Which was why, after driving three and a half days across the country, Lexi planned a middle-of-the-night arrival and snuck into the vacant apartment above her grandmother’s bakery. She needed a good cry, a hot shower, one of Pricilla’s famous éclairs, and at least ten hours of solid sleep before she could face the residents of St. Helena.
Unfortunately, she found a bottle of her grandmother’s Angelica stashed behind a rack of day-old pastries in the bakery kitchen, which was the only way to explain how she woke up on the bathroom floor, eyes swollen shut, wearing yesterday’s clothes and half of an éclair.
She stumbled into the bedroom to grab her things and shower, then remembered that her dress—the outrageously expensive sundress from Neiman Marcus that she’d charged on Jeffery’s account, the same one she intended to wear when she walked out onto Main Street to announce that Alexis Moreau, former prom queen and current five-star chef, was back—was sitting in the trunk of her car.
Maybe they would be so dazzled by her Moreau smile and culinary prowess that they wouldn’t notice her bare ring finger?
Yeah, right. They would take one look at her custard-stained sweats and realize that Lexi had gone from overachieving to barely surviving. And for a girl who, until recently, had received a gold star in the game of life, that didn’t sit well with her current, and rapidly depleting, average.
Lexi looked down at herself, picked a curl of chocolate from her cleavage, and groaned. “Crap.”
Her return home, much like the past six months, was turning out far differently than she’d envisioned.
Most people only got one shot at their dream. Lexi was about to get her second chance at running an acclaimed eatery, and she wasn’t going to blow it. Making the right impression felt like the first step toward her new life.
She looked at the dozen or so boxes piled in the corner of her childhood room and forced herself to breathe. The last thing she wanted to do right then was unpack what was left of her marriage to find an outfit that didn’t have melted ganache on the rear.
So, tossing her pants in the hamper and her custard-smeared tank top in the trash, she riffled through her grandmother’s closet, coming up with a handful of old concert T-shirts, an aqua pantsuit in size twenty, Lexi’s favorite pair of cutoffs from senior year, and her prom dress.
She grabbed the shorts and her grandmother’s shirt, which said Hoff This under a smiling David Hasselhoff giving the finger, and tugged them on. The shirt came down to her thighs and her shorts came up to her butt, the last in a long list of things she wished she could reverse.
Lexi looked at the clock and her heart went heavy, because erasing the past ten years wasn’t going to happen. Neither was ignoring the fact that her grandmother was expecting her in less than an hour, or that she would have to face her family and friends eventually. But when she did, it was going be on her terms. And in that damn sundress. Which meant she needed to get to her car.
Lexi grabbed her car keys and headed down the rear stairs. Cracking the door open, she glanced around, her shoulders relaxing slightly when she saw that the alley next to the bakery and the back parking lot where she’d parked her car was reassuringly empty.
She had snuck in and out of this apartment so many times as a teenager there was no reason that her heart should be pounding out of her chest right now. It was like riding a bike, right? The only difference was that back in high school, she had snuck around so that no one would know she was having sex with Jeffery, and now she was going stealth because she didn’t want people to know that Jeffery had stopped having sex with her a long time ago.
“A quick grab and dash. That’s all.”
Coast clear, Lexi took a single step toward her car, then stiffened at the sound of feet pounding the pavement, followed by the instant clang of jangling metal. Both sounds were wild and hurried. And both sounds were moving.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
It was locked. In her grandmother’s mission to protect Lexi’s teenage virtue, Pricilla had installed safety measures: a doorknob that was extremely loud to open, with a lock that was always engaged.
Lexi patted down the sides of her shorts, as though expecting to find magical pockets containing a set of apartment keys. Sadly, she found neither.
“Come here, boy,” a distinctly male, and distinctly familiar, voice called out. Followed by a playful bark that sounded much closer.
“That’s it, come on. Good boy.” Claws clicked excitedly on the pavement. A dog tore around the corner. He was some kind of mastiff-Thoroughbred mix with paws the size of a polar bear’s and covered head to tail in mud. And he was headed directly toward her. “Damn it, Wingman, I said come!”
Fear had her feet moving—and fast. Lexi would rather explain to her grandmother that she had snuck into the apartment than face him. She shot around the corner of the building and, deciding that running didn’t make her a coward, made a beeline down the alley next to the bakery, hoping to slip in the delivery door without being noticed.
