Summer in Napa

chapter 4

Saturday morning, with her eyes barely open, two trays full of pastries in her hands, and a light dusting of flour in nearly every crevice, Lexi pushed through the back door of the bakery. She made her way to her car and managed to locate her keys and pop the trunk, only to realize that there was no way all of the pastries were going to fit.

The grannies were already at the Book Walk. Her best friend, Abby, wasn’t answering her phone. And Lexi still had two dozen trays left in the kitchen.

She checked her watch and wondered what the time limit was before Nora Kincaid, who had been adamant about timeliness, was justified to act on her promise to publicly pop Lexi’s cream puffs. Not long, she imagined, since the event started in ten minutes.

Maybe if she dropped the backseat down she could make it in two trips.

Lexi set the trays on the roof and crawled into the car. Unlatching the seat locks, she pulled. And pulled. With a frown, and a whole lot of stomping, she went around to the trunk, leaned in, and started pushing.

“Well, look who it is, Wingman. Our friendly neighborhood backside.”

Lexi looked over her shoulder, surprised to see Marc, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement as he leaned out the widow of his pickup and watched her struggle. She was less surprised, however, at the annoying fluttering that started low in her belly just because she looked at him. Irritated, but not surprised. The man was sexy as sin, and he knew it.

He wore his dimpled grin and enough stubble to show that he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. Which shouldn’t have bothered Lexi. But it did. And that made her nervous.

“Go away,” she mumbled, focusing on the back seats again. Because divorcées who couldn’t make it work with the sure thing had no business getting bothered by the hometown playboy.

“Heard you might need a hand,” he said. “Actually, heard you might need a truck to lug all of the pastries.”

“You heard?” She didn’t turn around.

“Yup, ChiChi called an hour ago saying you’d need a ride. Pricilla about ten minutes after that.”

Which meant their grandmas were trying to set her up on yet another date she hadn’t agreed to. With Marc.

“I’ve got it handled,” she lied. “You can go.”

“Nah, we’ll wait. It’s not every day that a guy gets a morning flash of red lace before he’s even had his coffee. Huh, Wingman?”

Wingman panted loudly from the passenger seat.

With a squeak Lexi jerked up, smacking her head on the top of the trunk, her hands smoothing down the back of her dress. She reached the hem and stopped, pinning him with a glare. “I’m not wearing red today.”

“No?” He rested his forearm on the windowsill and shrugged matter-of-factly. “Well, a man can dream.”

“Does this whole ‘let me guess the color of your panties and then you’ll be charmed into taking a ride with me’ shtick really work?”

He paused for a second, as though surprised that it hadn’t. Then the dimples were back. “I can see you’re still a crabby morning person, which is why I brought coffee.” He held up two cups, and she nearly drooled at the scents of hazelnut and vanilla wafting out of his car window. She’d already had a cup, when she’d first gotten up and started baking. That had been five hours ago.

She walked over, snatched a coffee, and took a sip, her eyes closing at the heavenly flavor. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Opening the door, Marc stepped out of the cab, went around to the passenger side, and opened the door for her. “Hop in and I’ll load up. It’ll only take a minute. Then we can be on our way and I won’t even make you admit that I saved the day.”

He took her elbow to help her in, and wouldn’t you know it, little sparks of attraction shot straight down to her toes. “I’m not getting in your truck.”

“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 f*ck.

“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 f*cking 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?”

Wingman barked his approval.

“I think I can manage without, thanks,” Lexi said, turning back around and resuming her seat on the hot asphalt. Wingman’s whole body shook excitedly as he loped over. He nosed at the ground and around her legs, and when he couldn’t get to her rear end he settled on a big, doggie face lick.

“Wingman, come. Sorry about that, he’s all muddy from the trail.”

Wingman rolled into her and plopped down—right on her feet. Mud dripped off and speckled her jeans.

“He’s not that bad.”

“Really?” Marc looked across the street and frowned. “He’s a total tool.”

“I was talking about the dog.”

“Good, because you can do better than Chad. In fact, I’ve got a friend. Nice guy. Single, loves to travel, owns a hotel, handsome as hell. In fact, I think you already have a date with him tonight. He wanted me to ask what you were planning on wearing, and suggest something with no straps, bra optional.”

