Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) by Marina Adair Page B
Authors: Marina Adair
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they’d pick up where they left off, Nate had chosen to sleep at his other house. Not that he’d slept. Even after a shower and a beer—both ice cold—he’d spent the night thinking about Frankie and how incredible she felt.
She stopped next to the pile of new cedar planks that Tanner had dropped off earlier that morning and looked at his hammer sticking out of the dirt. “You want to use my nail gun? Goes faster and less chance of splitting the wood.” She looked at his hand. “Or your finger.”
For about six-tenths of a second, Nate considered bringing up the kiss. Considered just getting it out there in the open and having a mature, matter-of-fact discussion about the insane sexual zing between them—and how acting on it would be a mistake. They both had a lot riding on this land, and getting distracted in something that would never, in a million years, work was just plain stupid. But he couldn’t do it.
Because motorcycle boots or not, Frankie didn’t look like Frankie. For the first time since, well, since they were kids, that tough girl attitude etching her face, shoving back her shoulders, or shooting that pert nose of hers in the air was gone. She looked vulnerable and tired, the kind that went bone-deep. And quite possibly a little nervous.
“You got one?”
“Yup, but not sure I should let you use it. A mistake like that with real tools could cost you a hand,” she said, trying for smug, but he could tell she was relieved. They were avoiding the sex in the room, so to speak, at least for now. “What are you building anyway?”
“A bed for Mittens, since the hood of my car is no longer an option.” He eyed the alpaca, who’d waited until he’d safely maneuvered himself behind Frankie before making a raspberry sound in Nate’s direction.
After his first night here, Nate had welcomed the morning with hoof scratches on the front bumper of his BMW and a Mittens sized dent on the hood.
Frankie reached around Nate—a sweet flowery scent sucker punched him, catching him completely off guard—and grabbed the folded up blueprints out of his back pocket. She waved it in front of his face. “And you think that this is the answer?”
He grabbed for it, but she was quicker, spinning away and unfolding the paper.
“I found a place online that sells blueprints for camelidae friendly, green-habitats.” Nate had spent most of last night trying to distract himself from the taste of her on his lips by surfing the net for the perfect solution to Mittens.
He knew that, although Frankie acted as though she couldn’t care less if the alpaca went AWOL, she wouldn’t get rid of the miniature camel. And Nate couldn’t risk the thing eating what little vines there were. He needed those grapes and was determined to strike a deal with Frankie when the time came, but two well-placed bites and a headbutt later and Mittens would scale the only thing keeping him from an afternoon snack.
“Camelidae habitat? Is that educated people’s talk for an alpaca barn?” Frankie asked, amusement tilting up the side of those pretty lips.
And there was the familiar battle. The one that had been raging between them for a decade. While Nate had opted for college, majoring in enology, Frankie had taken the hands-on approach, working the vineyard as her grandfather’s apprentice. Which meant that she thought he was a starched sellout, and he thought she was shortsighted to place her entire career at the mercy of a fickle man. He agreed with her that wine came from the heart, but what she refused to acknowledge was that at the heart of winemaking was science.
“No. It’s a smart man’s solution to a complicated problem.”
“Complicated, huh?” She flipped through the blueprints and that grin went full force. “You bought cedar siding, top quality redwood, and a floor plan fit for a Kentucky Derby champion. Christ, DeLuca, is that a skylight?”
Mittens made a snorting sound that sounded suspiciously like a
She stopped next to the pile of new cedar planks that Tanner had dropped off earlier that morning and looked at his hammer sticking out of the dirt. “You want to use my nail gun? Goes faster and less chance of splitting the wood.” She looked at his hand. “Or your finger.”
For about six-tenths of a second, Nate considered bringing up the kiss. Considered just getting it out there in the open and having a mature, matter-of-fact discussion about the insane sexual zing between them—and how acting on it would be a mistake. They both had a lot riding on this land, and getting distracted in something that would never, in a million years, work was just plain stupid. But he couldn’t do it.
Because motorcycle boots or not, Frankie didn’t look like Frankie. For the first time since, well, since they were kids, that tough girl attitude etching her face, shoving back her shoulders, or shooting that pert nose of hers in the air was gone. She looked vulnerable and tired, the kind that went bone-deep. And quite possibly a little nervous.
“You got one?”
“Yup, but not sure I should let you use it. A mistake like that with real tools could cost you a hand,” she said, trying for smug, but he could tell she was relieved. They were avoiding the sex in the room, so to speak, at least for now. “What are you building anyway?”
“A bed for Mittens, since the hood of my car is no longer an option.” He eyed the alpaca, who’d waited until he’d safely maneuvered himself behind Frankie before making a raspberry sound in Nate’s direction.
After his first night here, Nate had welcomed the morning with hoof scratches on the front bumper of his BMW and a Mittens sized dent on the hood.
Frankie reached around Nate—a sweet flowery scent sucker punched him, catching him completely off guard—and grabbed the folded up blueprints out of his back pocket. She waved it in front of his face. “And you think that this is the answer?”
He grabbed for it, but she was quicker, spinning away and unfolding the paper.
“I found a place online that sells blueprints for camelidae friendly, green-habitats.” Nate had spent most of last night trying to distract himself from the taste of her on his lips by surfing the net for the perfect solution to Mittens.
He knew that, although Frankie acted as though she couldn’t care less if the alpaca went AWOL, she wouldn’t get rid of the miniature camel. And Nate couldn’t risk the thing eating what little vines there were. He needed those grapes and was determined to strike a deal with Frankie when the time came, but two well-placed bites and a headbutt later and Mittens would scale the only thing keeping him from an afternoon snack.
“Camelidae habitat? Is that educated people’s talk for an alpaca barn?” Frankie asked, amusement tilting up the side of those pretty lips.
And there was the familiar battle. The one that had been raging between them for a decade. While Nate had opted for college, majoring in enology, Frankie had taken the hands-on approach, working the vineyard as her grandfather’s apprentice. Which meant that she thought he was a starched sellout, and he thought she was shortsighted to place her entire career at the mercy of a fickle man. He agreed with her that wine came from the heart, but what she refused to acknowledge was that at the heart of winemaking was science.
“No. It’s a smart man’s solution to a complicated problem.”
“Complicated, huh?” She flipped through the blueprints and that grin went full force. “You bought cedar siding, top quality redwood, and a floor plan fit for a Kentucky Derby champion. Christ, DeLuca, is that a skylight?”
Mittens made a snorting sound that sounded suspiciously like a
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