Shaking her head, Stevie shooed Zin on her way . . . and for the next couple of hours she was so glad she’d complied. As they rode over the rural routes of the wine country, she enjoyed the sights with the special appreciation of someone on a busman’s holiday—everything familiar was new and beautiful again.
The oak-dotted hills, the rows and rows of grapes, the homes here and there peeking over a ridge or hunkered deep in a valley. The leaves on the vines were turning gold, and everything smelled toasty and warm, as only autumn could.
Or maybe that was the strong, solid form of the man she was wrapped around. When was the last time she’d embraced someone? It might have alarmed her to be so connected, except this was the best of all possible embraces. Holding on was a necessity and didn’t commit her to any other kind of closeness.
Even off the motorcycle, John Henry kept her near. When they stopped at a small roadside grocery to pick up an early-evening snack of bread, cheese, wine, and beer, he sat beside her on the bench at one of the convenient picnic tables adjacent to the parking area. Though she’d borrowed a thick hoodie from Stevie, he detected her shiver as she sipped the chilled chardonnay. In an instant, he’d draped his leather jacket over her shoulders. It was butter-soft and smelled like him, which made her shiver all over again.
He glanced down at her. “Okay?”
“Sure,” she said. “The sun going down takes the temperature with it . . . or maybe it’s just a goose walking over my grave.”
He seemed to still for a moment, and then he smiled a little and clinked his beer bottle against her plastic, stemmed glass. “A reminder to seize the day.”
“And smell the flowers?” Zin’s eyes widened at her own husky, flirtatious tone. Where was that coming from? And why? She glanced away, heat climbing her cheeks.
“Oh, Zinnia.”
The laugh in John Henry’s voice made her look at him again. “What?”
His smile widened, and he toasted her a second time. “How you make me want to pluck your petals.”
Embarrassed again—oh, who was she kidding?—incredibly aroused by the sexy sound of those words, Zin dropped her gaze to their small spread of food. She toyed with a plump grape, but its lusciousness suddenly seemed too suggestive, and she dropped it in favor of a crust of crunchy bread.
John Henry picked up the abandoned morsel of fruit and popped it into his mouth. Fascinated, Zin watched him chew and swallow, then hastily redirected her attention. She ran her right forefinger over the scar on the top of her left hand. “So, um, what is it you do for a living?”
“Shuffle papers. Sit in on meetings. Return phone calls. It’s a family business that I’ve been accused of taking too seriously.”
“You can’t take work too seriously!”
“I think I’ve made that argument myself. But my mother and sister—to name two—aren’t swallowing it whole.”
“You have a sister?”
“Yep. Ellen, who just turned twenty-one. It’s why I was wine tasting a couple of days ago. A celebration for her birthday.” He tugged her hair from beneath the collar of his coat. “You have siblings?”
The birthmark on her neck started throbbing again. “My older sister, Mari—Marigold. And then there’s Kohl.” She remembered he’d probably overheard All-Hands Alan talk about her big brother. “He’s a great guy,” she said quickly. “A tour in Afghanistan and then one in Iraq.” So his war experiences had left him a bit . . . edgy. Who could blame him? “Now he works at the Tanti Baci winery—that’s Stevie’s family’s place.”
“Okay,” John Henry said. “So you and your sister were named for flowers. But why did your brother get stuck with an energy source like coal?”
She grimaced. “Not coal. K-o-h-l . The fact is, the long version of his name is actually . . . brace yourself . . . Kohlrabi.”
He laughed, then sobered. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Poor Kohlrabi. I thought having the whole John Henry thing was cruel and unusual.”
“Bet both of you had to stand tough sometimes.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, then skimmed a knuckle along her jawline. “I had to prove I wasn’t any sissy, while your brother had to show he wasn’t a . . . vegetable? Herb? What the hell
is
kohlrabi?”
“You’d have to meet my brother to find out.”
John Henry traced her bottom lip with his thumb. “I’d like that, Zin. I’d like to meet your brother and your sister the marigold and the parents who saddled you three with such names in the first place. Can you make that happen?”
No!
What had she been thinking? He was so easy to talk to and sitting so close that she’d been distracted enough to reveal more than she’d intended. Now he knew about Kohlrabi and Marigold. Could the whole truth about the flaky, freaky Fridays be far behind?
Then he wouldn’t look at her with that warm regard in his eyes.
“We should start back,” she said, gathering up the remains of their picnic. “I have the late pouring at Valley Ridge again tonight.”
But as they traveled southward toward Edenville, Zin’s senses suddenly went on alert, and she was forced to ask John Henry to make an unexpected detour. “There,” she said, raising her voice over the thrum of the Harley and pointing toward a narrow dirt road. “I need you to turn right there.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, but did as directed, steering them along a quarter mile of powdery ruts. Zin’s nose itched, but she clutched John Henry with both hands and kept her eyes on the plume of smoke that shouldn’t be there.
They emerged into a clearing and her gaze took it in, relief warring with shame. It was all as it always was, intact despite the smoke she’d spied: the rusting truck, its partner in ugliness a dilapidated ride-on lawnmower, the trashy double-wide and the detritus of the Friday lifestyle that included broken appliances, stacks of warped cardboard, and a metal, barrel-shaped trash can that was being used to burn something.
Home sweet home
, Zin thought, hopping off the Harley as soon as it came to a stop. She jogged over to the trash can and peered inside.
“Everything all right?” John Henry said from beside her.
All right? “As expected,” she answered. “This is my parents’ place, and though it’s against the law to burn leaves, Dad’s a self-proclaimed rebel.” Nearby she found a pail full of slimy water and started lugging it toward the smoking can.