“Really?”

He shrugged.

“It’s not a date. And I’m not listening to you right now,” Lexi said, also not noticing how his running shorts hung low on his waist and highlighted his impressive thighs. Or how his shirt, a little damp from the heat of the morning, clung to his broad chest as it would to someone who’d been pounding the pavement, which she’d guessed he’d been doing before he decided to poke his unwanted nose in her business.

“Stevens, huh? Never figured him for your type.” Even with his mirrored sunglasses on, Lexi could feel Marc staring straight at her, pinning her with a gaze that made sitting still impossible. “A little too handsy for the prom queen, if you ask me.”

“Maybe I like handsy.” Wingman pressed farther into her legs, letting out a protective growl and sending a big glob of mud splatting to the ground. “Plus, Chad and I were friends back in school.” Okay, that was a lie, but there was no way he would remember that she hated Chad.

Marc pocketed the sunglasses, his whiskey-brown eyes flickering with amusement and—crap! He remembered. “You kneed the poor bastard sophomore year when he tried to get up close and personal with your pom-poms.”

It had been junior year, when she and Jeffery had broken up for three days because she had tried out for the cheer team and it conflicted with her ability to support him from the stands on game night.

“He helped me put up my posters for class president, senior year.” Another time that she and Jeffery had taken a break.

“He liked to look up your cheerleading skirt. But hey, who am I to stop true love?” Marc looked over the top of the car and waved. “Hey, Chad. How’s it going? Are you looking—”

Lexi grabbed Marc’s hand and yanked him to the ground. “Can you not? I have enough people trying to run my love life.”

“So you admit that there is a love life.” When she didn’t answer, except to drop her head to her knees with a frustrated grunt, Marc leaned against the car next to her, close enough so that their thighs brushed. Wingman rested his snout on Marc’s running shoe. “Ah, too much of a love life.”

“My marriage officially ended two weeks ago. I have a bakery that needs to become a bistro, and my grandma has set me up with at least two first dates a day. Although they are nice enough guys, I don’t have the time, or interest, to date right now. My apartment is overflowing with flowers, and the idea of another cup of get-to-know-each-other coffee makes me want to cry.”

“Easy solution. Call your bachelors and tell them no.”

Lexi had never been good at saying no. Her whole life she’d worked hard at making people happy. A lifetime of revolving parents could do that to a girl. “I can’t.”

She paused, waiting for Marc to laugh at her, disagree with her. For him to say that it was as easy as looking them in the eye and saying, “N. O.” To point out that people did it every day and, in fact, it was something she should have mastered by high school.

But he didn’t do any of those things. He didn’t do anything at all except lean his head against her side door and patiently stroke Wingman. In silence.

Also not good with silence, Lexi felt compelled to add, “I promised my grandma I would fulfill all of the scheduled dates that she had agreed to. It would be rude to cancel on them now.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Natasha said, her heels slapping the concrete as she approached. When she was certain that the towering effect was in place, Natasha stopped, her hands on her hips.

Today she was dressed in cream-colored pants, with matching pumps and a summer jacket, an ice-blue silk shell, and enough sparkly accessories and bad attitude to make Lexi squint.

Natasha turned her eyes on Marc. “I thought we were meeting for lunch at eleven thirty?”

“We are,” he confirmed innocently.

“Really?” Lexi whispered.

Marc ran a hand over his face and sighed. He avoided Natasha’s gaze, instead fiddling with the cuff of his shorts. Marco DeLuca, total ladies’ man, was squirming, and not in a good way. In fact, he looked slightly harassed, and Lexi suddenly wondered if he was hiding from his love life as much as she was.

“Oh, because it’s eleven fifteen and you’re dressed for the gym. BoVine has a strict dress policy,” Natasha said, then turned to Lexi. “By the way, I forgot to tell you the other day how sorry I was to hear about you and Jeffery.”

“Thanks, but I’m doing well,” Lexi lied. Natasha was only sorry that she hadn’t yet had the chance to rub it in, and by the sparkle in her eye she was getting ready to do exactly that. Especially since Lexi had witnessed yet another rebuff from the great playboy himself.

