Read Online Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) by Marina Adair - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marina Adair
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progressing?” ChiChi asked, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.
Luce puckered her lips and made kissy noises.
And Pricilla, hand over heart, pretended to swoon.
Frankie was glad she’d already swallowed her wine or she would have choked. “He kissed me! End of story. No progression.”
“Is that right,” Pricilla said, a blatant
liar liar
in her tone. “Because that looked like some kiss. I mean your hands were—”
“Trying to push him away,” she cut in. “And it doesn’t matter anyway, I’m not his type.”
“Rubbish,” Luce snapped and Mr. Puffins growled, low and throaty. “You are a strong, independent, beautiful youngwoman.” All of the adjectives
not
associated with what a man like Nate was looking for. Not that she cared, but Nate tended to date willowy, elegant Soccer Moms in training. They were highly qualified, highly respected, and high maintenance.
“Child, you have—” ChiChi made billowing gestures toward her chest region. “You’re his type.”
“Yeah, well, he’s not mine.” Which was true. Even if she could ignore the fact that the man wore loafers—which was a big
if
—she knew stoic, starched, analytical types weren’t her thing. Even though that guy had more pent up passion than an Italian army, with a butt that made most women weep…
Walking sex god or not, Nate DeLuca was not what Frankie was looking for.
“If you say so, dear,” Pricilla said as she glanced at the other grannies, clearly not believing her at all.
Sorrento Ranch’s house was an old Victorian built back in the late eighteen hundreds. Even with its olive clapboard siding, steeply pitched roof, and massive stained glass windows, the only descriptor that stood out was
old.
As a kid Nate had thought the house was impressive. As its newest owner, he had to admit it looked more like a terrifying theme park ride than a piece of prime real estate.
And it was all his. Well, half his.
After the disaster of a verdict, Nate had spent Friday and the better part of the weekend trying to get a handle on how much power Judge Pricket really held—apparently quite a lot. And how close to empty Frankie’s bank account was—bad but not dire. Now he wanted nothing more than to spend hisSunday evening sprawled out in bed, reading a book, in the blessed silence of his sprawling, modern, and mothball-free house. Only every time he’d turned the page, instead of words, all he saw were Frankie’s lips, full and luscious, mouthing
Bite me!
Which was why he decided to pack up a few weeks of clothing, hop in his car, drive over to his other house, and change the rules—unannounced.
When he arrived, the curtains were pulled, the lights dialed to
go away
, and the door locked. He was pretty sure Frankie was out, but just to be safe, he knocked. Twice. Then let himself in. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she came home to find him in
her
bed—screwing up
her
weekend.
He kicked the front door shut, flicked on the light switch and—
“Do you have a death wish or are you really this stupid?” Frankie asked.
Stupid
. He must be. Because one glance at her and he felt his inner Neanderthal, the testosterone driven idiot who grunted gibberish and only seemed to come out around Frankie, raised his nasty head.
She was wearing a tank top again, although it wasn’t black or wet. No, tonight she’d gone for white and thin and impossibly tight. She also wasn’t wearing a bra, thank you, and had the cutest case of bed head he’d ever seen. Her black hair was sticking up in the back while her bangs and, what looked like sheet prints, were plastered to the right side of her face. But what had him panting like a dog was what she had on below.
Or what she didn’t have on. Pants. There was a serious lack of cotton and flannel going on down there. And way too much pink. Pink boy shorts to be exact. Which made a whole lot of goings-on happen in his own shorts.
The silky fabric rode high on her thighs and
Luce puckered her lips and made kissy noises.
And Pricilla, hand over heart, pretended to swoon.
Frankie was glad she’d already swallowed her wine or she would have choked. “He kissed me! End of story. No progression.”
“Is that right,” Pricilla said, a blatant
liar liar
in her tone. “Because that looked like some kiss. I mean your hands were—”
“Trying to push him away,” she cut in. “And it doesn’t matter anyway, I’m not his type.”
“Rubbish,” Luce snapped and Mr. Puffins growled, low and throaty. “You are a strong, independent, beautiful youngwoman.” All of the adjectives
not
associated with what a man like Nate was looking for. Not that she cared, but Nate tended to date willowy, elegant Soccer Moms in training. They were highly qualified, highly respected, and high maintenance.
“Child, you have—” ChiChi made billowing gestures toward her chest region. “You’re his type.”
“Yeah, well, he’s not mine.” Which was true. Even if she could ignore the fact that the man wore loafers—which was a big
if
—she knew stoic, starched, analytical types weren’t her thing. Even though that guy had more pent up passion than an Italian army, with a butt that made most women weep…
Walking sex god or not, Nate DeLuca was not what Frankie was looking for.
“If you say so, dear,” Pricilla said as she glanced at the other grannies, clearly not believing her at all.
Sorrento Ranch’s house was an old Victorian built back in the late eighteen hundreds. Even with its olive clapboard siding, steeply pitched roof, and massive stained glass windows, the only descriptor that stood out was
old.
As a kid Nate had thought the house was impressive. As its newest owner, he had to admit it looked more like a terrifying theme park ride than a piece of prime real estate.
And it was all his. Well, half his.
After the disaster of a verdict, Nate had spent Friday and the better part of the weekend trying to get a handle on how much power Judge Pricket really held—apparently quite a lot. And how close to empty Frankie’s bank account was—bad but not dire. Now he wanted nothing more than to spend hisSunday evening sprawled out in bed, reading a book, in the blessed silence of his sprawling, modern, and mothball-free house. Only every time he’d turned the page, instead of words, all he saw were Frankie’s lips, full and luscious, mouthing
Bite me!
Which was why he decided to pack up a few weeks of clothing, hop in his car, drive over to his other house, and change the rules—unannounced.
When he arrived, the curtains were pulled, the lights dialed to
go away
, and the door locked. He was pretty sure Frankie was out, but just to be safe, he knocked. Twice. Then let himself in. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she came home to find him in
her
bed—screwing up
her
weekend.
He kicked the front door shut, flicked on the light switch and—
“Do you have a death wish or are you really this stupid?” Frankie asked.
Stupid
. He must be. Because one glance at her and he felt his inner Neanderthal, the testosterone driven idiot who grunted gibberish and only seemed to come out around Frankie, raised his nasty head.
She was wearing a tank top again, although it wasn’t black or wet. No, tonight she’d gone for white and thin and impossibly tight. She also wasn’t wearing a bra, thank you, and had the cutest case of bed head he’d ever seen. Her black hair was sticking up in the back while her bangs and, what looked like sheet prints, were plastered to the right side of her face. But what had him panting like a dog was what she had on below.
Or what she didn’t have on. Pants. There was a serious lack of cotton and flannel going on down there. And way too much pink. Pink boy shorts to be exact. Which made a whole lot of goings-on happen in his own shorts.
The silky fabric rode high on her thighs and
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