Free Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) by Marina Adair

aggressively low on her hipbones, hugging her skin and screaming to be caressed. It wasn’t a loud pink or even an angry pink. Frankie was sporting soft pastel pink that was delicate and surprisingly feminine. She was also holding a very dangerous wooden bat, and he knew for a fact she had one hell of a swing.
    “What, no gun?” Nate said, dropping his duffle bag to the floor and crossing to the couch, where he leisurely took a seat. A decade of dust bunnies and lint flickered in the light.
    “And risk Judge Pricket turning this place into a strip mall, or worse, Stepford Lane?”
    “You heard about that too?” Nate leaned back and swung his feet up on the coffee table.
    Frankie choked up on her grip. “Plus a bat works just as well. So I suggest you crawl back into whatever hole you crawled out of before I show you my award-winning swing.”
    “As long as you promise to show me your award-winning backside, I’m game.”
    She looked down, blinked. She opened her mouth to say something then closed it, all the while her eyes wide with confusion and—fluster?
    The bat drooped slightly.
    Yup, she was definitely flustered. So Nate folded his hands behind his head and sent her a wink.
    After a practice swing—man, she did have a great arm—Frankie took a step forward. “Get the hell out!”
    Hands in the universal gesture for
I come in peace
, Nate said, “No need to pull out the fancy welcome mat, sweet cheeks. I don’t expect you to wait on me. Although I’d love a beer if you have one.”
    Another swing. This time it was aimed at his head.
    Nate ducked and rolled to the other side of the couch, pushing to his feet. “But I can see that you’re busy so I’ll get it myself.”
    Narrowly missing the swinging bat, Nate started for the kitchen. He opened the fridge and laughed. Frankie lived like a bachelor. Nothing but takeout, a half-empty bottle of Riesling—Baudouin, of course—enough pudding cups to amp up a kindergarten class, soy milk and,
ah
, beer.
    “You break in and now you want to steal my beer?”
    “Hard to break in,” he said reaching past the paper to-go box and grabbing the bottle by the neck, “when you own the house.”
    “Half the house.”
    “Yeah,” he smiled. “I remember.”
    She rolled her eyes and snagged the beer back, which was all right with him since he didn’t really want the beer so much as to annoy her, and because she’d lost the bat somewhere between the living room and kitchen.
    “You already have a house. A big, obnoxious overcompensation on the other side of town.” She twisted off the beer cap—on her arm—and flicked it at his head. “Where people actually like you.”
    He caught the cap and tossed it in the trash can.
    “House, yes. But roommate, no.” He hopped up on the counter, waiting for his words to settle. Her eyes went wide, then fuming mad. God, she was hot when she was riled. “I know this is a little weird. I mean, I haven’t had a roomie since college, so I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I got to say, sweet cheeks,” he purposely let his gaze drop and he flashed her a wicked smile, “this is blowing away all my expectations. Talk about a welcome home.”
    She paused for a moment, as though trying to figure out if he was messing with her or being serious.
    It was both. Not that he’d tell her that.
    He’d come here ready to throw her off balance, but one look at her in her tank and itty bitty undies and his brain had been scrambled.
    It was her amazing rack, he decided. A powerful weapon he’d have to steer clear of.
    “Ha ha. Nice try, DeLuca.” She hopped up on the island facing him, exposing what seemed to be a mile of the most incredible legs he’d ever seen. “Whatever your game is, it won’t work. We both know you and your golden boy loafers won’t make it here. There’s no cable, no housekeeper, and no pansy-ass Frappuccino maker. You’re just here to irritate me.”
    “Although irritating you is a surprise bonus, I’m