She got to the corner of Main Street and stopped, her stomach plummeting to her toes.
The one-lane road was backed up with a line of cars that went past the Paws and Claws Day Spa, made its way beyond Bottles and Bottles—the local pharmacy and wine retailer—and continued toward the highway and the bright-green sign that read:
The sidewalks were even worse. The brick-and-awning storefronts and lamp-lined streets were filled with tourists, tourists, and more tourists, who were admiring the rows of old wine barrels filled with seasonal flowers and taking in the large banner advertising the St. Helena Summer Wine Showdown. Wine-tasting season was in full swing, and people were out in masses, which meant that Pricilla’s Patisserie would be overflowing with locals, weekend warriors, and Sunday shoppers.
The second she walked into the bakery, she would run into a dozen people she knew, all with a dozen inappropriate questions that would lead to a dozen or more rumors about how Lexi had come crawling home—a divorced failure.
A gentle breeze blew past her, carrying with it the smell of freshly baked choux pastry. Lexi followed the scent and found that both of the windows her grandmother used to ventilate the rear kitchen were opened a crack.
She pried the first window open, her body turning on adolescent autopilot as she hoisted herself through. She got that same old high school thrill until she realized she didn’t have the same old high school hips and found herself ass up, wedged between the window casing.
“Oh God, no.” Lexi rocked, trying to gain enough momentum to tumble to the other side of the windowsill. “Please, no.”
Seconds ticked by, and sweat beaded on her forehead. She clawed at the sill and kicked at the planter box she stood on, mentally willing her hips back to prom night—but she didn’t move, or lose, an inch. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t squeeze herself through the window.
Refusing to give up, she looked around the kitchen, hoping to find something, anything that might help. But nothing useful was in reach—except for a fresh tray of éclairs, which sat just to her right.
Her body sank, dangling like raw dough over the windowsill. It was no use. She was stuck. Trying to move forward while dodging your past was clearly impossible. So she did what any reasonable woman would do under the circumstances: she reached across the table, plucked a petit-éclair from the tray, and shoved the entire thing in her mouth, making sure to lick her fingers clean in the process.
She was reaching for her second pastry when something cold and wet poked her in the butt. She yelped. There was a bark, a sniff, and the wet again.
“Shoo,” Lexi hissed, waving her free hand even though the dog couldn’t see. “Go away.”
“He was just saying good morning.”
Lexi froze, considering her options. When she realized she had none, she snapped, “Well, you should teach him some manners.”
“Says the woman mooning half of St. Helena,” the silky smooth and way-too-amused voice behind her said, as though she wasn’t aware that her fanny was flapping in the wind. “Plus, as far as Wingman is concerned, you were offering him up a doggie high five.”
Closing her eyes, Lexi composed herself and went for enchanting—something she’d once excelled in. Hell, she’d been cheer captain and valedictorian.
But that was all before. Before the end of her marriage. Before she lost her restaurant. Before she found her husband trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in nothing but her award-winning noix de coco brûlée and a hard-on, while her sous chef Sara used a basting brush and caramelizing torch in ways that were illegal in thirty-seven of the fifty states.
And before she turned her head, looked up through the window, and found herself staring at the one person in town who had never found Alexis Moreau enchanting. In fact, Marco DeLuca, entitled playboy and total meathead, had gone out of his way over the years to let her know just how annoying he’d believed her to be.
Ignoring Marc’s smart-ass grin and Wingman’s breath on her thighs, Lexi realized that with her new diet of cynicism and foolishness, enchanting was no longer her. So she did the next best thing. She grabbed another éclair and—
“No, he doesn’t do well with—”
—chucked it out the window. Barking and jumping ensued, accompanied by a lot of scrambling, mainly on Marc’s part.
“No, boy. Drop it. That’s right, custard’s—”
Wingman went wild at the word, barking and panting with excitement. Lexi knew how the dog felt; she felt a bond forming between her and the canine.
“Get the custard,” Lexi cooed.
“Don’t say that word.”
“What, custard?” Claws tapped the concrete as though Wingman was jumping up and down.
“Stop it,” Marc directed at her, and then, “No, very bad. Let go, it gives you…Aw, Wingman!”
