Be Mine Forever (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (8 page)

“ChiChi said that you wanted to talk to me about privates, but—”

He held up a hand. “I know, you only do privates for special customers. So how about you and me go play hooky again so I can work my way up to the special package?”

She looked around the studio, and thought of a night spent playing geriatric matchmaker to the senior sector, referee to Deidra and ChiChi, and making sure Harvey’s hand stayed north of the equator. She looked back to Trey and what he was offering. An escape.

Then again, he was the number-one escape plan for women everywhere. She was a single mom who married her college sweetheart and lacked the necessary experience to tango with a guy like Trey. It was obvious he liked them tall, curvy, and blonde—everything she was not.

“I can’t,” she said, proud of how confident she came off. She didn’t falter, didn’t elaborate, didn’t explain. Cut and dry. Then to her horror she added, “But maybe Tammy or Kayla is free.”

Trey shot her an amused smile, one that showed all of his teeth and released a lethal dimple. “I don’t want Tammy or Kayla. I want to get lost with you.”

His tone was light and easy, his swagger dialed to smooth, and even though it was obviously a line, it didn’t feel like one. Not this time. Which was ridiculous since the man was so practiced and polished he had no doubt broken many a girl’s heart. More proof in the ever growing pile of evidence supporting why “he” was a bad idea.

So she channeled her best teacher tone and said, “I have a class to teach.”

He shrugged, as though he could work with that. “All right, when is it?”

“You want to take a class. With me? Tonight? ”

“Sweetheart, if you’re teaching, I’m interested.” There went the other dimple. “Plus, ChiChi’s been after me to get some lessons from you.”

“Lesson one.” She held out the fishbowl trying to bite back a smile, and failed miserably. “Pick a blue card and when a lady calls your number, you’re up.”

Trey knew once he saw the fishbowl that tonight was not going to go as he’d imagined—which started with Sara dancing in his arms and ended with her naked in his bed. Nope, not only was the naked bed-hustle not looking good, but the class, which focused on swing—the only style he’d never taken—was almost over, and he hadn’t managed to snag even a single dance with Sara.

Instead she was dancing with Roman “local hero and all around badass” Brady, whose body was swaying a little too close for a simple student-teacher relationship, and the smug-ass grin on his face said he knew it. Just like Trey knew by the way Roman moved, that this was not his first time swinging with Sara.

To make matters worse, Trey was stuck holding Mrs. Potter, the woman who, prior to killing his nonna’s prized flowers, used to dress up as Mother Goose and lead story time at the elementary school. Tonight she was dressed in a sailor’s hat and some weird Navy-inspired dress that displayed enough folds of cleavage that he was afraid with one misstep, he’d fall in.

The only thing that remained of the grandmotherly lady he remembered as a kid was the goose part, which happened every time he wasn’t looking—meaning every nine seconds since he was trying to listen in on Brady sweet-talking Sara.

“And I don’t like long walks or the beach, not anymore.” Mrs. Potter stopped to lift up her skirt—exposing fishnets and a garter that should be illegal on women past menopause—and tapped her knee. “Titanium.”

Trey didn’t hear anything else because Sara was twirling closer. And laughing at something Roman said. Roman leaned in and so did Trey, but Mrs. Potter was going on about her stamina and all Trey could catch was, “Just the night and a million stars.”

“That sounds amazing,” Sara responded with a laugh—which, if you asked Trey, sounded forced. When he made her laugh, it was rich and husky.

Then she said something that sounded an awful lot like, “Would hate to miss it,” followed by, “I have to check my schedule,” when Trey twirled Mrs. Potter—right into Roman.

“Sorry, man,” Trey murmured and Sara looked up at him. He took the moment of direct eye contact to silently plead with her to change the song and call time—so they could have their dance.

She sent him a sweet smile and pointed to his feet in return.

“Triple step, triple step,
rock
step, Trey,” she clarified. And yeah, yeah, he got it. Only every time he rock stepped, Mrs. Potter came in faster than expected and pressed herself against him.

“Mrs. Potter was just showing me her new knee,” Trey deadpanned.

