Heard It Through The Grapevine. Pamela Browning
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as she regained her voice. Unfortunately, this wasn’t before she registered that broad chest, those wide shoulders, the blue eyes that sparkled in pleasure as he gave her a quick and appreciative once-over.
He cocked a skeptical eyebrow and stuck his hands deep in his pockets as he leaned against a table holding vases of lavender. “So, Gina, I guess you still love me,” he said.
She charged toward him past the goldenseal, the chamomile, the valerian. A pot of chives sat close at hand, and she could have thrown it at him. Instead she showed remarkable restraint, considering that he’d humiliated her in front of millions of people on national TV.
“Wrong,” she said. “It’s not the first misjudgment you’ve made, either.”
“I had my reasons for choosing Tahoma,” he said. “Maybe you’d like to hear them.” It didn’t help that he looked as if he’d stepped right out of Gentleman’s Quarterly. The blazer was Armani, Gina was sure, and his Italian leather loafers were polished to a high gloss.
She turned her back on him with all the determination she could muster, considering that she didn’t trust him not to pounce. There was a certain tigerish quality contained in Joshua Corbett’s well-groomed, well-mannered personage, which was probably why he’d been chosen to be Mr. Moneybags on the reality-TV show. That’s where Gina had met him, thanks to her overzealous cousin Rocco, who had submitted her name to a contestant search unbeknownst to her.
“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say,” she said, stalking back to the cash register and taking refuge behind the counter. She’d never thought she’d set eyes on him again, and though she never let him know it, she was seriously rattled, so much so that she was trembling.
“Maybe you should,” he said mildly. “It might be a good idea to have this conversation outside, if you don’t mind.” He sneezed again.
“I don’t love you, I don’t like you, and what are you doing here in the Napa Valley, anyway?” It seemed like a logical question, since he used to live in Boston.
“I happened to be in the neighborhood and came to see if you’re married and have a couple of kids,” he said, moving closer and hitching himself onto a stool nearby.
“She isn’t married, and that’s why she doesn’t have children,” said a little voice from beneath the counter. A curly red head popped up. The moppet to whom it belonged stared at him curiously for a moment before breaking into a wide gap-toothed grin.
Gina wondered if it was too late to clap a hand over her niece’s mouth. Probably it was, and anyhow, she’d done her own share of talking.
“Who are you?” Josh asked.
“Mia Suzanne Sorise. My favorite color is purple, I love lasagna, and I live next door. Who are you?” she asked, abandoning the hidey hole under the counter where she had staked out the cat’s old bed as a good place to read the latest Harry Potter book.
“I’m Josh Corbett,” he said, smiling as Gina rolled her eyes in disbelief. She’d watched as he’d charmed twenty contestants vying for his affection on Mr. Moneybags, and now he was charming her own nine-year-old niece.
Mia’s eyes grew even rounder. “Ooh, you’re the guy who dumped my aunt Gina,” she said.
“I wish you wouldn’t put it that way,” Josh said, a pained expression flitting across his features.
Mia leaned her elbows on the counter and studied Josh. “Why didn’t you pick her?” she asked. “My aunt Gina is really a very nice person.”
“No argument there,” Josh said with a faint smile.
“Ha!” Gina replied, reflecting that it was sometimes possible to be too nice. She pretended to stack papers and clip them together. She needed something to do if Josh insisted on eyeing her in that coolly appraising way of his. She wished she’d run a comb through her hair after picking up Mia from soccer practice. She wished she had worn something other than her old peasant blouse and a skirt that fell short of her knees.
Josh had the good grace to look uncomfortable. “Actually, there was a lot more to the situation than that.”
“And less. Mia, you’d better finish that chapter you’re reading. We need to go soon,” Gina said. She sounded more confident than she felt.
“I already read it. I’m playing ticktacktoe now, but it’s not much fun to play against yourself.”
“I’m a great ticktacktoe player,” Josh said.
“Good! You can play with me.” Mia laboriously spread a grubby piece of notebook paper on the counter and handed Josh a pencil.
“How about a chance to explain,” Josh asked Gina.
“When you play, do you like Xs or Os?” Mia asked.
“Xs will be fine,” he said, but he was watching Gina expectantly. “Well?”
Despite the impending game, Gina decided against her better judgment to continue the conversation. “How about telling me why you were so insistent on showing me the heather back at Dunsmoor Castle? How about explaining what that—that procedure behind the pantry door meant?” She slapped the papers into a drawer beneath the cash register and slammed it, summoning up her recollection of the heather, which had been rippling gently in the breeze, and of Josh’s eyes, which had been blue and sincere. They were still blue; it was his sincerity that was in doubt here.
“The heather was a planned date. The producers of the show set it up. I had a great time, though, didn’t you? And the procedure behind the pantry door—it was a way to proceed, if you know what I mean.” He nonchalantly entered an X in one of the ticktacktoe squares.
The procedure had been a kiss; only, Gina didn’t want to say it in front of her niece, who could be counted upon to ask too many questions. In fact, on that night before his final choice of the twenty contestants, Josh had sought her, Gina, out and kissed her so tenderly and then so thoroughly that she’d known for sure that she would be the winner the next day. Wrong-o. He’d chosen the other semifinalist, a schemer named Tahoma. Gina found no consolation in the fact that according to one poll, seventy-eight percent of the viewing audience believed that Mr. Moneybags had made the wrong choice.
“The procedure was something you threw in to confuse people, including me,” Gina said.
“Not exactly,” Josh said seriously. “The only person I confused was myself. If you’d let me—”
“I’m not letting you do anything,” Gina said pointedly.
“I won! I won!” Mia crowed. She grinned up at Josh. “Hey, you know what? I really like you.”
“In that case, isn’t there a consolation prize? Like dinner with your aunt?”
“No,” said Mia. “But you could come to crush if you like.”
“Crush?”
“You know, it’s what we do after harvest. There’s this really funny I Love Lucy show where Lucy and Ethel are in a big barrel stomping on grapes. It’s like that.”
Gina glanced at Josh to see how he was taking this.
“That’s one of my favorite I Love Lucy episodes, but I thought they had machinery for squeezing the juice out of the grapes these days,” he said to Mia.
“The stomping is just matrimonial,” Mia replied.
Gina hastened to correct her. “Ceremonial, Mia. Wrong word.”
“Ceremonial, then. Ooh, that’s a good one to tell Frankie.” Mia prided herself in collecting words to impress her eleven-year-old cousin. “Anyway, at our family’s winery we have a grape-stomping contest. They don’t use any of the stomped juice to make wine, though, because we stomp barefoot and that wouldn’t be sanitary. They have crushers to get the juice out of the grapes for the wine that we make, and after that