I figured out when I watched you fold up your apron and walk out of the bakery. I’m just like my dad, sugar—when I screw up, I screw up big. But when I love—”
Lexi reached through the window, grabbed him by the undone ends of his bow tie, and kissed him. And good Lord, he kissed her back.
It was then that Lexi knew exactly what it felt like to be loved.
“I love you, Marc,” she whispered against his lips. “And I’ve got an apron at home to prove it.”
“Wait.” He pulled back enough to look her in the eyes. His were weary and hopeful and so full of love it made her breath catch. “Is that a yes?”
She nodded.
“God, I love you.” He kissed her nose, the corners of her mouth, her lips. “And your apron, do you know how much I love your apron?”
By the time they eased back, her hands were tangled in his hair, his were suctioned to her bottom, and they were both stuck in the pass-through. Marc tugged and Lexi pulled, but it was no use. The width of his arms around her hips had them wedged in.
Lexi laughed. “We’re stuck.”
“Right where I want to be.” Marc flashed that bad-boy grin that had everything inside of her melting, especially when his hands started making little circles on her backside. With a quick peek at the tray on the icemaker, he asked, “Any éclairs left?”
Lexi took account and shook her head. “Nope, but there are some cream puffs.”
“My favorite,” he whispered right before he captured her lips with his and took a nibble.
Sneak peek at
Autumn at the Vineyard
It had taken eighteen months, some tricky negotiating, her entire life savings, and a lot of ballbusting—but Francesca Baudouin was finally a vineyard owner. Well, she was the owner of fifty acres of prime St. Helena appellation soil, which would take another five years of sweat and, quite possibly, selling off a few of her vital organs before it became a quality producing vineyard.
But Sorrento Ranch, the most sought-after property in the valley, and all of its belongings, was hers. She bought it right out from under the DeLucas’ noses. In part because Mrs. Sorrento played darts with Frankie and her great-aunt every Thursday night, but mostly because she knew selling the land to either family involved in the great DeLuca-Baudouin feud would piss off her ex-husband.
“One more inch and I’ll shoot,” Frankie said to the four-legged garbage disposal in front of her, whose mouth was currently wrapped around the plastic casing of the water tank. She stomped her ballbuster, steeled-toed combat boot in his direction for added emphasis.
The alpaca’s beady eyes narrowed and dropped to her feet. Extending its lips in her direction, he made a loud raspberry sound and then went back to nibbling. Yeah, ballbuster or not, hooves beat boots.
But Frankie wasn’t about to let some hardheaded mule with shaggy hair and buck teeth stick it to her on her first week in business. Being the youngest of four, and the only girl, Frankie was a pro at dealing with stubborn males who excelled at ignoring her completely, while messing with her life wholeheartedly.
She cocked her rifle.
“The only thing separating you from becoming next season’s sweater-set is my trigger finger, Camel Boy.” Because the only thing separating them from fifteen thousand gallons of rainwater was the thin plastic seam-binding on the water tank, which “Sweater-Set” had managed to chew loose. She didn’t want to deal with the cleanup and couldn’t afford a new irrigation tank. “I mean it, one more bite and the only identifying male trait you’ll have left is stupidity.”
That got his attention. In fact, the animal straightened and fluffed out the fur around his face, making him look like a cross between a camel, a koala, and Clifford the Big Red Dog. When he wasn’t destroying her property, he was kind of cute. In a big, dumb, oafy kind of way.
Sweater-Set was the sole remaining alpaca from Mrs. Sorrento’s alpaca farm. The rest of his hooved brethren were living it up at Alberta’s Paradise Alpaca Farm and Pet Sanctuary. Sweater-Set hadn’t even placed one hoof in the back of the moving truck when the rest of the heard gathered their spit and took aim. The poor thing had been kicked out of his own family, and before Frankie or Alberta had been able to catch him, his fluffy butt had disappeared, and Alberta had left instructions to call when Frankie had the runaway