Torn: A Billionaire Bachelors Club Novel (3 page)

And, damn it, I want that property. The Molinas own four buildings on Main Street in St. Helena. Half of them need renovating, but they don’t have the cash to invest in such major work. The lease was coming up on one of them. Another building sat empty. Revamping those locations would allow me to collect more rent money. And that money would make everything worth my while.

Though, I can’t make the purchase if I can’t get Scott Knight to talk to me.

“So it’s really an organic bakery?” I ask. Sounds like a contradiction. I associate bakeries with sweet, sugary goodness, not good-for-you food.

“Well, they say that to please the health-conscious masses. And they make some delicious all-natural artisan breads. It’s the cakes that kick ass though.” Archer leans back, patting his stomach. “Ivy brought one home for my birthday. Best damn cake I ever ate.”

“What kind? And does
she
bake them?” I found that hard to believe. She didn’t seem like the sweet, domesticated type. Definitely doesn’t look like a woman who likes to knead dough and frost cakes.

“She’s not the baker, her aunt is. Marina manages the business.”

Huh. Pulling my phone out of my jeans pocket, I bring up Autumn Harvest in St. Helena, clicking the “About Us” link. Impatiently I wait for the photos to load, sighing when I see the small pic of Marina Knight smiling at me.

This is where I recognize her from—the website. I’d looked at it before when I was gathering information. Ammo. Whatever you want to call it.

“I knew I recognized her from somewhere,” I say as I stare at the picture on my phone.

She looks pretty. Accessible. She’s wearing a T-shirt that says A
UTUMN
H
ARVEST
across the front. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, her smile wide, cheeks a becoming, rosy pink, almost as pink as her sensuous lips.

I can’t take my eyes off of her.

“I think you’ve got it bad for freaking Marina Knight,” Archer said, sounding infinitely amused, the jackoff. “This is hilarious. Are you sitting there mooning over her picture?”

Clicking my phone off, I shove it back in my pocket. “No,” I mutter, glancing about the restaurant. The place is now packed, and it’s a Wednesday for Christ’s sake. I need to change the subject and quick. “You must be making it hand over fist here.”

“Business is good,” he says modestly. “Brisk. This time of year is always better than others.” He grins. “The autumn harvest is almost upon us, you know. The tourists come out in droves. Get it? Autumn. Harvest. You can’t get away from her if you tried right now, bro.”

Asshole. “You’re real funny.” I roll my eyes but he’s kind of speaking the truth.

I can’t get away from Marina Knight. She’s invaded my thoughts the last few days. The last few nights. I regret pissing her off. I regret not getting to spend more time with her.

I also regret that she sounds somewhat like a man-eater according to Archer, though she hadn’t given me that vibe when I was with her. Alluring, yes. Seductive, most definitely.

Sighing, I run my hand through my hair, glancing out the window at the gorgeous view of the vibrant green and gold vineyards in the distance. I need to make a gesture. Get on Marina’s good side.

But how?

Marina

T
HE BOUQUET ARRIVED
out of nowhere, a gorgeous burst of color, a variety of wildflowers in a giant glass vase with a raffia bow tied around the middle. The delivery guy carried it into the store with both hands curled around the vase, his head hidden behind the blooms.

“What the heck is that?” My aunt Gina stops right next to me behind the counter, her gaze wide, jaw hanging open. Her forehead has a streak of flour across it and the apron she wears is smeared with chocolate.

“I don’t know,” I answer as the flowers are set rather unceremoniously on our counter, directly in front of me. “They’re beautiful though.”

“And they’re for a Marina Knight,” the delivery guy announces, his tone bored as he chews his gum, contemplating me from around the flower arrangement. “Is that you?”

Curiosity fills me. “It is. Who are these from?”

He shrugs, not giving a crap. “I dunno. Check the card. See ya.”

I watch him go, the glass door swinging closed behind him, the tinkling bell above the door announcing his departure. Aunt Gina nudges me in the ribs, her elbow extra pointy for some reason, and I grumble out an
ouch
.

“Check the envelope! I want to know who your new admirer is,” she encourages eagerly.

“Hah, I have no admirers.” And I like it that way. Men complicate everything. I need to focus on saving the family business, not worry if a guy thinks I’m pretty enough to ask out on a date.

Leaning forward, I breathe deep, inhaling the deliciously sweet floral scent. The flowers are so beautiful they almost don’t look real. The arrangement appears haphazard, a casual gathering of gorgeous blooms, but as I look closer, I see that it’s artfully arranged.

“They’re lovely,” Gina breathes, sniffing loudly. “And they smell divine. Even better than the chocolate cake baking in the oven.”

She’s right. I can’t even smell the usual bakery scents anymore. All I can inhale is the fragrance of the flowers. Plucking through the arrangement, I run my finger first over a silky white petal, then a velvety purple one. I notice the pick nestled amongst the blooms holding a small, cream-colored envelope.

I tear it open and pull out the thick, square card, frowning at the sight of the unfamiliar, very bold script.

Marina—

I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive my rudeness the other night. Perhaps we can start over?

Best,

Gage

Blowing out a harsh breath, I roll my eyes at no one. I’m freaking irritated he didn’t sign his last name, believing he was that memorable.

And he had been.

