Be Mine Forever (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (10 page)

Her stomach growled and her fingers actually twitched in anticipation. “What’s that?”

“Coffee,” he said with a smile. “Pumpkin-spice latte from the Sweet and Savory. I have it on good authority they are the best in town. Plus I get a family discount.”

“Thank you.” She took a sip and felt her face flush. Partly from the hot coffee, but mostly because he’d listened and the gesture was incredibly thoughtful.

“Now that we got the coffee portion of the relationship over with, let’s talk about that dream date? I’m leaning toward one that starts with a twirl around the dance floor and ends with you in my arms.”

She thought about what Heather had said, and considered just going for it. Then she saw Cooper over by the mirrors with his “carriage,” as the girls were calling it. The growing crowd of pink pushed forward, and she felt every bit the single mom. “Can I see how tonight goes and let you know later?”

“Later, as in you’ll call me?” Trey
tsked
as he leaned forward, leisurely resting his elbows on the counter, a tsunami of sexy-male swagger detonating with a single curve of his lips. “We tried that with the car and the coat, and I hate to say this, but I don’t think telecommunications are your strong suit.”

“How is the coat?”

“Ruined.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” he admitted. “It meant that I got to see you again. And if it takes
me
on a
pole
so that I can have my dance, then I guess I’d better get used to myself in a thong.”

Sara laughed. Was it really that easy? Just say yes and everything would feel like it did right then. Light, fun…alive?

“A pink thong?”

“Hell, no.” The second man in her life today to gag at the idea of pink. “I’d go for something more manly, black silk.”

He flashed his killer smile, but Sara had a hard time smiling back. “More manly?”

He didn’t answer; instead he reached across the counter and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I’m only asking for one dance, Sara. Tell me how I can make that happen.”

The easy answer would be no. He’d leave, Sara could start her auditions, spend the night whittling a car out of wood, and go to bed early because the idea of one more night alone in that big house was more than she could handle.

Or, she thought, as she picked up his big,
manly
, made-for-sanding hands, she could live a little.

“How good are you with these?”

CHAPTER 7

U
sually when a woman asked Trey if he was good with his hands, spending the night sanding and scraping a piece of wood wasn’t what she had in mind. Yet here he was, at happy hour, sitting cross-legged on the cold floor in the back room of a dance studio, hanging with a bite-size kid while a bunch of little girls squealed and twirled on the other side of the wall.

“Wow! You’re good at that,” the kid said just as Trey rounded off the bumper. His mom made it easy since, from the looks of it, Sara had bought out the entire hardware store down the street.

His mom.

Trey released a deep, painful breath which pissed off his chest because Sara hadn’t morphed into a pregnant woman in a wedding dress. No, she’d come stock-ready with a minivan future and an instant family. And she hadn’t said a goddamned word about it.

Now, he had a thing for a single mom. And kids meant a whole new set of rules—rules that revolved around long-term and commitment, two things that were normally his cue to invent some reasonable excuse and get the hell out of there. Only this time, he couldn’t think of what to say—or anywhere he’d rather be.

“Just make sure it’s five ounces. The commander says that’s the limit.” Cooper held up his hand, all five fingers spread wide to emphasize his point.

“Got it.” Trey kept sanding, forcing himself not to look at the mini-Chargers fan holding a screwdriver. He knew what he’d see—it would be the same look Trey had given his brothers when they would do something that was truly impressive. Which, if he were being honest, felt good.

Lately, Trey felt like the least impressive person on the planet, but hanging out in the back room of a dance studio, with another guy, building a car, was definitely the testosterone-infused environment he needed. So far, Cooper hadn’t brought up diapers, babies, or reproduction of any kind, which he was thankful for. It was all cars and football while tossing back a few juice boxes, polished off
by some impressive burping and sound effects.

“Okay, Coop, how do you want this bad boy to look?” Trey asked.

“Not like a carriage or a bug, and not pink. I want it manly with
muscles,” Coop said and Trey hid his grimace. He remembered Cooper from the other day when he’d picked up Holly from her Lady Bug meeting. Remembered telling him that pink was a wussy color. It was a joke. Obviously the kids took it seriously.

“Pink’s not so bad,” Trey said.

“For a girl.” Yup, he’d said that too.
Crap
. “Hunter said the only thing that should be pink is a ballerina dress.”