The window next to her squeaked open. By the time she turned her head, Marc was leaning in, his forearms leisurely resting on the windowsill, earbuds dangling around his neck, and his alpha-male swagger stinking up the kitchen.
“Heard you were coming home.”
The way he said it, with an added little wink for extra sting, made her wonder just what else he had heard. Damn it. This was supposed to be a covert homecoming.
She grabbed the last éclair off the table and took a bite.
“I hope you brought enough to share with the class.”
She could have told him that there was another tray on the far wall, but Marc had been a permanent pain in her butt ever since she moved to St. Helena with her mom freshman year. He’d either teased her mercilessly or ignored her completely, a hard accomplishment, since Marc loved everything with boobs.
She looked down at her breasts and paused. They weren’t huge, but even in her grandmother’s baggy T-shirt, they filled out the top nicely. Jeffery had never complained.
Then again, he had also left her for a loafer-wearing vegan who—although she had a bizarre food fetish—looked more like a librarian than the “other woman.”
She took another bite and pondered. Whatever she and Marc used to have, confusing as it was, was just that—history. After she’d filed for a divorce, Lexi had gone from “pest-like friend” to “easily forgotten” in Marc’s eyes. And it had hurt.
Even worse—for Lexi—Marc was not only loved by women, respected by men, adored by the elderly, a real hometown freaking hero, but he was also her ex-husband’s best friend. Had been since preschool.
With a shrug she shoved almost the entire éclair in her mouth. Mumbling around the bits of flaky pastry and heavenly filling, she said, “Sorry, last one.”
Marc reached through the window, snatched the remaining bite—the last and best bite.
“Give it back.” Lexi’s arms shot out to stop him. Only Marc was faster, and meaner. Palming her head with his free hand, he held her down while he savored the last piece.
Lexi swatted him away. “Does everyone get such a warm welcome?”
Reaching through the opened window, he wiped a glob of filling off the side of her mouth. Licking it clean, he smiled. “Only the ones who wear their breakfast, cream puff.”
“I’ll be sure to pack a napkin next time. And it’s an éclair.”
When Marc’s hand made its way back toward her lips, she quickly wiped her mouth on her right shoulder. The white cotton came away with custard and chocolate smears.
“As great as it is to see you again, I’m kind of busy.”
All traces of humor faded, and his eyes went soft. “I can see that. Need some help?”
Yes, she was about to beg. The offer seemed genuine enough, the last seventy-two hours had left her on the brink of tears, and for some bizarre reason Lexi wanted to give in to Marc’s charm and gallantry.
Then Marc came up behind her and, pressing his body against hers, leaned over and reached around her to scrape some leftover filling off the tray. Never one to disappoint, he stepped back and ran a cream-coated finger down the back of her thigh before whistling, “Come here, boy.”
Not caring if she kicked Marc, Lexi started pumping her limbs like a teeter-totter. She might not be the most athletic girl on the planet, but she could still inflict some damage.
“Hold up, you’re going to hurt yourself.” Warm, strong, and incredibly unsettling hands rested on her upper thigh, stopping her movements and sending her heart into overdrive. Not to mention making everything below her belly button tingle.
Oh, so not good. Over the years she’d seen many a girl rendered downright stupid by just a single flick of his panty-melting smile. Lexi was not, and never would be, one of those girls.
His hands drifted higher so that his fingertips brushed the bottom edge of her shorts. “Now push back against me, and I will slide you out of there.”
“Nope. I’ve got it.”
“You sure, cream puff?”
Oh yeah. The last thing she needed was his help.
Marc pressed forward, close enough that she could smell his soap. “It’ll only take a minute. Then we never have to talk about it again.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Yeah, while I’d love to sit back and watch you try, it’s nearly ten, which means the Wine Train is about to disembark and its passengers will soon make their way down this alley, and your grandmother’s expecting you any minute. So stop swinging those legs at me, and I’ll help your stubborn ass out.”
When she didn’t budge, except to swing harder while aiming lower for more satisfying results, he said, “Or I can just shove you through to the other side. Either way, cream puff, I’m getting you out.”
Running into Marc with her hair in a messy knot, last night’s makeup on her face, and the unsettling feeling that he knew the truth behind her recent divorce was bad enough. Having him rescue her so he could call Jeffery later to laugh about her humiliating homecoming made her want to throw up.