“The titanium one?” Sara asked, fixing Roman’s hand grip as though this was a normal conversation. “How’s it working out?”

“Much lighter than the steel one.” Mrs. Potter leaned in, as close as she could get, and whispered, “And we’re both adults now, Trey. You can call me Deidra.” There went her hand. One more pinch and Trey wouldn’t be able to sit for a week.

Mercifully, the song switched and Sara clapped her hands.

“All right, time to switch partners. Since this is the last dance of the night, it’s open call and ladies’ choice.” She pulled out a flashcard, her eyes darting over the page before she looked up. “Pick your partner and share your favorite color, favorite hobby, and what your dream date would be.”

“Thanks for the dance,” Trey said, taking a step back, desperate to get some air that didn’t smell like a perfume bottle, when Deidra pulled a card from the little purse that hung across her body and slipped it in the waistline of his pants—right next to the five dollar bill Mrs. Moberly had stuck there earlier.

“It’s a coupon for a free floral consultation. But for you, I’ll just say a free consultation of your choosing.”

Lovely
. “I think Roman is waiting for you.”

Deidra wiggled her fingers and with a wink sashayed away, her hips working that knee overtime. A group of ladies stood in the wings ready to grab him, so when Sara went to walk off, he snagged her by the hand and drew her in close.

“I’ve been waiting all night to dance with you,” he said, loving how she smelled. Fresh and bright, and like—he dropped his hands to her hips and pulled her in a little closer—the beach?

“You’re just scared of Mrs. Moberly.”

“She’s the librarian. Has been since before I was born. She used to check Disney books out to me, now she’s checking out my butt.” Something that he wouldn’t mind doing to his new dance partner, so he gripped her hips lower.

“This is the swing, which means that we hold both hands when we dance,” she corrected, but he noticed that she didn’t pull back.

Taking that as a green light, he slid his fingers around her back, stepped into her and, damn, she felt good. Warm and soft beneath his fingers. She must have liked it too, because after a moment, she rested her palms on his chest and leaned into him. She hadn’t done that with Mr. I Carry a Hose.

“After that last dance, I think my swinging days are over. No more wild fishbowl parties for this guy.”

“I would have thought that this was right up your alley,” she said innocently. The effect was ruined by the humor sparkling up at him in her eyes.

He gave her a wry expression that made her laugh, but she didn’t look away.

He liked that about her, the way she always held his gaze. He also liked the way her mouth turned up at the corners and parted slightly when he brushed up against her. So he did it again and,
oh yeah
, that got to her.

A flush tinted her cheeks, working its way down her elegant neck and right under the deep V of her shirt, which of course drew his full attention because…how could it not? The woman was beautiful.

“Groping aside, I think it was wonderful the way you charmed them. You made their night, Trey.” Her fingers absently played with the fabric of his shirt. “Did you at least have fun?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. The strange thing was, he had.

He’d come here tonight because it sounded a whole hell of a lot better than ordering room service and working in his suite until sunrise. Yet being here with Sara, even when he’d been propositioned by his grandmother’s friends, had somehow been the most fun he’d had since—he looked at her lush mouth—their wine tasting excursion last week. Even though he would have liked more time with her in his arms and to throw Roman out on his ass for touching her. But just seeing her had made the stress from the day disappear.

“I’m glad.” She pressed her lips together as though to stop herself from grinning. “A few of the ladies wanted to know if you’re coming to the ballroom medley class on Saturday.”

He should say,
nope, sorry, won’t be around
. He never hung around longer than one night. Ever. And Sara was clearly not a one-night-stand kind of girl. A spontaneous kiss and some harmless flirting, sure. But a casual fling?—not the type. Not to mention, his sisters-in-law would kill him if he hooked up with Sara with less-than-honorable intentions.

Then why did he find himself asking, “Are you teaching it?” and when confirmed that, yes indeed, she would be here Saturday night in some other fantasy-inducing outfit, adding, “Then count me in.”

Which was stupid enough in itself. Especially since they weren’t dancing or even swaying. They were just staring at each other in the middle of a crowded dance floor. Only, he couldn’t stop there. No, he had to persist. “Okay, no more stalling, favorite color, favorite hobby, dream date.”

