for a few years, partying too hard and taking nothing too seriously.
Problem was, Gabe still viewed Marc as that screwup with the attention span of a gnat, and Marc was sick of Gabe shoving all his big-brother crap in his face. But big-brother complex or not, Gabe was the only DeLuca who had managed to maintain a healthy relationship with someone of the opposite sex. The guy had not only convinced a woman who despised him to walk down the aisle, he’d also gotten Regan pregnant, proof that they still had sex after the I dos.
As Marc figured it, his brother must be doing something right, since he was pretty sure, pregnant wife and all, Gabe was still getting laid on a regular basis. Because the guy smiled—all the freaking time. Whereas Marc had been couched in the first ten minutes of boyfriend bliss and spent his Sunday morning half hard and wholly frustrated.
“I was thinking a walk in the park. Maybe a picnic. Holly could play in the sand, and the walk would do Regan good. Her back has started hurting her.”
“That’s it?” It seemed way too easy. “Just a walk?”
“Yeah, playboy, just a walk,” Gabe laughed. “Regan isn’t one of your women who wants a five-star meal and bragging rights to the St. Helena Stud.”
“Christ, Gabe, I wasn’t judging you.” Although Gabe apparently wasn’t above judging him. Nothing new, Marc thought, but the embarrassment that came with the barb was. Was that really how people saw him? “I was just worried and wanted to make sure she was handling the pregnancy okay. You know what, never mind, okay?”
There was a long pause. “Sorry, it’s just you haven’t seemed all that interested in Regan’s health or the pregnancy. I thought…”
Gabe trailed off, and Marc was happy that he didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t want to know what his family thought about him. Sure, he wasn’t as involved in the day-to-day running of their business, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care about them.
“If you want, I can take Holly tonight so that you and Regan can go on a date,” Marc offered, knowing he was setting himself up for a blow. “After the family time at the park, of course.”
The silence hurt.
“Um, thanks,” Gabe finally said. “But ChiChi already offered to take Holly tonight. Something about helping the grannies bake cakes for the farmers’ market tomorrow. She had the same thought as you, that Regan and I need a date night. I’m planning to barbecue for dinner. Lately the smell of raw meat makes Regan sick, and I’ll be damned if she decides that steak isn’t good for the baby.” But Marc could tell by the way Gabe spoke, it wasn’t about a steak-free pregnancy—although that would suck—but that he genuinely wanted to make Regan’s life easier. And if him cooking made her day, then that made Gabe a happy man.
“Maybe next week then,” Marc offered, rolling his eyes when Gabe hesitated.
How hard could one little girl be, Marc wanted to ask. Holly was cute, female, and liked dogs.
Then again, so did Lexi, and she was the hardest damn person on the planet to charm. But he wasn’t giving up, because while most of his friends were still eating worms and playing kickball, Marc had already mastered charming females. First out of their lunches, then into their pants.
Ah, hell. Marc stopped short. He’d been going about this whole Lexi issue in the wrong way. He wasn’t looking to charm her into his bed, although parts of his anatomy would disagree; he was supposed to be making her life easier so she could get the bistro open.
Since the goal was different, he needed a different strategy.
The sun was barely up when Marc’s alarm went off. He rolled out of bed and, ignoring the annoying hard-on that had greeted him every morning since he’d helped Lexi out of that window, laced up his running shoes.
He clicked on Wingman’s collar and gave a sharp tug when the lazy mutt stretched out to take up Marc’s half of the bed.
“Oh no you don’t. You and I have a date. With Lexi. So get up.”
Wingman opened one eye and immediately closed it.
“I was thinking that a run—”
Marc was about to drag all ninety pounds of dog out of the bed when Wingman’s ears perked up at the mention of his favorite word—well, second favorite, right behind custard. Before Marc could grab his iPod or even a couple bottles of water, Wingman leaped off