an unfortunate Play-Doh accident, was in desperate need of a plunging. And when that was all done, and she finally had a chance to sit down, it would be in a big house. All by herself.

The mere thought had her chest tightening and her palms sweating.

“Have you ever just not wanted to go home?” The minute the words left her mouth, she felt like a terrible person. She loved her home. She just preferred to be in it when her son was there. Which, according to her watch, was a good two hours away.

The charm-your-pants-off smile that she’d come to connect with Trey DeLuca faded into something softer, something almost sad. “Story of my life.”

Not hers. Sara had spent so much time at her mother’s dance studio growing up that home had always felt like a sanctuary. Then when she’d married and had Cooper, home was where she felt the most alive. Lately, though, when it was quiet and empty, it felt more like a coffin, slowly sucking the life out of her.

“What do you do instead?” she asked.

“I get lost.” No hesitation, no apologies. Nope, Trey DeLuca spoke those words like he was an expert on the subject.

“Get lost,” she repeated, trying it out. Even the way the words fell from her lips felt irresponsible and reckless and so incredibly luxurious that she laughed. And that felt exhilarating.

“In your case though,” he said, looking down at the bill in her hand and giving a low whistle, “I’d say get lost somewhere where I can buy you a drink.”

God, a drink sounded good. A drink that didn’t come with a built-in straw or dancing fruit on the carton sounded even better. Getting lost with a sexy man who made her laugh sounded exciting and terrifying all at the same time. Exciting because it would be another small step toward moving on with her life, and terrifying because for the first time since Garrett’s death, the thought of moving on without him didn’t rouse the hollow ache that always sat right above her breastbone.

“What if I told you that I have ninety minutes before I have to be found?” she said.

He grinned and it was so ridiculously sexy that a jolt of heat went right through her, causing her entire body to tremble. Had she not been so nervous about what that smile meant, or wondering just how lost in him she was willing to get, she may have found the courage to smile back.

“Sweetheart, I can do a lot with ninety minutes.”

CHAPTER 3

F
irst rule in getting lost,” Trey said, unlocking the door to one of his family’s oldest tasting rooms and flicking on the lights. “No contact with the outside world. If they don’t know where you are, they can’t find you.”

“Just a sec,” Sara mumbled, her fingers flying over the keypad on her cell. “I just need to remind the other dance teacher about the stack of billing statements that—”

He slipped the phone out of Pollyanna’s little hands, pocketing it when she reached out to grab it back, loving how her lips went plump as she frowned.

Sweet and stubborn. The perfect pairing.

“I can see I’m working with a first timer here.” She sent him an amused look. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’m an excellent teacher.”

Placing his hand a little lower on her back than was polite, to test the waters, he nudged her through the doorway. Trey took in a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scents of aged oak and cherry tobacco mixing with the rawhide of the barstools. One sniff and all of the tension he’d been carrying since last night’s sorriest-excuse-for-a-guy’s-night-ever evaporated.

For Trey, this place felt more like home than anywhere he’d ever been.

“Then teach away,” she said, sending him a sidelong glance.

“Rule number two, no talk of business or family. What’s the point of playing hooky if all you talk about is what you’re trying to escape?”

Their footsteps echoed across the expanse of the room that lay in front of them as he led her toward the tasting bar. He patted the stool on the far end and, when she hopped up, he slipped behind the bar.

“Right,” she nodded seriously, and he had to fight back a smile. “No contact. No talk of family, work, or problems.” She paused, then looked across the bar at him, those big hazel eyes so confused he wanted to kiss her. “Then what do we talk about?”

“How about we start with preferences. Red or white?” he said, pulling out two bottles of their special reserve from behind the counter. “And I promise not to embarrass you by sharing that I’ve had a thing for ballerinas ever since Judith Carr danced the Sugar Plum Fairy at our fifth-grade talent show.” She laughed and he felt it in his chest. “I swear, it’s something about the short skirts and tight buns.”

“I’m wearing my hair down,” she explained.

He smiled. “I wasn’t talking about your hair.”

Sara flushed an adorable pink, but tried to hide it by studiously examining the wine bottles he’d selected. With her distracted, Trey took his time to studiously examine her every curve.

He hadn’t been kidding with the ballerina thing that she was rocking. If the ass-hugging leggings didn’t do it for him, then that sheer, white skirt she had on did. And yeah, he was a guy, so ignoring the creamy swells that peeked over the lacy edge of her little top, or the way her body reacted to the chill in the room was impossible. So he didn’t even bother to try.

