I remember her Aunt Gina calling me Rat Boy. That sounded rather . . . mobbish. Is that even a word? “You make them sound like the mob,” I mutter, glancing about my temporary office. I’m staying at a house I purchased a few months ago in St. Helena. It’s cute, small, and very old. Needs major renovations—we’re talking a total overhaul—and I’ve been getting bids on the job over the last few days. Its central location makes it the ideal place to stay while I’m here in Napa.

“Rumor has it they might be, though I doubt it,” Archer says, his tone serious.

“Mob ties, give me a break,” I mutter, more than ready to change the subject. “Listen, she wants to talk to you.” I’d fibbed a little when I called Marina. I’d left a message with Archer when I couldn’t get a hold of him and grew too anxious waiting for him so I broke down and called her anyway.

I knew I could get him to see her, but I haven’t confirmed anything yet. I just wanted to call her. Listen to her voice. Imagine the way she sounded last night when she whispered my name as I sunk particularly deep inside her tight, wet body—

“Talk to me about what?”

“Yeah, it’s about business. She won’t tell me what exactly, but Marina says she has a proposition for you and she kept meaning to call you but hasn’t yet,” I explain.

“Huh, wonder why she hasn’t called. I’ve talked to her a few times. Nothing extensive though.” He makes a noise; I can hear him shift in his chair, the unmistakable creak coming through loud and clear. “When do you want to go on this momentous double date?”

“Tonight? Maybe?” I wince, waiting for his answer.

“You gotta be kidding me. Tonight? You expect us to rearrange our schedules for you or what?” Archer sounds a little angry, mostly amused. His favorite thing to do is give me shit.

“I need to get in her good graces so she’ll introduce me to her father,” I explain. Well, that’s part of it. I also just want to see her again. Want to talk to her, argue with her a little, until she gets that angry little shine in her eyes, and I become so tempted I lean over and kiss her.

“Really.” Archer sounds doubtful.

“Yeah. Really. The guy has been giving me the complete shut-out for months. I’m dying to talk to him.” Negotiate with him. Make Scott Knight a deal he can’t refuse.

“Ah, so there’s the heart of the matter.” Archer makes a tsking noise. “You’re not trying to get in her pants. You’re hoping to get in her dad’s back pocket.”

He’s making me feel like shit and I refuse to. Besides, I’ve already gotten into her pants.

Yeah, you are such an asshole.

“You’re not going to guilt me over this.” I do that well enough on my own.

“Whatever. I understand. It’s just business.” Archer sighs heavily. “Let me talk to Ivy, but I think we can do this. I’ve got no major plans going on, and I don’t think she does either.”

“Thanks bro,” I say. “I appreciate you doing this so last minute.” I mean it.

“No problem. I’ve called you begging to help me out so many times, I’ve lost count,” Archer jokes, though really, he’s serious.

He’s the one who usually needs to be bailed out, rescued, whatever. Our friendship has always had that balance. Archer’s the fuckup; I’m the one who cleans up the aftermath. Or saves his ass.

Whichever is needed first.

Now look at me, running to him for favors. But that’s what friends are for.

Ever since Archer started dating my sister, he’s straightened out. It started sooner even, when he received the old Bancroft Hotel his father gave him. He immersed himself in his work, took it seriously and turned that crappy old hotel into the thriving, successful Hush—a premier hotel and spa.

Then he and Ivy started seeing each other seriously, and he really got his shit together. I hadn’t approved. Hell, they kept their budding relationship from me for fear I wouldn’t like it. I love Archer, he’s my closest friend besides Matt. And of course, I love my little sister, and would protect her no matter what.

Archer and Ivy together though? The idea still blows my mind, and they’ve been a couple for a while now. Hell, he’s so in love with her, he’s going to marry her.

It’s pretty amazing, seeing what the love of a good woman will do to a guy.

Not that I’m looking for anything like that—hell no. Not yet. I’m too damn busy to pay a needy woman any mind.