He made sure to put extra emphasis on the last one, hoping to hell she didn’t say anything about a night under the stars.

“Color, red. Hobby, hmm. Let me think.” She paused and bit her lush lower lip, as though thinking long and hard about the next question. Of whose answer he didn’t hear, because he was too busy staring at her work that mouth of hers with her teeth, which only made him want to work that mouth of hers with his tongue.

“And for the date, I don’t know.” Her shoulders rose on a deep breath, but when she exhaled it sounded more like a huff than a sigh. “I never really thought about the questions when I wrote them, but they’re hard to answer.”

“Yellow-and-white polka dots, playing hooky, and anywhere with you,” he rattled off then smiled. “Nope. Easy. Your turn. Dream date. And be specific.”

“I haven’t had a lot of time to date, let alone think about what a dream one would be. But an empty tasting room with a charming,” she looked up at him, “wine sounds pretty dream-worthy.”

Before he could have her elaborate, or ask if she was interested in a replay—like now—the music stopped. She stepped back, signaling that the dance was up and so was his time.

“How about that private?” he asked. “Tomorrow night?”

“I’ll think about it,” she said and,
oh yeah
, he was in. The smile on her pretty face told him as much.

CHAPTER 6

W
ith Italian families, there’s a fine line between being brotherly and being blackmailed. Trey was being blackmailed. Plain and simple. The embarrassing part was that his blackmailer was a five-foot-nothing of a sister-in-law and her baby bump.

“Those are your choices, Trey,” Regan said for the third time, as though
he
were the one not listening. “Either take me to Lamaze orientation or pick up Holly and drive her to dance.”

Pregnancy made women crazy. Period. That was the only explanation he could come up with. Three minutes ago, Regan had plopped down next to him at the pub in Marc’s hotel, a carton of rocky road in hand, Baby Sofie strapped to her front,
asking
him for a favor. Only when he’d regretfully passed, she got hostile. Then she ate all of his fries.

“Shouldn’t Gabe be going with you to um…Lamaze?”

“He’s in Italy with Abby,” Regan said, placing the palm of her free hand on her lower back and exhaling.

Abby had negotiated the terms of the deal, everyone was in agreement, then they’d hit a snafu. So she called in the big gun—aka Gabe.

“Maybe Lexi could take you,” Trey said in a soothing voice he’d heard Gabe use. He even set his burger down to show Regan she had his full attention.

“Lexi offered to watch Sofie while I’m at Lamaze. With you. Unless…” Regan looked down at the drool monster, who was babbling at a level that would scare off rabid dogs, “you want to switch and be on diaper duty and handle breast milk?”

Trey pushed back his plate. He was done. Lunch ruined. Day ruined. His innocence ruined. “What about Frankie?”

“In a class with babies? Are you kidding me? They’d kick me out and never invite me back.”

Trey saw her point. Frankie was worse with kids than he was. Last time she was left alone with his niece, Holly ended up with a new haircut. “I’ve been on the waitlist for this class since we discovered I was pregnant. With Sofie.”

“Plus, Frankie can’t,” Lexi said, flopping down next to Regan, her eyes narrowing in on Trey’s plate. Whereas Regan looked like she was carrying half-a-basketball under her billowy blouse, Lexi appeared to be concealing an entire NBA team in her belly—a team that obviously needed feeding because she wouldn’t take her eyes off his burger. Or her feet off the chair next to him. “She’s taking everyone to the airport.”

“Everyone?” Trey shoved his plate toward his sister-in-law. “What the hell do you mean ‘everyone’?”

“She and Nate picked up Marc about an hour ago.” Lexi snatched his burger, poked it, sniffed it, and then put it back. Her face went a little green and she started wafting her hands. “Oh, God, can you move…that?”

Why not? It wasn’t like he was going to eat it now.

“Dooz-dooz-doozzzzzzz,” Baby Sofie sputtered, her legs flapping and a whole lot of pissed-off female in her voice. Regan handed the ice-cream carton to Lexi, shoved her way to standing, and started pacing.