Trey agreed with this Hunter, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

“Then I told him I took ballet and I didn’t wear a dress, and he said I was a ballerina and then everyone laughed.” Trey bet by the wet eyes that Coop didn’t laugh. “I tried to tell him that boy ballerinas were different, but I couldn’t remember what they were called. Do you know?”

“Boy ballerinas, I mean, um…male ballet dancers are…” Hell, he didn’t know, and any word he’d used to describe guy dancers before would probably get him in deep shit with Sara. “Awesome. Male dancers are awesome.”

“You sure?” The kid was too polite to call him a liar, but the disbelief was thick in his voice.

“Damn straight,” Trey said, proud of himself, until Coop’s eyes lit with excitement over the bad word. “Do you know how strong they have to be to lift girls over their heads like that? In fact, someone needs to tell that Hunter kid that during college, some of my football buddies actually took ballet to increase their flexibility and balance. And strength. That sounds like awesome to me.”

The kid smiled like he’d just said the best possible thing. “Are you a professional dancer?”

“I can spin a lady around the dance floor all right.” Since that was not what the kid was asking, Trey picked up the sandpaper and mumbled, “Otherwise, no. Not really.”

“Oh,” Coop said, looking a little deflated. “A football player?”

“With my brothers on the weekend, but I was more of a baseball kind of kid growing up,” Trey said, wondering why he was explaining himself to a five-year-old with a grape mustache.

Coop studied Trey, taking in his suit and button-up. After looking around the room and checking under the desk, he leaned in and, as though he were divulging a national secret, whispered, “A secret agent?”

“Nope,” Trey said, grabbing another juice box. Then to end what would otherwise turn into an endless game of Twenty Questions That Confirm You’re a Loser, he added, “I’m a salesman.” Coop looked as confused as Trey felt. “I sell wine. All around the world.”

“Really?” Coop’s eyes went wide with awe and Trey felt some of his swagger return. But the ego stroke was short-lived. “I sell lemonade. To all the people on my block. Last summer I made enough
money to buy my own Tonka tank. It’s camo and shoots lasers from the cannon and it’s just like the kind my dad drives.”

Of course his dad drove tanks. He was probably Special Forces too. Here Trey was, a wine salesman, trying to impress some kid with his mad sanding skills when his dad made weapons from sand and earwax.

“Your dad’s a military man.”

“Marine.”

Explained why Trey was here and his dad wasn’t. He didn’t see a ring on Sara’s finger and judging by Coop’s good manners and impeccable hygiene, he’d bet that Sara had primary custody. “Is he stationed overseas?”

“Nope. He’s with Grandma and Grandpa Reed.”

“Where’s that? San Diego?” Trey had learned that Sara had moved here from San Diego last summer.

“Nope, in heaven.”

The last word hit Trey like a fist to the gut. His guess was divorce, not—“My dad was a soldier who fought bravely and died for his country.”

And there it was. Coop’s statement sounded more like something an adult would say, granted; it was likely what he had been told to say over and over again. Just like Trey had been told that his parents’ death wasn’t his fault. But no matter how many times something got pounded into his brain, it didn’t make the reality any less…real.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Trey said, rubbing another long swipe along the car, breaking his earlier rule of not looking him in the eye. “That must have been hard on you and your mom.”

Now it was Coop’s turn to avoid eye contact. Searching through the bag, he pulled out a squeeze tube of army-green paint and paused right out of Trey’s grasp. “Just cuz it’s green doesn’t mean it tastes like watermelon, so don’t eat it. Mom will get mad. Oh, and don’t lick the glue stick, it will make your belly hurt.”

Trey stared. The kid was serious. “No licking or drinking toxic supplies. Got it. How about grabbing us another couple of juice boxes so we can get this thing ready for a paint job?”

“Thanks for the ride,” Sara said as Trey pulled onto her street. He was not in the minivan. In fact, she learned that he didn’t even own the minivan—the one she hit or otherwise. He owned a very non-kid-friendly sports car with bucket seats, a spoiler, and a backseat fit for a Chihuahua. But it had muscle.

“No problem,” Trey said quietly, since Cooper was snoring away in the back, his legs pulled to his chest, his head lolled to the side on the leather armrest.