Fuck around with one, specifically one as hot as Marina? Yeah, I’m on board with that.

Here come my as**ole tendencies again. Showing themselves front and center.

“Tell Ivy to not ask Marina a lot of questions, okay?” I request.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’s just . . . she’ll be curious and want to know more about this woman I’m dating. And it’s nothing. It’s not really serious, on my part or Marina’s part. I’m trying to talk to her dad. She’s trying to talk to you. We’re using each other,” I explain, hoping like hell that’s the truth. If Ivy and Marina start talking and become friends, that would be awful. I don’t want to hurt Marina’s feelings, but this has to be nothing serious for me.

Despite how amazing the sex had been between us, it can’t matter. We’re just having fun. Gaining something from each other. She has to know or at least assume I’m talking to her because of the connection with her dad. This makes me feel like an as**ole because damn it, I like her. Despite her not liking me, I’m drawn to her like I can’t help myself.

Because yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s not serious for her. One night of sex. Tonight, just a dinner. A chance to speak to Archer and get to know him better. Hell, she can barely tolerate me. Most of the time, she provokes me enough that I end up making an ass of myself and saying something stupid to piss her off. Being with her doesn’t bring out my finer qualities . . .

Except when I’m buried inside her and making her come. Then all is good in the world. All is right.

Yeah. We’ll go to dinner, we’ll both get what we want and then we’re done. Nice and simple.

Just the way I like it.

Marina

“DARLING, WHAT IN the world are you doing?”

I poke my head out of my walk-in closet at the sound of my mom’s horrified voice. She’s standing in the middle of my bedroom, her eyes wide with shock as she takes in the disaster. My clothes are strewn everywhere. All over the floor, the bed, thrown over the chair that sits in the corner closest to the closet.

It’s a pre-date war zone, and so far I’m losing the battle.

“Looking for something to wear.” I get up off the floor and stand, wiping my hands on my thighs. “I have nothing.”

She’s still glancing about the room, checking out all the items of clothing lying everywhere, I’m sure. “I beg to differ. I had no idea you were hoarding that many clothes in your tiny closet.”

Funny how it’s my “tiny” closet. It’s your standard-size master bedroom walk-in. Hers puts mine to shame. It’s like an entire room, with an island in the center full of drawers where she organizes her bras and underwear. Lit racks line the wall, showing off her beautiful shoe and bag collections. My father had the closet rebuilt for her about twelve years ago. I remember being in total awe. I’d never seen anything like it.

Then I went on to have friends in high school whose mothers had even bigger closets than my mom. Talk about putting us to shame.

“Fine. I have nothing that I like,” I stress, throwing my hands up in the air. “I need to go shopping.”

“What for? Where are you going that you’re so worried over how you look? You always dress so nicely, darling, except when you’re working, but what can we expect? Not like you can dress up to dole out pastries and coffee.” She smiles, completely oblivious to how she just completely insulted what I do for a living.

She does that all the time and it’s irritating. Even a little hurtful, though I try to tell myself to get over it. But my mom has zero respect for my job or my business, and I don’t understand why. I’m actually doing something with my life, but she doesn’t even see it.

“I’m going out tonight.”

“Oh?” Mom sounds casual but everything else about her demeanor perks up. Great. “And who are you going out with? Anyone we know?”

I really don’t want to tell her where or with whom. She’s going to jump to conclusions when she hears I’m going out with a guy and it’s nothing like that.

“No one special. And no, I don’t think you know him.” I shrug, moving over to my dresser. Kneeling down, I tug open the bottom drawer and flip through my jeans, finally pulling out my absolute favorite. They’re a dark rinse, skinny fit without being skintight, and they make my legs look long when they’re really not. “No need to make a big deal about it.”

“When you say things like that, darling, I’m assuming it’s a big deal. You just don’t want to get my hopes up.” She clasps her hands together, her blue eyes that are just like mine twinkling with delight. “Is he handsome? How long have you been seeing him? What’s his name?”