“Marc went too?” Trey asked, that familiar pang of disappointment pushing at his chest.

He wasn’t surprised that Gabe had left him behind. Could even understand the need for it since he controlled the family purse strings. Nate, the family grape god also made sense. But Marc?

“Why the fu—” Regan covered Baby Sofie’s ears and raised a condemning brow that damn near singed his soul, “—udge did Marc get to go?”

And why the—again with the fudge—hadn’t anyone bothered to invite him? Or even asked him if he minded being left out and, subsequently, left behind?

“There is already another interested party, and if we want the land, we have to move quick,” Lexi said and Trey wondered when the
fuck!
“we” started including everyone but him. “And since Marc is heading up the facilities part of the deal, him going made complete sense.”

As opposed to Trey going, because why the hell would they need to consult the sales end of the business before engaging in a new venture whose success depended on
sales
?
The other day he felt as though he’d made ground with his brothers. That they were all on the same page. That he was finally back in the loop. Apparently not.

Different project, different day—same old bullshit.

“I was given strict instructions that until they return, you were the DeLuca to go to if I needed anything,” Regan said, her pacing having no impact on the kid’s vocal exercises.

“Let me guess, Lamaze falls under the umbrella of anything.”

“So does diaper changing and midnight feedings,” Regan clarified, while gently swaying Baby Sofie, whose eyes started to flutter closed—thank God. “So I suggest you keep your phone on.”

He thought staring down his oldest brother with that mean-ass scowl was bad, but his pint-size wife with her little belly was by far the scariest DeLuca he’d ever faced.

Trey looked at the overflowing inbox on his laptop, the seven conference calls and two interviews he had scheduled, and not a single e-mail from his family telling him they were headed to Italy. He felt like he was being strangled—slowly. “And Lamaze class is…?”

“A bunch of hormonal women looking at birthing videos, breathing heavily, and complaining about swollen feet and lady parts. It’s very inspiring,” Regan deadpanned and Trey actually felt the walls closing in. “I mainly threw that one out there to make Holly’s audition sound like an easy break.”

“Right.” He found himself breathing deep. “And Holly’s class is where?”

“It’s from three to four at the Tap and Barre School of Dance. At the end of Main Street, right next to Petal Pushers.” And suddenly being the go-to guy didn’t sound so bad.

Holly’s class would give him a reason to see Sara again, to move that “I’ll think about it” to a solid “Name the time and place.” Playing the doting uncle in the process couldn’t hurt. Plus, chauffeuring didn’t include diapers, breast milk, or talk of lady parts.

“Is one of Auntie Lexi’s babies yours?” Holly asked, looking up at him with her big brown eyes.

“What? No!” Trey nearly rammed the car in front of him, which earned him all kinds of honks and a stern headshake from the crossing guard.

The parking lot of St. Vincent’s Academy looked like the starting line at a Formula 1 race. An endless queue of SUVs and minivans, each idling impatiently, each boasting luxury European emblems, and each displaying a placard with their child’s name in the front window, wrapped around the school and down past the corner.

“Who told you that?”

“No one. Me and Chloe, she’s the B to me and Lauren’s FF, figured it out because Nonna said Auntie Lexi is big enough to birth a litter of DeLucas.”

Holly snapped her seat belt, adjusted the chair, and went on as though Trey’s life wasn’t getting shittier by the second.

“Today was library day, and it went beginning letters first, and since I’m a D, DeLuca,” she clarified and waited until he nodded in understanding before continuing, “I got to pick out my book almost first and we found one on baby kitties. Chapter one was titled ‘The Retroactive Cycle of Cats’ and it was about—”

“Yup, got it.” Trey didn’t bother to correct her, just like he didn’t complain that when everyone else formed groups of “we,” his life managed to spiral out of control.

“It said that a litter of kitties can have more than one daddy. So, we thought that maybe Auntie Lexi was going to have all of my uncle’s babies.”

Three blocks. That’s all he had to do was get three blocks without female talk and he’d failed. The second his niece had scrambled in the car, tossed her backpack in the backseat, and started talking about the mating habits of domesticated animals—apparently her class science project—he knew he should have distracted her with candy. Only he didn’t have candy.