“I mean, divorced and thirty. Sounds rough. They write articles about people like you.”

“Twenty-nine. Remember I was a year behind you. And Jeffery and I parted amicably. Actually, we’re still close,” Lexi shot back. “Oh, and I love those pants. Are they cream? No, too yellow. What color are they? It’s hard to tell with the sun in my eyes.”

“These, well, they are more of a custardy color—”

Wingman’s ears perked up, his tail started beating the concrete, and he let go a single bark.

Natasha took a step back, obviously startled.

“Lexi,” Marc warned.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear. What color did you say it was?”

Eyes firmly on the dog, Natasha took another step back and said, “Custard—”

The words had barely left her lips and Wingman was up. He charged Natasha, his tail flicking mud in every direction as his big dirty paws landed right in the center of Natasha’s ice-blue heart.

“Oh. My. God,” she shrieked as she backed into the gas pump. “Get him off!”

“Down, Wingman,” Marc said, but Lexi noticed that he took his time getting to the dog to haul him off a very angry Natasha. “Down.”

By the time Marc got Wingman settled, Natasha was sporting two enormous doggie prints on her silk and two pissed-off slits for eyes. And they were zeroed in on Lexi. “You did that on purpose!”

“I guess you’d better go get cleaned up. I hear that BoVine is uptight about who they let in.”

“Lexi? That is you!” Chad said from behind them, sidling up to the group and giving her a big hug, his hands sliding a little far south for Lexi’s liking. “It’s so great to see you. I was waiting for you to come out of the station, and I had almost given up.” He looked at his watch. “I have to be in court in an hour. I’m just so glad that I finally ran into you.”

He hugged her again, his hands slipping—again.

A low, threatening growl sounded, and Chad slowly backed away.

“Good boy,” Marc whispered and gave Wingman a ruffle behind the ears.

“It’s good to see you too, Chad,” Lexi said, patting her thighs in a silent call for Wingman, who dutifully walked over to sit on her feet and lean into her legs. Chad would have to get past her keeper if he wanted to cop a feel.

“At first I thought you were avoiding me, running out of the supermarket, not returning my calls, but then I told myself that you were probably busy getting settled. How is the bistro coming along?”

“You know about the bistro?” Not that she had kept it a secret, but she hadn’t advertised it either. She had finalized the blueprints and design with her designer last week, perfected her summer menu, and met with the contractor—twice. Until they broke ground on the remodel, and she knew what her grand-opening date would be, she was keeping a low profile.

“Well, yeah.” He reached inside his jacket and fished around in the pocket. He pulled an envelope out, shoved it in her face, and smiled. “For you.”

Wingman barked in warning, but Lexi took the offered envelope. It was official looking, with the Stevens, Stevens, and Stevens corporate seal on the upper left corner. And it was heavy—way too heavy to be an invitation to the yearly office party. “What is this?”

“Alexis Moreau,” Chad began, “I hate to be the one to inform you, especially since I am planning on picking you up a week from Saturday for a picnic and maybe a little dip in the lake, but you’ve been served.”

After Lexi swallowed back the bile that rose at the image of the kind of dip he had in mind, she asked, “Served? I don’t understand.” Her divorce was final. The assets divided. What the hell was going on?

“Jeffery has gained a court-ordered cease and desist that prohibits any use of recipes served in his restaurant Pairing.”

“Those recipes are mine.” They were all hers. And they were all that she had. “I created them.” She had breathed life into them, and they into her.

Experimenting in the kitchen had been the only time she felt truly happy in New York. She couldn’t keep her husband satisfied, couldn’t be a mother, couldn’t recognize who looked back at her in the mirror most days. But she could cook.

“Actually, the recipes are assets of the corporation that now owns the restaurant.”

“What corporation? Pairing is a family-run business.”

Ignoring her last comment, Chad looked at his watch, stepped forward as though to kiss her good-bye, and wisely settled on an awkward shoulder pat when Wingman bared his teeth. “Gotta run, Lexi. Pick you up at nine.” And he was gone.

Natasha straightened her top and smiled. “I better get going since lunch is in a few minutes. Great to see you, Lexi. And I am so happy to hear what an amicable divorce you and Jeffery had. It warms my heart. Really.”