Look at her. She automatically assumes I’ve found a special someone—her word choice long, long ago, not mine. The twenty-three-year-old spinster is the disappointment of the family. It’s ridiculous.

My friends definitely think it’s ridiculous I still live at home, but that’s the way it’s done in a traditional Italian family. Usually. I’m the need-to-be-protected baby girl in my parents’ eyes. Their only girl, since it’s just my older brother and me. John is married with two babies, doing his own thing clear across the country in Boston, where his wife is from. They met in college, the perfect sort of romance that made my mom infinitely happy.

So now my parents focus all of their attention—much of it unwanted—on my lacking love life.

Realizing she’s still waiting for a reply, I heft out a long sigh, glaring at her. “Mom. He’s no one. I swear.”

“Tell me his name,” she demands.

“Gage Emerson.” Just saying his name out loud makes my skin tingle. I love his name. I loved especially when I whispered it in his ear just before he came. Hard.

Taking a deep breath, I tell myself to calm down. Those are so not the thoughts I should be having with my mother in the same room.

Mom frowns, a little crease forming between her scrunched brows. “Hmm, I don’t recognize the name. I don’t know of any Emersons who live in the area, but I must confess, I’m woefully out of touch when it comes to those who are your age. I haven’t been to the country club in forever.”

She sounds so old fashioned sometimes, and what is she? In her early fifties? Mom acts and sounds much older. But she grew up in a much stricter world than I ever did. My grandparents wouldn’t let her do anything.

It drives me crazy, how she loves to go on and on about me needing a man in my life. Her disappointment that I haven’t found a boyfriend is her old-fashioned thinking rearing its ugly head.

“He’s not from the area,” I tell her, tossing my jeans onto the last spot of empty space on my bed.

“Oh? So how did you two meet?”

“At an event a few nights ago. Remember the brewery- and wine-tasting thing I told you about?”

“Ah, yes. So.” She smiles. “What does he do?”

He’s a shark who’s sniffing around Molina property and wants to steal it from us for nothing so he can turn around and make a huge profit.

Oh yeah, and he’s a sex god who had me screaming his name when he made me come.

“He’s in real estate,” I finally answer as I head back into my closet.

My stomach roils, and I press my lips together. Why am I going out with him again? Yes, I’m hoping he’ll get me an in with Archer Bancroft so I can talk him into carrying Autumn Harvest bakery desserts at his restaurants in his two hotels.

I hope this entire setup works. More than anything, I hope I can enjoy my dinner tonight and not want to stab Gage in the chest with my fork. As long as he keep his mouth shut and looks pretty, we should be good.

You are such a bitch.

Maybe I am. But the man provokes me like none other. Both in a good and bad way.

Mom follows me, hovering at the open door. “Residential or commercial?”

I can practically hear her brain calculating how much he could possibly be worth. “I don’t know. I’m guessing commercial.”

“Ahh. That’s nice. How old is he?”

“Um.” I swallow hard. I don’t know all the pertinent information about Gage Emerson beyond his name, that he and Archer are friends, and he’s a jackass snake in the grass who’s really good with his hands. And his mouth. And his . . .

Wow, isn’t my opinion of him top notch?

“I think he’s in his early thirties?” I wince, not one hundred percent sure my answer is right. Looks like Google and I need a second date tonight.

“Sounds like you don’t know much about your young man.”

I barely restrain from rolling my eyes. “He’s not mine, Mom.”

“Oh, someday he will be. If he’s smart and realizes what a fine catch you are.” She sounds so confident. I almost hate to disappoint her.

So I don’t.

“He’s very intelligent. I think he’s fairly successful at his job.” From the way he dressed and his arrogant attitude, I would say he’s definitely doing all right. Plus, there was all that research I did on him. Not that I’m telling my mom anything. “He’s handsome too.”