But just like she’d known six months ago that she couldn’t hold together her marriage, Lexi now knew Marc was right. She couldn’t get out of the window by herself, and the Wine Train whistle was sounding closer by the minute, so she lowered her legs and reached back for his hands.
*******
Alexis Moreau was a never-ending pain in Marc’s ass—always had been. She was smart, stubborn, and sexy as hell, exactly how Marc liked ’em. She was also his best friend’s girl, or ex-girl, which in man speak translated into hands off, something his brain had always known, but his dick had a hard time accepting.
If she hadn’t seemed close to tears a moment ago—or seemed as though she would rather ram him in the nuts than accept his help—he would have kept walking. And that was exactly what he was going to do, right after he got her out of the window, made sure she wasn’t hurt, and found the spare key to Pricilla’s apartment, which he was certain was hidden under the garden gnome.
That was his plan, anyway, until he placed his hands on her waist, gently slid her from the window, and registered what she was wearing. The usually coiffed and primped prom queen was in a pair of butt-hugging cutoffs—which he assumed at one time had been jeans—a thin white shirt, and not much else. She was a big, rumpled, blonde mess, and by the hollowness he heard in her mumbled “thanks” when he set her on her feet, he’d bet it wasn’t just a physical thing. Odd, since she’d been the one to walk away from her marriage and Pairing, the upscale New York restaurant that she and Jeff had opened a few years back.
Then Lexi bent over and reached sideways through the window to grab an éclair off another table inside, angling her body just right so that he got a near-perfect view of her pairing, pink bra and all, and her failed marriage was the last thing on his mind.
He stood back and smiled, not even bothering to pretend he wasn’t staring when she twisted farther to reach the treat, the movement tugging her shirt up and her shorts down low enough to prove she liked her lace matching. God, she was killing him.
“I’m guessing you’re okay then?”
“What?” She turned her head to look at him, those big green eyes wide in question. He merely dropped his gaze to her ass sticking up out of the window. “Oh, um, I’m fine. Just hungry.” She extracted herself from the window, sans the éclair, and straightened, pulling her too-long tee down.
Sad to lose his view but desperate to get out of such close proximity, Marc told her about the key under the gnome and turned. He was about to leave when her hands settled on his arm and—goddamned son of a bitch—her touch sent a hot sexual zing shooting through his entire body.
Marc liked women. All kinds of women. He liked the way they smelled, the way they felt, the way they sounded calling out his name. He especially liked the last part.
He just couldn’t like this woman, not in that way. Not in any way other than as a friend.
Ever.
Yeah, good luck with that, he told himself, remembering how he’d said those same exact words on graduation night, when he’d found her crying under the bleachers because Jeff, wanting to start college a free agent with open possibilities, had broken up with her. A week and some lame advice later, Lexi had left, following Jeff to New York with hopes of saving their relationship.
Lexi must have felt something too, because she jerked her hand back and eyed him cautiously. “You promised me earlier that we’d never talk about this again. Did you mean to anyone?”
Marc looked down the alley at Mrs. Lambert of Grapevine Prune and Clip and her partner in crime, Mrs. Kincaid—who, from the looks on their faces, had been watching the entire event unfold—and wondered how Lexi intended to keep her window fiasco a secret. St. Helena was a small town located in the heart of the Napa Valley, with two blocks of downtown, two gas stations, and only two commodities: wine and gossip. Now that two pairs of the loosest lips in the county were firsthand witnesses, those who hadn’t been there were bound to get a stellar reenactment by lunch.
Lexi ignored the women and stared up at him, pleading—and with one look at the anxious way she worried her lower lip, he understood. She wasn’t talking about the town; she was afraid this would get back to Jeff. Which made no sense at all.
Last he’d heard Lexi hadn’t given a rat’s ass about Jeff’s opinion, which was one of the reasons their restaurant had been foundering in the year or so leading up to the divorce. But if she wanted her morning kept a secret, who was he to ruin her day?
“Deal.”
“Thanks,” Lexi whispered.
Marc’s phone chirped. He didn’t move to answer it.
“I’ll let you get that and”—she paused and offered up a pathetic smile—“thanks.”
