Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (30 page)

With a groan, Nate pushed the footrest down and threw on a pair of jeans. Sleep was not his friend tonight so he’d have to settle for caffeine. He opened the bedroom door and stopped.

Dressed in a tank top, panties, and nothing else, Frankie sat against the wall, her legs pulled to her chest, her cheek resting on her bent knees. At the sound of his door opening, she lifted her head and it was like a sucker punch to the gut. Her hair was a rumpled mess, her eyes were red—from lack of sleep or crying, he wasn’t sure—and the way she wrapped her arms around her body as though they were the only thing holding her together broke his heart.

“What are you doing up?” he asked quietly.

“Waiting for you,” she said, her lavender-tipped toes wiggling nervously. “I didn’t want to wake you but I also didn’t want to miss you before I had the chance to say, to tell you that—Did I wake you?”

She was staring up at him, looking beautiful and confused and so damn lost he had to take a steadying breath.

“No. I was already awake and wanted some coffee.” What he wanted was to take her in his arms and tell her that everything would be all right. But he knew that if he did, they’d wind up naked, and there went him giving her space. “Why don’t we go in the kitchen?”

He offered his hand to help her up, and she let him, which turned out to be a mistake because now she was pressed against his body, looking attractive in a pair of cream panties that were barely there and quite—sheer. All he had to do was lower his
head an inch and they’d be kissing, which would lead to touching, and groping, and eventually—

“Bed-sex.”

Nate blinked. “Excuse me?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Bed-sex?”

“Yes. And to tell you that I wasn’t trying to sneak past you tonight and I didn’t think I was avoiding you, but I thought about what you said earlier and well… I think I might have been using Mittens as an excuse not to come inside. And I’m”—she took a deep breath and looked him in the eye—“sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Frankie.” Nate intertwined their fingers and brought her hand to his mouth, delivering a gentle kiss to each of her knuckles. “You have a lot going on right now and I get that—”

“I’m scared,” she said, her eyes studying their linked hands. “I’ve never been very good at, you know, bed-sex.”

No, he didn’t know. Frankie was an incredible lover. She excelled at chair-sex, oral-sex, lake-sex, and he didn’t know what bed-sex was, but he could guarantee she’d get a gold star in that too. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

“That I like sex.”

He couldn’t help it, he smiled. “Definitely something to add to the pro column.”

“And the whole holding-cuddling part afterward is kind of nice. But then comes the talking part.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Not so nice. And finally the morning after.” She laughed but it was self-conscious. “I hate that part, the not knowing, you know? Do I stay? Do I leave? Does he want me to
stay or is he figuring out how to ask me to leave? And if he wants me to stay, then for how long? And what if I want to stay longer than he wants me to, then what?”

Nate wondered what would happen if he said never, that he never wanted her to leave. Frankie had spent most of her childhood being passed back and forth between families, and her adulthood trying to live up to unattainable expectations. It was easier for her to avoid relationships—even good ones—than to wish for something that might not want you back.

“Assuming I’m the
he
in your example,” he said pulling her closer. “No. Yes. No. Yes. No. And for however long you want.”

“You were the
he
in question,” she admitted. She took in a big breath, and then studied her toes. “Are you sure?”

“Beyond sure.”

“Even after I kick your ass in the Cork Crawl?”

He released one hand to cup her face and tilt it toward his. “Especially then.”

She let that settle, then carefully said, “Because I’m going to win. You know that, right? I have to if I want to pay off Tanner
and
keep my grapes. Because if I lose, I have to sell and I can’t sell to my grandpa or he’ll go after Susan’s account. And I can’t sell to you because he’ll see it as a betrayal.” All the uncertainty may have been gone from her voice, but Nate could still hear the pain lacing each word. “So if I lose, I lose everything.”

And wind up in the one place she’s been her entire life—in the middle. Nate didn’t want any part in that. Ever.

“Do you realize that you’ve spent the whole night worrying about Charles, your dad… me? What about you, Frankie? What do you want?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

“Do you want to stay? With me?” Although there was no expiration date on the invitation, since he figured that forever would push her too far too fast, they both knew what he was asking.

“So much that it scares me,” she admitted on a whisper. One simple, honest statement that held so much hope, Nate felt the weight that had been crushing his chest evaporate.

“This scares me too, Frankie. I’m scared to push too hard and chase you off or not hard enough and make you walk away. I never know where you stand, what you’re feeling, or what you need.”

She padded closer, her body pressing against his. “Right now I’m standing in your arms. I’m feeling a little off balance and like I want to cry, and I never cry. And I really need to go to bed.” She smiled shyly. “With you.”

“Nothing would make me happier.” He leaned down and kissed her gently, letting her know that bed-sex was not on the agenda. “But we’re going to sleep.”

Frankie wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled. “Whatever you say.”

“I’m serious. We’re both exhausted and we have a big week.”

She kissed him again. And yeah, she was right. The second he got her under those covers he was going to strip her naked and the only thing that wasn’t going to happen in that bed was sleep.

Not that he cared. Because there was also going to be a whole lot more going on between them than just sex.

Frankie stood on the steps of the wide back porch, sipped her coffee, and smiled.

The alpaca habitat was done. With its wood-slatted walls, green thatched roof, and white picket fence extending around the perimeter, it looked more like a miniature Victorian than a crate training device for a camelid. And the best part? Mittens loved it.

He pranced back and forth across the faux porch, humming while chewing on the fake flower baskets that hung from the window frames. Every third step he’d lift up his back right hoof and hop—alpaca speak for skipping.