Gabe would have had candy. He also would have known what to say.

“Want a breath mint?” Trey offered, reaching into his glove box.

“No, thanks. They can cause cavities,” Holly said primly. “So if none
of Auntie’s babies are yours, then when are you going to have one?”

“Lexi is only birthing, um, having one baby. And it is Marc’s,” he clarified, and realized he sounded desperate and a bit shrill. Then he thought of what Gabe would say and added, “She’s having Marc’s baby because they are married and in love. And since I’m not married or in love, I won’t be having a baby.”

Ever.

Trey popped a mint in his mouth, cavities being the least of his worries, and once he exited the school parking lot, jammed the gas pedal to the floor. If he got to the studio fast enough, she wouldn’t have time for follow-up questions.

“My mom wasn’t married when she had me.”

Right. Shit. Regan was a single mom for the first six years of Holly’s life. In fact, Holly’s birth dad, son of a bitch that he was, hadn’t bothered to visit Holly since she was a baby.

“So, if you want your baby to grow up with mommies and aunties, then you better get on it.”

Trey ran a hand down his face. God he was screwed. He was not only getting unsolicited advice from his brothers and sisters-in-law, now he was getting it from his niece.

“I have the book in my backpack if you want to look at it later,” she offered, and Trey made himself two promises. One, to be anywhere but at Regan’s house when later came, and, two, breast milk or not, next time he’d take the snot-monster.

At least she couldn’t talk.

Sara hadn’t panicked when she had, in a state of pure exhaustion, accidently sent out fliers advertising the wrong day for the Snowflake Princess auditions.

Not at first.

Not when Isabel Stark, PTA president who had dance-mom extraordinaire botoxed across her forehead, cornered Sara in the school parking lot with her daughter’s headshot. Not even when Heather called to say she would try to be home by lunch—only it was way past lunch and she was still a no-show.

But as Sara raced back in the studio after school let out, a sullen Cooper in hand, and scanned the dance floor, the reality of just how crappy her day was going to get set in. The floor was already filled with her Tiny-Tappers class geared up and ready to go, and what could only be described as a herd of mini-dancers with stage moms in tow.

“But today is design day and Hive Commander Roman was going to help me finish sanding out my car, give it more muscle and less curves.” Cooper frowned. “Plus anyone who doesn’t have a finished car at Mighty Mites tomorrow won’t get their wheels. It’s the rule.”

“I know, honey.” Sara dropped to a knee, running a hand over his hair. “And I’m sorry, but Heather isn’t home yet and I didn’t want to risk being late for pickup.”

“But with no wheels, I can’t race,” he whispered.

And with no car, Sara was running on empty.

“We’ll get you wheels,” Sara promised, having no idea where she was supposed to buy tiny wheels, only that she would make it happen. Somehow. Right after she figured out what to do with the three-dozen dancers who were already lined up for an audition that wasn’t supposed to happen until next week. “And right after class, we will finish the sanding. I promise.”

“Will it still look like Cinderella’s carriage?” He was obviously repeating what some jerk had said to him about his car.

Sara had spent most of the past two nights helping Cooper on his car. No matter how hard she tried, it came out looking more VW Bug than NASCAR. But bugs were cool—right?

Cooper was a Mighty Mite, not a Mighty Mobile.

“I thought it looked like a big, bad bug.” Sara gave Cooper her best bad-bug face, complete with fangs and claws and, what Sara thought, a pretty terrifying snarl.

Cooper just gave her a get-real look then toed at the floor, the wet rubber of his shoes squeaking against the hardwood. “Hunter Lock said his dad’s been working on their car all week, and he still isn’t finished, and he’s done it like a million times.”

Sara wanted to point out that it was Hunter’s car, therefore it should be Hunter’s handiwork, but she kept her mouth shut.

“He also said you’d probably paint it pink.” His last words came out on a horrified little sob. Suddenly Sara had a pretty good idea why her son had been so quiet the past few days. “He says girls like pink and since I only hang out with girls, it’ll be pink, and I should race it with the Lady Bugs. Then one of the dads said I should go with a more manly color.”