Marc should have taken the opportunity to get the hell out of there. Instead, he found himself sending the call to voice mail without even looking at the screen. “Look, when the rest of your stuff gets here, let me know and I can help you unload.”
He should be putting space between them, not offering to get all hot and sweaty in her room. Even if it was just from moving her boxes.
“Except for my dress, I already unloaded everything.” Marc looked at her gnat-sized car and frowned. As if reading his mind, she continued, “I got a really fair offer for the house as is, with the furniture, which worked for me. I bought everything to fit that house, and it meant less for me to move.”
“You sold your place in New York?” That surprised him. Every time he went back east to visit, Lexi was remodeling or decorating or refinishing some part of that house. It was a cozy little brownstone with a tiny backyard in one of the more family-centric boroughs. And Lexi had loved it. Jeff, on the other hand, had been pulling for a plush loft uptown near their restaurant.
“Hard to start over when you’re dragging the past with you. Plus—”
Marc’s phone rang. Again.
“You should probably get that,” she said, already backing away.
Marc looked down at the screen and groaned. Wingman growled. It read “Natasha Duval.” It also said that he’d missed three calls from the very same.
Shit.
He’d been playing phone tag with Natasha all week. Okay, maybe he was avoiding her calls. He hadn’t spoken to her since, well, the week before Valentine’s Day, when they’d run into each other at a party she was catering. Natasha had been wearing a tight red dress held together by a single scrap of ribbon that she made clear she wanted him to untie, so he brought her back to his suite at the hotel and diligently unwrapped her. At the time it had seemed like the perfect arrangement.
She wasn’t looking for serious, a good thing, since he didn’t do serious. Ever. He’d made that clear.
Apparently not clear enough, because the phone rang again and Wingman instinctively curled up on Marc’s feet and whimpered. Another reason to send her to voice mail: Natasha didn’t do dogs.
“When are you going to learn?” Lexi lectured from beside him. “You can’t just keep ignoring women and hope they’ll go away.”
“You know what? You’re absolutely right.” He handed her the phone. “Here.”
She shook her head while backing away. “What are we, in high school? No way. I stopped being your winggirl when Bethany Jones called me crying about how you were her soul mate and I had to tell her that you were gay.”
“I still can’t believe you said that.” Or that Bethany had bought it. Marc rested his palm on the brick wall, sending a flirty wink at a brunette wearing a push-up bra who passed by the alley. Push-up flushed and looked away.
Gay, my ass.
“Come on. One last call,” Marc heard himself beg. “Then we’ll be even.”
“Even? You said we wouldn’t ever talk about this.” She gestured vaguely to the window.
The phone rang, louder and more obnoxious than the last time. Marc felt his left eye twitch.
“Doesn’t mean that we both won’t know you still owe me one.” Marc hated pulling that. He had no intention of holding Lexi’s inability to climb through a window over her head. But he also had no intention of dealing with Natasha right now.
Not before his morning coffee and chocolate croissant. Not when Marc was trying to prove to himself—and his brothers—that bowing out of the family wine business and dumping every cent he had into renovating an old hotel, which was becoming a serious money pit, was a smart move. And not when the most prestigious blind wine tasting in the country, the St. Helena Summer Wine Showdown, was just six weeks away and being held in his hotel. He couldn’t afford any distractions.
He couldn’t afford to fuck this up.
The phone gave one final ring and went silent. Marc exhaled and, after making sure the phone hadn’t somehow connected, sagged against the brick wall, relieved.
It immediately rang again.
Marc rolled his head so he was looking at Lexi, making sure to turn on the charm. “Come on, cream puff.”
“Don’t aim that at me.” She pointed to his face. “I’m immune.” Didn’t he know it. The one woman who couldn’t be charmed was the only one who mattered.
Forcing an unaffected smile, one that he’d mastered after fifteen years of watching Lexi and Jeff together, he played his winning card. It was a crappy card to play, but suddenly this wasn’t about avoiding Natasha as much as it was about getting back to where he and Lexi used to be.
“You don’t have thirty seconds to help an old friend out?”
Something painful flickered in Lexi’s expression. Marc didn’t know why he suddenly felt like shit, but his gut got that squirrelly feeling he hated. The one that came when he knew he’d screwed up. Before he could figure out what he’d done, Lexi held out her hand.
