John Henry, do yourself a favor
. Mark’s voice echoed in his head.
Go away, get drunk, and get laid.
His best friend should also have told him he was getting boring! Since he hadn’t, John Henry had wasted one week of his vacation not seriously pursuing the prescription his doctor had ordered, damn it. There were only seven nights left, and John Henry decided he better do something with them.
Boring!
And, a quiet voice reminded him, life was too damn short for boring.
The limo slowed, then stopped due to the traffic ahead. Suddenly galvanized, John Henry slid along the black leather seat toward the front of the vehicle, at the same time reaching into his pocket to withdraw some bills. His knuckles rat-a-tatted against the smoky privacy shield. As it slowly lowered, he gave the driver new orders.
“Sorry, but there’s a change of plans,” he said, tossing the money onto the front passenger seat. “I need you to find me a beer. Find me a beer and a willing babe.”
The chauffeur’s head whipped around.
John Henry found himself staring at a pair of round blue eyes under the stiff brim of the black cap. Feathery, fairy blond hair escaped its confines to frame golden brown eyebrows and almost tangle in long eyelashes. A short nose was sprinkled with seven gold freckles. Next came a soft, pink mouth.
He wasn’t Carl.
Moreover, “he” was a “she.”
Zin
Friday glanced at the bills on the seat beside her, then back at the man who’d thrown them there. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, with an expensive haircut that said he normally spent his days at an executive’s desk and a new tan that told her he’d traded the desk for a few days in the wine-country sunshine.
In an uncharacteristic flight of fancy, Zin found herself wondering what, exactly, he wanted in a “babe.” Then she remembered the single qualifying adjective he’d uttered. Her gaze slid again to the bills on the leather beside her. “Uh, that’s a lot of willingness you’re looking for.”
He groaned. “That was supposed to be a tip for taking the driver—who I thought was Carl—off plan. Please believe me when I say I wasn’t paying for . . . for . . .”
“A procurement?”
He groaned again. “My sister just accused me of being boring. You probably think I’m merely a boor, huh?”
His embarrassed expression looked sincere, and Zin had to admit his wordplay tickled her a little. “Boring, boor. You’re funny.”
A quick smile slashed a dimple into his lean cheek. “That’s what I think.”
Behind them, a horn tapped, and Zin faced forward again. The traffic in front of them had cleared, so she eased her foot onto the accelerator and continued along the rural road that led to her nearby hometown of Edenville, in northern Napa County. The Valley Ridge Resort was located on its outskirts, but it would still be slow-and-go progress as visitors leaving the wineries turned onto the main, oak-shaded route.
She checked out her passenger in the rearview mirror. He was looking out a side window, which gave her a good view of his chiseled profile. Thirtyish, she’d guess, and not only was there a nice quantity of cash lying beside her, but there was money evident in the cut and quality of the lightweight sport shirt he was wearing. His hand lifted to smooth his hair, and she couldn’t miss the expensive-looking gold watch wrapped around his wrist.
As if he could feel her looking at him, his head shifted and their gazes met. She jolted, uncomfortable with getting caught staring and uncomfortable with . . . with something else she couldn’t put her finger on. Reaching out, she nudged up the air-conditioning and cleared her throat.
“Are you really interested in stopping for that drink?” she asked.
“As long as it isn’t a grape product—or is it taboo to want any other kind of beverage around here?”
She shook her head. “You’d be surprised how many people in Napa aren’t into what we’re famous for. The most celebrated vintages are out of the price range of many of the ‘regular’ folk, and it’s a poorly kept secret that the succeeding generations of the big wine-making families often prefer a yeasty lager to a robust cabernet.”
The car in front of them slowed again, causing Zin to tap the brakes. She glanced in the rearview mirror. “There’s a decent tavern just ahead.”
John Henry hesitated.
“You’re this vehicle’s last customer of the day,” she added, “so you can stay as long as you like. I know for a fact they’ve got cold brew on tap.”
Why not give the little nudge? The Napa Princess Limousine Service was owned by her friend Stephania Baci, and the business could use the extra cash that a longer booking would bring in. Zin would welcome a larger paycheck, too, of course.
The man shrugged. “Okay, then.”
In less than five minutes she was pulling into the parking lot of the tavern that called itself Dave’s Feed Shop. It actually had been a feed shop at one time, which explained the barnlike exterior and the straw bales stacked by the entrance. To lend an even more authentic feel, Dave and his wife, Marti, kept a few chickens on the property.
The limo scattered a couple of them as Zin braked at the rear of the gravel parking area. Then she popped into the waning heat and opened the door for her passenger. Casual loafers, followed by long legs encased in expensive jeans emerged from the car. He was over six feet, towering above her five-foot-and-hardly-anything height.
She shut the door and then turned to him. “I’ll be right here whenever you’re ready to leave.”
“You’re not coming in?”
Puzzled, she shook her head.
“Have you forgotten? I asked for a beer and a willing woman.”
That charming dimple of his was showing, but she was beginning to think it rendered him only deceptively harmless, so she frowned. “A willing ‘babe’ is what you said. Sorry, that lets me out.”
His eyebrows rose as his gaze shifted from her face to slide down her figure. Besides the black chauffeur’s cap, she was dressed in a white shirt covered with a short black jacket, and black pants. Only a slight film of red Napa dust covered the obsidian-colored leather of her man-styled wingtip shoes. It wasn’t babe wear.
But the way her skin prickled in the wake of his roving eyes made her feel as if she were wearing strappy sandals, a mini halter dress, and shoulder-skimming chandelier earrings. Her feet backed up until her butt met the warm side of the limousine.
Her retreat seemed to amuse him, because he smiled again and took her hand. Though he held it like a lover, he shook it like a busi nessman. “I’m John Henry,” he said. “Nice to meet you . . . ?”