John Henry lifted it out of her arms and doused the smoldering fire. Smoke belched, and he stepped back, almost plowing over Zin. He caught her before she could stumble, and held her tight against his side. “Do you want to knock on the door and say hello?” he asked, indicating the double-wide with his free hand. “I don’t mind.”
I do.
“There’s no one home, or they would have come out when we drove up. Anyway, you’d have nothing in common.” Though everyone in the world thought Zin was cut from the same cloth.
That’s going to change,
she told herself.
I swear that Edenville will learn to see me differently.
“Zinnia . . .” John Henry turned, taking her face between his hands and touching his forehead to hers. “You look upset. Let me make things better.”
Their lips were inches apart, and all she could think about was the passion of last night’s kiss and the solid strength of his body. She’d been leaning against him all day, and it would be so lovely to keep on doing it. But you couldn’t count on anyone like that, at least one of the Flaky Fridays couldn’t. So she steeled her spine and stepped away from him.
“Look, what I am is the progeny of a beauty-queen-turned-reality-dropout and an on-again, off-again organic farmer,” she told John Henry, and though she still had her clothes on, just the words made her feel naked. “Which means
we
have nothing in common either.”
Four
Double Whammy
When it came to Zin, John Henry didn’t believe virtue was its own reward—he wasn’t feeling the least bit virtuous when it came to Zin—but he thought patience had its benefits. The night before, after that impromptu visit to her parents’ place, he’d left her back at the office of Napa Princess Limousine Service . . . and then left her alone. He’d stayed away from the Valley Ridge Resort’s late-night wine tasting.
He’d let her believe he bought into her “We have nothing in common” speech.
So tonight, he could tell his presence at a table on the terrace surprised her. And made her nervous in a way that might rock her enough to rattle her preconceived notions about him right out of her head. She’d thought he’d be put off by what he’d seen in that clearing, which pretty much said that she’d pegged him as a shallow, you-are-where-you-come-f rom kind of man.
John Henry was no snob.
Except he wasn’t one to work so hard to get a woman either. He’d tried deciphering that on and off all day, and now he thought that maybe it was the vulnerability on her face yesterday, or perhaps it was even simpler—perhaps it was her body and the way she’d looked in those formfitting jeans and rib-hugging tank top. She had a narrow waist and rounded hips, and her breasts were just as he’d expected . . . perfect at any size. It was the combo, he decided: the face, the body, and the way the chemistry sizzled between them when they were together.
So how had she so easily turned away from it?
It had been both heaven and hell to have her plastered to his back as they rode the Harley through the countryside. A dozen times he’d considered pulling off the road to kiss her senseless . . . to kiss her until her scent surrounded him again, and he could cup her breasts in his hands and then slide one palm down her belly and beneath those tight jeans to cup her sex . . .
Closing his eyes at the torturous thought, he groaned.
“Is something wrong?”
His eyes popped open. There she was, buttoned into her uniform, reminding him he’d been preoccupied with the woman when she was wearing man’s shoes and a starchy shirt. The body wasn’t what had caught his attention first.
It was the hair, the scent, the big blue eyes . . . It was Zin.
“We’ve closed up shop, but I saved this for you.” She placed a glass of red wine in front of him, a tentative smile flashing across her face. “I . . . I didn’t thank you for the motorcycle ride yesterday and . . . and everything else.”
He didn’t grab her around the waist and drag her onto his lap, though he wanted to, because he was so surprised that she’d made the first move. Maybe Zin felt the pull between them stronger than he’d supposed.
He toyed with the stem of the glass. “What’s this?”
“It’s a pretty good cab. And it offers health benefits too.”
“Yeah?” He glanced up at her. “Is that part of the Napa Valley propaganda?”
“No, really. It contains antioxidants.”
“So what do I have against oxidants?”
She blinked, the flickering candle on his table reflected in her eyes. Her smiled flashed on and off again. “To be honest, I’m not really sure.”
“Ah, well, I’m certain my doctor will be happy.” He picked up the glass and tasted the wine.
She pulled out the chair beside him and sat down. The sudden move caused him to swallow wrong, which started a fit of coughing. Zin began to rise again—probably to perform the Heimlich or make a 911 call—but he managed to latch onto her wrist and control his breathing at the same time.
“Sorry . . . about . . . that,” he said, then hauled in a huge breath that ended in another couple of coughs.
Two lines had formed between her eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Sure I’m sure.” He squeezed her slender arm, and left his hand around it. “I just—”
“You’ve mentioned a doctor more than once.” Was that worry in her voice? “Are you ill?”
“I . . .” John Henry hesitated. “It’s nothing contagious, I promise.”
Her free hand covered his. It was small and butterfly-light, yet he felt the touch all the way to his groin. “But you’ve been sick?”
Okay, it was weeks ago. And while he still had a few pounds to gain back, Mark had pronounced John Henry hale and hearty . . . though with the added advice, of course, that he had to find some balance or he was going to find himself in the hospital again. It gave him an idea . . . a sinful idea. Though if it was in the pursuit of balance—as prescribed by his M.D.!—was it really so criminal?
Remembering how it had softened Ellen when he bugged out of her wine-tasting tour, he couldn’t talk himself out of the impulse. Instead, he coughed a few more times, letting the last one die out weakly. In response, Zin again squeezed his hand in sympathy, and her chair scooted closer. He might be uptight and overwound, but he sure as hell didn’t feel guilty—or not much anyway.
“Tell me the truth, John Henry.”
I’m not above stretching the truth if it might get you stretched out under me in my bed.
“This summer I was pretty sick.”
“Define ‘pretty sick.’”
“Pneumonia. It was touch and go for a few days, I guess.”