Summer in Napa (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (8 page)

“You can get used to the idea on the way to the high school.”

When she didn’t budge, except to take another sip of coffee, he slammed the door and leaned in, close enough that she could smell his soap mingling with the scent of
frustrated man. She liked him frustrated; it left no room for the smooth-talking stud boy.

“Christ, woman, you are the most stubborn person I have ever met. I know that you’ve got more trays in that kitchen than you’ve got space in your trunk. And while I’d love to sit back and watch you and your
white
silk with little pink dots on them try to make it work”—he gazed down at her, satisfaction lighting his eyes when she gasped—“you’re already late, and I promised my nonna I’d see that you and your incredible cream puffs made it to the high school safely. So for both of our sakes—” He ran a hand down his face as the muscles in his neck tensed and coiled.

When he spoke again, he wasn’t charming; he seemed desperate. “Please, Lexi, scoot your stubborn ass inside or I’ll be forced to put it there, and it might just end up on my lap.”

Lexi swallowed. Who knew a frustrated man could be such a turn-on.

“Might want to scoot over.” Marc patted the bench seat next to him.

“Not going to happen.” She stared out the front wind-shield, arms crossed, lips pursed.

God, she was prickly. And hardheaded. And knowing that the only thing she had on under all that attitude was a scrap of white silk and a soft heart was a total turn-on. Which was why, after he’d gotten halfway to his buddy’s house the other day and realized that Lexi had been smart to turn him down, he’d ordered himself to stay away.

Although she took risks in the kitchen, in her personal life Lexi played thing safe, and there was nothing safe about their history or the sparks flying between them. And unless someone was looking to get hurt, they had no business spending time together, so last night he’d decided to back off.

Then morning came and ChiChi called, explaining how Lexi needed his help—and here he was driving her to the high school in his pickup.

“All right, suit yourself.” Marc put the truck in drive.

He had no sooner pulled out onto Main Street when Wingman leaped over the backseat of his extended cab and onto Lexi’s lap.

“Wingman!” She put her hands in front of her face, shielding it against the thrashing tail.

“He’s used to riding shotgun. So unless you want wind-blown hair and drool on your shoulder, you might want to reconsider.”

He patted again.

Three tail smacks to the forehead later, Lexi slid on over, her legs daintily straddling the gearshift. They came to a red light, and Marc downshifted. Without thinking, he relaxed his arm and his thumb accidentally grazed her bare knee. He heard her breathing catch.

Neither said a word the rest of the drive, but the tension in the cab increased with every shift of the gears until Marc thought about pulling over and letting her take his damn truck. He didn’t do the good guy act very often because, well, he pretty much sucked at it.

But Lexi deserved a good guy right now. And he wanted to be that guy for her. Which meant that this thing between
them could never happen. What she needed was a straight-up friend—and not one with benefits.

With a resigned sigh, Marc pulled into the parking lot and drove around the back of the school. Truck in park, he turned to face her at the precise moment she turned to face him. Her lips parted on a gasp, he went rock hard, and it took a moment to register that they were close enough to kiss—and she wasn’t slapping him.

She didn’t speak and neither did he, as he remembered just how cozy the cab of his truck could be.

“This can’t happen,” she whispered, looking up at him, and
holy fuck
.

“Then stop looking at me like you want to crawl in the back of the truck and get comfortable.”

She blinked, her eyes zeroing in on his lips. “Pretend that I don’t. That’s what I do.”

“I’ve spent my life pretending with you. It’s getting harder,” he whispered and noticed she’d moved closer. So he did too. And the second her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted for his, he dipped his head and—

“Shit,” he mumbled, leaning back in his seat and running his hand down his face.

“What?” She blinked up at him, all fuzzy and confused. “Why did you stop?”

Because I never should have started. Because you were my best friend’s girl. Because karma hates me.

“Because we are about to be joined by our grandmothers.”

“Oh.” She looked at the back window, and her eyes went round. Wedged in between him and Wingman, her only shot at escape was through his door, so she started shoving at his
chest. “Oh my God! Will you move already! If they catch us like—” She gestured wildly back and forth between them as though he wasn’t aware that he was sitting there with the windows fogged and a fucking hard-on.

He reached for the door handle when she added, almost horrified, “What if they add you to my list of bachelors? It wouldn’t just be a one-time thing. They would get their hopes up.”

And he froze. Hand still on the door, he pinned her with a look. She had a problem with
him
being on that stupid list. After all the boneheads and stuffy suits, she had a problem with
him
?

“How about this, cream puff.” He reached his free arm across the back of the bench seat and smiled. “You agree to one dinner with me and I’ll move.”

“What? Why?” Her eyes narrowed on his hand, which had slid down to cup her shoulder. “That is a terrible idea and you know it.”

It was a terrible idea, on so many levels, which was why he persisted. “One date. To clear the air.” He’d show her what a real date with a real man was like. And there wouldn’t be any favorite-color-and-number talk.

When it looked like she was going to take her chances with the grannies, she added, “Just as friends. So, none of this—” She picked up his hand by the finger, unwrapped it, and tossed it off her shoulder. But her nonchalant attitude didn’t fool him. He could see her eyes frantically darting to the rearview mirror as the threat of orthopedic shoes crept closer.