“Fine. I’ll do it. But then we’re even. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
He handed her the phone. She didn’t take it. “But I’m not pretending to be your spiritual life coach.”
“All right.”
“Or your nonna, sister, stalker, or any other woman who has possession issues.” Marc nodded. “You have fifteen seconds to explain the logistics of this latest conquest. Go.”
“Fine. We spent a few nights together. She wanted more. I said no, too busy focusing on my hotel and the Summer Wine Showdown. We parted friends. Now she’s calling again.”
“That’s all of the story.”
“Yup.”
She reached over and, instead of taking the phone like he’d expected, hit speakerphone. “Marco DeLuca’s office, how may I help you?”
The phone remained silent.
“Hello?” Lexi prompted.
“Um…yes.” Natasha’s voice sounded through the phone. It was pinched and pissed and, unless Marc was mistaken, jealous. It also was nasal and annoying, something he’d never noticed before today. “I’m calling for Marco.”
Lexi gave Marc a where-do-you-find-these-women roll of the eyes. “Unfortunately, he’s in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?”
“A meeting?” Natasha’s tone all but said liar, liar. “Well, when he’s done with his meeting, make sure he closes the window. I would hate for someone to sneak into the bakery and steal your secret recipes.”
The phone went silent.
Lexi blinked at the phone and then him. “Why do I get the feeling that there is so much more to the story than you are letting on?”
“When have I ever lied to you?” Well, besides the time you asked me if following Jeff to New York was a good idea and I said yes.
“Never.” She frowned. “But I still don’t believe that this woman spent just a few nights with you and now she’s all stalker.”
“Believe it.” Marc smiled. “I’m that good.”
“She’s watching you. She threatened to steal my grandmother’s recipes! What kind of women are you dating?” She stopped, raising a hand. “You know what, never mind. I don’t care. I am so over men and their choices in women.”
Someone cleared her throat—loudly. Lexi jumped at the sound and let out a yelp when she turned and saw Natasha smiling at her from the end of the alley.
Lexi slowly turned back to face him, her mouth gaping open, her eyes forming two pissed-off slits. “You. Slept. With. Natasha. Duval?”
Marc shrugged, feeling way more anxious that he was letting on. “I was clear with her, nothing serious.”
“She’s been trying to corner you into serious since sophomore year.” Oh yeah, he’d forgotten that. “When you made me break up with her for you. Twice.” Lexi looked down the alley and gave a little wiggle of her fingers and shouted, “Hey, Natasha. Long time no see.”
Natasha gave an eat-shit smile in return. No wave.
Lexi turned back to Marc. “Make that three times. And she’s still here. Like that freaky cat off Pet Sematary.”
“I can hear you,” Natasha said, pointing to her wireless earpiece with her long red nails. They looked like claws. Sharp, red claws made for sinking into a man and never letting go. Marc shivered.
Natasha pocketed her phone and swished her way toward them, her hips working double time, then plastered herself to Marc in a hug when she got close enough.
“Hey, Marc,” she said too sweetly, finally pulling back from the hug.
“Hey, Natasha,” he began, stepping away from her. To avoid saying something stupid, like agreeing to another date, he focused on her eyes and away from her cleavage. She subtly shifted, crossing her arms and smashing her breasts together, and “Sorry about not getting back to you” came sputtering out of his mouth.
“That’s okay, I get it. The Showdown is next month, and I know you’ve been swamped with trying to get your celebrity judge and a new caterer”—her eyes flickered to Lexi, and Marc felt his heart literally slam into his chest—“which is why I was trying to set up a time to chat. There’s a guy I cater for sometimes, anyway he’s an editor at Martha Stewart Living. I told him he should do a spread on your hotel for their summer-getaway issue.”
Natasha was positioning herself and trying to use their history and her connections to lock down the Showdown catering gig, which pissed him off even further, but he was willing to agree to anything if it meant getting rid of her before she said something that would make Lexi’s homecoming even worse.
“That’s great. How about dinner?”
“Really?” Natasha sounded way too happy for a no-strings former fuck buddy. “I can’t wait. Plus, I want to hear all about your trip to New York.” She emphasized the last words with a pointed glare. At Lexi. Whose lower lip trembled. Ah, shit! “That is, if you’re done with your meeting.”
“Oh, we’re done,” Lexi said.