“Today is about adventure, right?” She sat up straight, all proper and prim, and folded her hands on the bar top. “So surprise me.”

Only fair, since she kept surprising him. The other night when she’d crashed into his life, she’d come off as sweet and sunny and, if he were being honest, a little frazzled. Today though, in Stan’s shop, he’d really looked at her. Looked past the smile, past the wide eyes and smattering of freckles, and past the good face that she was putting on for the world, and damn if that didn’t do something to his chest.

“I say it is a day to go bold, live loud, and since we are limited on fun time…” he said and went to work. Reaching for five globed glasses from behind the bar, he lined them up in front of her. “Let’s start with our house Zinfandel, move our way through the medium-bodied wines, and end with a glass of our reserve Cabernet. How does that sound?”

He poured a generous tasting of the Zin into the first glass and slid it her way. “Since this is my first time playing hooky
and
wine tasting I will leave the choices to you.” She wrapped her elegant fingers around the stem, took a dainty sniff that made her nose crinkle, before pressing the rim of the glass to her mouth and taking a sip. “This is good. I don’t know what I’m supposed to taste, but—”

Instead of launching into his practiced spiel about the luscious deep flavors of cherry with a hint of spice, one that he’d given a hundred times, to a hundred different women, he said, “Are you serious? You’ve never been wine tasting?” How the hell did she live in the wine country and never go tasting? “Ever?”

“I know. It’s awful. I keep telling myself that I have to get out of the house more, actually experience where I live, but between getting my studio up and running and making sure that my so—”

He placed a finger over her lips, and God, she had great lips. They were full and soft and damp with wine.

“Rule number two. Remember?” She nodded and he could feel her breath against his fingers come out in shallow bursts. “And since this is your first tasting
and
first time playing hooky…” he paused to look at her. “Really, not even senior ditch day?”

“Nope, I made it through four years of high school with perfect attendance.”

His day kept getting more interesting by the second. Trey didn’t know what he expected to happen when he followed her into Stan’s. But suddenly, his usual go-to game plan didn’t feel right.

“I assume that since you’re behind the bar acting like you own the place, you do.” She slid the empty glass forward, already eyeballing the next bottle.

“My family does.” He wanted to make that clear. And when she didn’t seem disappointed by the news, her eyes widening with genuine interest instead, he added, “This was my Grandpa Geno’s favorite tasting room. His father built it back in the twenties. There is even a secret room in the cellar where men would come to buy wine during Prohibition.” Trey felt himself smile. “My grandpa used to take me down there when I was a kid and sneak me a glass or two. Point out the different flavors, what made one unique over another.”

Those were some of his favorite memories as a child. With his grandfather, he never felt as though he had to prove himself. He could just be in the moment.

Kind of like he was now.

“It sounds like you two had a special connection,” she said quietly. “I had the same kind of relationship with my grandmother. My mom taught me everything she knew about dance, but it was my grandmother who shared her love for it with me.” She gave a shy shrug, almost embarrassed, but unlike him, she went on. “After she died, I realized that I wanted to teach dance, help little girls experience the same magic that she shared with me.”

That was exactly what his grandfather had said to him about wine and why he loved what he did. Grandpa Geno believed wine brought people together, cemented relationships, and allowed special moments to happen.

“I’m not around enough to share,” he admitted and had to glance away. The way she was looking at him, as though he’d passed on his grandfather’s legacy the way she had her grandmother’s, made him feel like a fraud.

“Well, you’re sharing it with me.”

He stared at her, surprised that she openly held his gaze when most people would look away. She might think that she was playing hooky, but the woman was so amazingly open and grounded there was no way she could ever be truly lost. Something that Trey admired.

“Thank you,” he said and, before he could grab the next bottle, she reached out and touched a finger to his, letting it rest there. The simple connection reminded Trey of just how long it had been since he’d talked to someone like this.

“Now, share with me your favorite wine,” she said. “Not the ones you give customers or people you’re trying impress, but the one you’d pick for yourself if you were here alone.”

At that, he smiled. She was beyond good at reading him and calling him out. “Deal. Give me a minute.”

He walked to the end of the bar and selected a bottle of Chianti from his secret hiding place. Then he palmed two of the un-sexiest tumblers in wine country, smiling because they were what his grandpa had used when he’d come here to drink with his cronies. It wasn’t about the packaging, it was about the experience.