By the time her pole-dancing class had started, the rain had turned to a light drizzle, but it was dark and cold, and the streets were still slick from the storm. So while the first coat of paint was drying on the derby car—army green apparently fell into the
manly
category—Trey picked up a large chili from Stan’s Soup and Service Station, with two spoons, and he and Cooper hung out and ate while Sara finished up so he could drive them home.

She hadn’t had the heart to tell Trey that for her son, chili’s ick-factor ranked right above cabbage and below squash of any kind, but it hadn’t mattered. Cooper’s need for guy time overruled his absolute conviction that things with beans could sprout in his stomach, and he sucked down two helpings. Just like the way Trey patiently guided Cooper through making his car, never once taking over when paint spilled or a corner got too sanded, overruled that little voice in Sara’s mind, reminding her that sweet didn’t translate into long-term.

Not for a guy like Trey.

“How did the Snowflake Princess auditions go?” he asked, sending her a sidelong glance.

“Crowded, chaotic, and totally amazing.” Sara leaned back against the headrest and smiled. Her feet were sore, her head pounded from all of the giggling kids and chattering moms, but it couldn’t have gone more perfectly. “I can’t believe how many people your grandmother got to show up. I don’t know if she was threatening or bribing.”

“Probably a little of both.”

“Well, I now have three classes completely booked and I haven’t even had the middle-schoolers audition yet. If Monday is anything like today, I will have enough kids to have classes every afternoon, with younger siblings filling out my morning schedule, which means I can hire a full-time teacher and stay home nights with Cooper.”

“It sounds like today was a complete success,” Trey said, pulling into her driveway.

Sara waited until he put the car in park and looked over at her. “I have you partly to thank for that. I know that I kind of sprung Cooper on you.” He raised a brow. “Okay, I totally blindsided you, but you deserved it.
Manly color
.”

“Regan asked me to pick up Holly from Lady Bugs, and one of the kids asked why I was wearing my sister’s coat. Since I’d just gone a round with my brothers over the sparkly accents—thanks for that, by the way—I might have said something stupid to defend my masculinity. I never meant for Coop to hear it. Plus, you have to admit, that car was…” he looked over his shoulder at Cooper, who let out a sleepy Darth Vader breath-snort combo, but he lowered his voice anyway, “pretty tragic.”

“I worked hard on that. It took us all week to get it done.” She shoved at his chest. He didn’t budge, except to trap her hand beneath his, making her next words come out breathy. “And I think it looked like a superhero’s car.”

“What superhero would that be? Lady Bug-ette?” Trey laughed and Sara felt all of the stress and struggles from the last few days disappear. It was impossible not to when he was smiling at her like that. “All it needed was pink polka dots.”

“I understand my son is male. I wasn’t going to paint it pink,” Sara challenged while leaning in and trying to look intimidating. But it was hard to pull off when she was hyper aware of his hand still holding hers.

Unfastening his seat belt, he leaned in too. Only with his bedroom eyes and that cocky, you-know-you-want-me smile, he managed to actually pull off intimidating. And sexy.

“I’m male,” he whispered, the space between them heated and crackled.

Male incarnate was more like it. The smell of crisp rain on his skin, the feel of his calloused fingers lightly running over her wrist, all of that sexy swagger he was expelling was proof enough. Then he smiled and her stomach flipped and,
whoosh
, all of the air left her lungs in one huge rush of nerves and excitement. “No arguments here.”

“And yet you painted me pink.”

“I like pink,” she heard herself whisper.

The click of her seat belt echoed through the car as Trey leaned even closer, taking his time to study her neck, her lips, finally looking her in the eye. “I like
you
.”

Sara liked him too. Enough to give her pause, to make her ask the hard questions, like if she was ready to move past Garrett’s death, if she could see herself falling for Trey, if he was capable of breaking her heart. The answer to all was a resounding yes.

“I want to go to bed,” a groggy little voice said from the backseat.

Me too,
Sara thought, giving Trey one last look.
Me too.

Thirty minutes later, Trey found himself pulling into Sara’s driveway
—
for the second time that night. He grabbed the badass garage he’d fashioned from an old shoebox out of the backseat—one slightly sticky derby car inside—and strode up the stone walkway. The one-story, craftsman-style cottage boasted a charming garden and a wide front porch, complete with matching bikes and a wooden swing. It looked welcoming and so soothing, Trey nearly set the box on the doorstep, got back in his car, and drove to the hotel.