Tanner and his hard hammers were on the other side of the field finishing up the last part of the tank installation. Nate was gone, but he’d left a detailed note on his pillow, explaining how he had to leave early to check on one of his vineyards in Sonoma that was being harvested, that he would rather have spent the morning having bed-sex and asked her to call him when she woke up. Now she knew why.

Smiling so bad it hurt, Frankie pulled out her phone.

“Morning.” Just hearing his voice made her all giddy. She had it bad. “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

“Almost as good as Mittens, who sends his thanks by the way. You were right, he loves it.”

There was a long pause and she could hear him smiling from the other side of the phone. “What time are you coming home?” she asked.

“What time does the kid go to bed?”

Frankie pressed the phone to her ear. “Brush and story time happen around seven, in the barn by seven-thirty.”

“Are these kid friendly stories?”

“Very.”

“Then I’ll be there at seven-thirty sharp, with dinner.” He yawned and Frankie realized that he had left the house before sunrise every morning that week. He’d spend all day in one of
his fields, rush home to make her dinner—part of his “Pop Tarts for no more than two meals per day” campaign—only to stay up all night having hot bed-sex with her. He managed over twenty vineyards, kept his family from dramatically imploding, and somehow finished Mittens’s house.

The man must be exhausted.

“Um, how about you take your time and be here by eight? I’ll have dinner ready by then.”

There was a long pause and Frankie shifted on her feet. She’d never offered to cook for anyone before. First, because she was terrible at it. And second, there had never been anyone she wanted to cook for. And the longer Nate held his silence the more nervous she became.

“I’m not really a great cook,” she found herself explaining. “But I can BBQ some steaks and make a salad. Nothing fancy. As in lettuce and dressing. And maybe a few tomatoes. And for dessert I could—” and Frankie stopped herself.

Three nights. Three nights of bed-sex and she was already reduced to one of
those
women. Questioning every word. Analyzing the smallest pause in conversation. Desperate to please. This was why she didn’t date.

She rested her cheek against her arm that was propped up on the fence and—
no way
—she was blushing. Her entire face felt like a giant solar flare. Not happening. In fact, the entire night was one girly snort away from being canceled.

“Dinner would be nice.” Nate said, saving the night. “And maybe a movie. My DVDs are in the bedroom if you want to pick something out.”

“I still have a bunch of leaf roses to make for Regan.”

What had happened to her simple, no-frills life? A month ago she would have spent her Friday evening playing darts with
Glow and Luce, only to come home alone and eat a Pop Tart out of the wrapper while watching Formula 1 racing on television. Lights out by ten.

Now she had leafy greens in her fridge, craft supplies on her counter, and a date with her super-hot boyfriend. Lights out by ten, bed-sex until dawn. Yes, she’d just thought the words “boyfriend” and “bed-sex,” all with Nate in mind and only suffered
minor
palpations—and a little perspiration on her hands.

“I could help you with the roses. I happen to be a pro at molding and shaping,” Nate said with that I’m-here-for-you-babe tone that she’d come to associate with the let’s-head-for-the-bedroom look. Which tonight translated into just how meticulous and efficient those hands of his would be. “Frankie.”

Her head snapped up and she butted Mittens square in the jaw. “
Warkwarkwark!
” When had she laid her head back down on the fence post? “Yeah?”

“Whatever it is that has you breathing heavy,” he continued. She could hear him smiling again. This time smugly. “I’m a pro at that too.”

CHAPTER 15

N
ate pretended to take a sip of his wine and laughed with his brothers and some buyer in a pair of loafers whose name he should have known but for the life of him couldn’t remember. Not that it should matter. Nate made the wine and Trey sold it. But it did. Rubbing shoulders with the resident enologist always went the distance when finalizing sales, and was a big part of the reason that the Cork Crawl attracted so many respected buyers and collectors.

He prided himself on his ability to close. He was a master closer. But when one of the Cork Crawl volunteers walked out from behind the stage at the community park to collect and seal the DeLuca barrel, he gave up feigning interest.

“That makes it official,” Trey said, shaking the man’s hand and shooting Nate a hard look. “Cork Crawl is finally over.”

“Good luck today,” Loafers said and it was all Nate could do not to laugh. Frankie was right: loafers screamed uptight, snooze-fest. Good thing Nate had opted for boots today. Beat up, worked-in boots.

“I think this year is going to be a close race,” Loafers went on and Trey said something Nate supposed was important but wound up sounding more brownnosing, Marc made a witty comment, Gabe chuckled his I-am-head-of-this-family chuckle, and Loafers laughed. Loud and nasally. “Either way, I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

Nate might have said goodbye, he couldn’t be sure because a flat-cart of barrels rolled by on its way to the tally room. He started stacking and restacking the winery brochures. A clear sign that he was nervous. The sweaty palms, shouldn’t-have-had-that-second-helping-of-chili kind of nervous.

After eighteen years of coming to the Cork Crawl, the past eleven making a Cork Crawl clean sweep, he wasn’t used to nervous. He’d spent the past six hours fielding questions from amateur wine enthusiasts, wine critics, and his family. Although, ChiChi was less interested in wine and more into what was going on between him and Frankie, and his brothers’ interest was securely invested into how he managed to stick his head so far up his ass.

A fair assessment since he’d been distracted at best, and flat out brain-dead at worst. Instead of focusing on his job, selling DeLuca wine into hearts and cellars around the world, Nate had fixated his entire attentions on Frankie who, one row over and two booths down, wore a red silky number up top, a black skirt that hugged every one of her incredible curves down below, and strappy black heels. Heels that had him wishing it were nighttime and they were alone.

A ping sounded from his back pocket. He fished out his cell phone and saw he had one text in his inbox.