“Zin. Zin Friday.” She was staring at their joined hands. His thumb rested lightly on the burn scar on top, and his long, tan fingers, a little thinner than she thought they should be, tangled with hers. A skitter of goose bumps shot up her arm.
“Zin? As in zinfandel?”
She shook her head, though that wasn’t any weirder, really, than what her oddball parents had actually named her. “Zin, as in Zinnia.”
“The flower?” He blinked, then laughed. “It must be a sign, Zin-as-in-Zinnia.”
“What sort of sign?” They’d been holding hands for too long, so she freed herself, tucking her fingers into the pockets of her pants.
“Doctor’s orders. The words might have been slightly different, but the point’s the same. I’m supposed to stop and smell the flowers.”
Before she could protest, he’d popped the cap from her head. The long mass of curly hair she’d stuffed beneath the crown flowed free. Reaching out, he wrapped a fist with a swath of the stuff and lifted it to his nose. “Sweet,” he said, and breathed deep.
She couldn’t breathe in any air at all.
“Does the rest of you smell this good?” he asked, letting her hair fall free from his hold. The soft tone of his voice beguiled her; the admiring light in his dark eyes sent another frisson—like a puff of breath over heated skin—thrilling through her. She had a red birthmark on the nape of her neck, at the very edge of her hairline. The size and the shape of a kiss, it burned like a brand now, as if real lips had touched her there.
John Henry wasn’t touching her at all.
She couldn’t think what to answer—she couldn’t remember the question!—and from the look of that dimple now digging into his cheek again, she thought her inability to articulate amused him. But then he hung his head, shaking it a little, and she thought he might be laughing at himself.
“I’ve never had this happen before,” he said. “Maybe there’s more to this relaxation thing than I realized.”
She wasn’t following him again, but this time she found her voice. “More what?”
“I—” The ring of a cell phone interrupted.
They both patted their pockets, but John Henry’s hand came up first. His BlackBerry screen was lit, and he cast her a swift glance, then answered the call. “I’m here.”
Zin used the moment of reprieve to take in a steadying breath. Though her mind was clearing a bit, her skin still felt supersensi tized, and the throbbing at the back of her neck wasn’t dissipating. It was this man’s fault, with his distracting dimple and his long fingers and his glossy hair.
“Yeah,” she heard him say. “I’ll check the numbers right away and get back to you.” He returned his phone to his front pocket.
His gaze met hers, and he grimaced. “There’s this report I promised someone from work I’d look over.”
“Work is important.” Zin took another breath and then opened the back door for him. “I understand work.”
He ducked inside the limo, then caught her hand before she had a chance to shut him safely away from her. “Zin.”
“Y-yes?” Why did their twined fingers fascinate her so?
“What do you say, sweet Zinnia? Let’s you and me make another attempt to get acquainted. We can do something fun tomorrow.”
“I can’t,” she said, grateful that she had an honest excuse. Though she hadn’t dated in a million years, and never at the spontaneous request of a stranger, this man presented an unsettling temptation. She tugged her hand free of his. “I don’t have time.”
His laugh was rueful. “That used to be my line.”
“I really don’t have time,” Zin said once more. But it unsettled her again to realize that she actually wished she did.
Two
Double Take
Zin swallowed her yawn and passed over the customer’s change and a paper bag containing her cinnamon scone. “Thank you for stopping by Bradley’s Bakery,” she told the gray-haired woman.
As the older lady dropped coins into the tip jar, Zin tightened the bow on the butcher-style apron she wore over her jeans and long-sleeved cotton turtleneck. It was going to be another hot autumn day, which meant long hours under the icy blast of frigid air-conditioning, even during the breakfast rush.
The customer moved off, allowing the next person to step up to the counter. “Hello, Zinnia,” he said. “How’s the youngest Flaky Friday today?”
“Alan,” she replied, her jaw instantly clenching so the name came through gritted teeth.
Flaky Friday
. It echoed in her head as a too-f amiliar wave of shame washed over her. It seemed like she’d spent her whole life trying to live down that elementary school nickname. She hated to be thought of that way.
How much more she hated the two words coming from this particular man. A contemporary of her older brother and a neighbor of her parents, Alan Prescott wore his auburn hair in a brush cut and his smile was, as always, more snide than friendly. Without turning her head, she called his order to the barista. “Large coffee, extra shot of espresso.” Extra black, like the jerk’s soul. “Is that all you want?”
“Why, Flaky Friday . . .” He was distracted by someone he knew walking up to grab a napkin.
As the two men exchanged a few words, Zin tried loosening the muscles knotted in her shoulders. It wouldn’t do for Alan to detect her tension. The bully thrived on discomfort, and it was a point of pride for her that neither he nor anyone else would see how much his needling—and that nickname—bothered her.
So she hoped she looked relaxed as he turned back to the counter. “Now where were we?”
Zin pasted on a polite smile. “I asked if there was something you wanted besides your coffee.”
“Yeah, there is,” Alan said, leaning close, as if to seek a measure of privacy. But the volume of his voice didn’t lessen. “I want the hundred bucks that Bobby and June borrowed from me last week. They said they needed groceries.”
Zin stiffened, more shame pouring like a hot river down her spine. The bakery was busy this morning, and she was supremely aware of the many people who could easily overhear the conversation. “I . . . I . . .”
“If you don’t have the cash, Zin, maybe you have something else to barter.”
Surprised by the smarmy suggestion in his voice, she felt heat flare on her face. She should have seen it coming, she told herself. It wasn’t as if today was the first time Alan had played this particular game. Her older sister, Mari, had said he’d once threatened to call the police on the code violations at their parents’ property unless she let him take her to dinner and a movie. As if that was the only thing “All Hands” Alan, as he’d been known in high school, had in mind.