His hand, now free, found its way to her thigh, where he gave a gentle squeeze. “Only if you beg.”

She looked over her shoulder and blindly batted his hand. “Fine. Lunch. Tomorrow.” She swore, and it was adorable. “I can’t tomorrow. I have lunch with Mr. Second Sunday.”

“Monday then?”

“Can’t,” she grimaced. “Drinks at the Martini House followed by dessert. There’d better be chocolate. I’ve got a movie date on Tuesday. How about Wednesday? Wait, anytime but morning.”

Marc took a calming breath. He wasn’t used to being wedged between other men. “Great. Wednesday night it is. Your place. I’ll bring the wine.” He opened the door and stepped out, reaching back to assist her.

She didn’t take his hand. “Wait. You’re asking
me
out and you expect
me
to cook?”

“Would you rather I take you to some froufrou restaurant so you can complain about how you would have done things differently?”

She opened her mouth and then closed it.

“Face it, you’re a food snob. Plus, you always have more fun when you cook the meal.”

She frowned, and he silently smiled. He’d nailed it, and she knew it, and that made her nervous. Hell, it made him nervous. “How do you know that?”

“Cream puff.” He stepped into her, making her knees part a little in the process. “There isn’t much about you that I don’t know.”

Lexi pulled her car into Stan’s Soup and Service Station. She needed gas, a glass of wine, and a bowl of Stan’s soup du
jour—unless it was chicken noodle. Her day had started off with a coffee date. Mr. Wednesday Morning was a nice enough cork-machine operator from Yountville who loved cooking and foreign films and knew his way around an engine—a bonus since Lexi’s car had picked up a strange pinging sound in Chicago that had turned into a high-pitched squeal by Salt Lake City. Unfortunately, Mr. Wednesday Morning also had a thing for Velcro sneakers and still lived with his parents, which should have made it easy to decline when he invited her to his mom’s Tupperware party. But saying no would have been rude, especially since he’d had his mom on speakerphone when the invite was issued.

Lexi hopped out of the car and had just started the gas pump when her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Morning, Lexi. It’s me.”

She waited for the gut-wrenching pain to hit, but when all she felt was growing irritation, she thunked her head against the side of car. Five times. Once for every time “me” had called since she’d left New York nearly three weeks ago. “Jeffery, why are you calling?”

There was an amused pause where she could almost hear his head wagging from side to side, and she just knew he wore that silly-Lexi playacting smile. “You promised you’d call when you got settled.”

“No, you
told
me to call. I reminded you that we are no longer married and accountable to each other.”

“That hurts, Lexi. We may not still be married, but we’ll always be friends. And friends look out for each other. I just wanted to see if you were all right, how the patisserie is doing, and if you needed anything.”

What she needed was for him to stop calling. Maybe it was immature, but being friends with the man who’d traded her in for an eco-friendly model wasn’t something she was interested in. She understood that many people managed to keep a relationship with their exes, but Lexi just couldn’t stomach the thought. She finally had the chance to follow her dream, and she’d be damned if she was going to run her plans, or life, past anyone this time.

“You’re on your honeymoon. Shouldn’t you be”—she couldn’t say it—“with Sara?”

“She’s right here.”
Of course she is.
Sara not only stole Lexi’s husband, her kitchen,
and
her life—she was apparently the bigger person. “She agrees with me. Maintaining a healthy relationship is important for everyone involved.”

Instead of explaining in great detail exactly where he could stick his healthy relationship or warning that the only thing he should worry about maintaining was the three thousand miles between them, she explained the facts, hoping they would sink in. “Listen carefully, Jeffery. We are no longer involved. We are divorced—from each other—no kids, no ties, nothing in common.”

“That’s hurtful, Lexi. We have a past, fifteen wonderful years, and the restaurant.”

“You have the restaurant, and I—” Lexi paused. A glimpse of a tailored suit with a briefcase caught her eye from across the street.
Crap!
“I have to go.”

She ended the call, dropped to all fours, and held her breath, stuffing her phone in her back pocket when it rang again. Jeffery hadn’t been the only annoying caller this week. Chad Stevens had called her cell, the apartment, even the bakery asking for her. She’d hidden behind
a crate of watermelons at Picker’s Produce, Meats, and More when she saw him walking from aisle to aisle, as though hunting her down. She’d also ended her second Monday-night date early, right in the middle of chocolate-hazelnut fondue, when she spotted Chad, in the parking lot, writing down her license plate number. When Chad had turned toward the entry, looking like he was ready to walk in and find her, Lexi ran out the back, claiming a headache and cursing Chad Stevens. Not that she could envision herself long term with the date in question, a man who headed up the local LARP coalition, but there had been chocolate.

Telling Chad to go away should have been easy. But Lexi had promised Pricilla that she would honor her date with Chad—
only
if he personally told her the official meeting time. Which meant he had to track her down. And Lexi figured that if she could avoid him long enough, he’d give up. Find some other divorcée to stalk.

After a long moment, she chanced a peek through the window, only to find Chad staring back, studying her car. “Get a clue,” she muttered.

“You could always write him a note.” She could tell from the golden-boy tone and the way her stomach did stupid little flips that Marc was directly behind her. “I think I have some binder paper in my backpack. The wide-ruled kind. Oh, wait, I left it in the car. Want me to grab it?”