Opening it, he placed the cork beneath Sara’s nose, the side of his finger lightly brushing her lips and igniting one hell of a spark. “Close your eyes and tell me what you smell.”

With an amused smile, her lashes fluttered closed and she inhaled, her chest slowly rising and then holding. After a long moment, her warm breath washed over his skin and she opened her eyes.

“It smells charming.” He watched as her cheeks slightly flushed and her smile became coy as she looked him dead in the eye. “Will it taste the same?”

Something inside of Trey shifted. Unable to stop himself, he leaned in until their mouths were a breath apart and whispered, “You tell me.”

Then he kissed her. And charming was the last thing he felt. Not while her mouth gently worked his as though she’d also been fantasizing about this all week.

He teased the seam of her lips and she gave a breathy little moan that shot straight to his core. The taste of her sent blood pumping through his body at an accelerated pace. She teased back, creating enough of a spark to get his chest vibrating, his ears ringing.

Twice.

“Trey,” she breathed, his name whispered against his mouth. “It’s my phone.”

“First rule, no contact with the outside world.” He nipped her lower lip, moaning a little when she nipped back. “We haven’t finished the tasting.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but I have to go.” She pulled back just enough so that he could see her eyes were wide and dazed with heat, and a little humor. Her hands were cupping his face and she was leaning so far forward across the bar she was plastered to his chest. “My world needs me again.”

“How’s the car?” Heather Reed asked and Sara froze. Hand on the doorknob, mid-sneak, she turned and offered up an innocent smile.

Heather was Sara’s dance-assistant-slash-nanny-slash-best friend. Who also happened to be her sister-in-law. And right now she was aiming an accusatory glare in Sara’s direction.

“Not good,” she admitted, feeling as guilty as a teenager who’d been caught sneaking off with her boyfriend. Not that Trey was her boyfriend, or that she even knew what that kind of guilt felt like, since Sara had never sneaked in her life. Until today. “You were right, more than a damaged bumper.”

“Yeah, well the log sticking out of the front and the steaming engine kind of tipped me off,” Heather said, pulling her long leg underneath her, freeing up a spot on the couch. A spot that Sara was not going to take. She sucked at secrets. Keeping one from Heather was impossible, which was why she walked into the family room and casually plopped down in the armchair—on the opposite side of the coffee table.

That’s when she noticed how incredibly clean the house was. The floor had been vacuumed, toys put away, not a single LEGO left out to step on. There was even a bouquet of fresh flowers on the mantle.

It was Sara who pinned Heather with a look this time. She wasn’t the only one being sneaky. “What’s going on?”

Heather smiled. Way too big. “Remember the audition I went on last month?”

“You mean the musical I said you were perfect for and forced you to go on even though you said you were too tall to blend in with the other dancers?”

“Yeah, the director called today and they passed. I was too tall to blend in with the supporting dancers.”

“Oh, Heather, I am so sorry.”

“I’m not. He also said that the lead tore her ACL and he wants to talk to me about filling in while she recovers. The lead!” Heather’s face lit with a joy that Sara hadn’t seen since before Garrett died. “It’s just for a few months, and I don’t even know how many other girls they are considering, but I figure it’s worth a meeting.”

“Heather, that’s incredible. Well, not for the lead who tore her ACL, but you know what I mean,” she said, crossing the room to pull her sister-in-law in for a hug.

Heather was
beyond
talented, a dancer with megastar factor. Her potential had outgrown St. Helena the day they moved here.

“I know, right?” She hugged Sara back, tightly, and Sara felt her eyes start to burn. “He’s going to be in San Francisco for the week and wants me to meet the choreographer. Tuesday.”

Sara froze. “Tuesday?”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Heather said, and she was. She also wasn’t finished with her favor. “If things go well, then I might have to stay through to Wednesday.”

Tuesdays were the studio’s busiest days. If Heather was gone, Sara would have to cover her classes and Cooper wouldn’t get to bed until nine. She’d start bright and early at seven sharp and go straight through to their evening senior lineup, which included—
oh God
—Heather’s brainchild.

“Senior Pole Dancing,” she groaned.

“I’ll make it up to you.” Heather tugged Sara’s hand and she was already beginning to cave. Two months as the lead in a Broadway musical could be the career changer Heather needed.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” Sara said. Heather launched herself into Sara’s arms with a resounding
oomph.
“As long as you admit that I was right. You are not too tall.”