A giddy, fizzy sensation washes over me, and I fight it down as best I can, but it’s no use. I like that he did this. That he wanted to apologize by sending me flowers.

It meant he was thinking about me.

Taking a deep breath, I shake my head, focusing instead on why he had to make that apology in the first place. Talk about a grand gesture. The flowers had to have cost him an absolute fortune. Glancing at the back of the torn envelope, I see the name of the floral shop printed in tiny script in the upper left corner.

Oh yeah. I know they cost a fortune. Botanical is the premiere florist shop in the valley—and right down the street from the bakery.

“Who are they from?” Gina asks.

I glance up at her, sad I’m about to disappoint her. My mother’s family has already written me off as a dried-up old maid, I know it. I’m freaking twenty-three but every Molina woman, including my mother and my aunt, were married by the age of twenty-one.

The way they act, they may as well set me up on the shelf and forget all about me.

“A man I met a few nights ago,” I start, glaring at her when she begins squealing excitedly. She shuts up quick. “It was nothing. We were at that new winery’s open house, remember the one I told you about? We started talking, and then he made me angry, so I stormed off. The flowers are his way of apologizing.”

“Some apology,” Gina says dryly, her gaze still lingering on the bouquet. “Why did you get so mad at him?”

“He insulted our family.”

I knew that would get her riled. She stiffens her spine, her expression gone indignant. “What? How? What an insufferable—”

“I overreacted. He didn’t know who I was.” I shrug, trying to act like he didn’t bother me too badly, but he so did. If I think about it too much, I could get angry all over again.

Angry and some other emotion I’d rather not focus on at the moment . . .

“He didn’t know who you were? Who is this imbecile?” My aunt is outraged on my behalf. Gotta love her. “Everyone knows the Molinas!”

“First of all, I’m a Knight—” I start.

“And a Molina,” she adds.

“Right.” I nod. Proud Italians are the worst, as in the most stubborn people of all the land. At least my family is. “And he’s not from the area.”

My entire family tends to forget there’s a whole other world outside of their Napa Valley glass bubble. As I child, I found it very secure. As an adult, I view them as narrow-minded and self-important. Sometimes.

Didn’t you act a little self-important with a certain someone a few nights ago?

I frown. Really didn’t need that reminder.

“Where’s he from?” she huffs.

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. But I knew he was a stranger. I’ve never seen him before.” I’m lying. Yes, he’s a stranger, as in not local. But I know where he’s from. I can’t tell Gina I did a background check on him though. Then she’d ask why, and I’d have to tell her, and I’m sorry, I don’t have time to answer questions right now.

I need to work. It’s all I do lately. I definitely don’t get out much; the event where I saw Gage had been a social-working thing, so that doesn’t count.

Otherwise, I’m so busy I’m either here at the bakery, helping out my parents, or having long meetings at the bank trying to straighten out our financial mess with an advisor who’s worked for my dad since before I was born.

Then I go home late at night and collapse into bed, only to start all over again the next morning.

Talk about living in a sheltered little bubble. I’m the complete embodiment of it.

“Well. He sounds horrid.” Gina sniffs.

I hold back from rolling my eyes. My mother’s younger sister loves to rush to judgment. It’s one of her finer qualities, my mom always says. Her steadfast loyalty is always appreciated. And we work well together, despite her occasional moodiness and uneven temperament.

Of course, she could probably say the same about me, so . . .

“He wasn’t that bad.” Major understatement. No, Gage Emerson definitely isn’t horrid. Handsome, yes. Sexy, indeed he is. Confident to the point of smug, oh yeah.

I’ve always found confidence in a man attractive. I blame my father. He embodies all of those traits in a most handsome package.

“Do you forgive him?”

Blinking, I turn to find Gina studying me, her gaze shrewd. “What did you say?” I ask.

“What with the flowers and the card he sent you, do you now forgive this man who insulted our family? And why would he go so far and apologize like this? How long did you two talk?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Ten minutes?”

Her lips tighten to the point of almost completely disappearing from her face. How does she do that? “So a man you spoke to for ten minutes and treated you rudely sends you flowers that probably cost hundreds of dollars? I smell a rat.”

“You always do,” I joke with her, trying to lighten the moment, but she won’t have it.

Shaking her head, she rounds the counter and stands on the other side, sticking her face into the bouquet and breathing deep. “This is by far the most beautiful arrangement I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot.” That was the truth, considering Gina used to create beautiful cakes for wedding receptions. We gave that up when I took over. I’d streamlined the business completely, something my aunt was very grateful for. She’d been working herself to the bone.

Now I guess it’s my turn.

“He’s just trying to impress me with his money,” I joke, making her smile. “Probably hoping I’ll fall to my knees and praise him for his lavish gifts.”

“Now that sounds like an interesting scenario,” a man’s voice said from behind her.

Gasping at the sound of the faintly familiar, velvety deep voice, I glance up to find Gage Emerson himself standing in the middle of the bakery, looking disgustingly gorgeous, clad in another one of those perfect suits he owns. The man dresses to perfection. And why didn’t I hear the bell ring over the door? “Oh my God,” I whisper, absolutely mortified. His suggestive tone said he found my words . . . titillating. Great.

And while we’re standing in the presence of my very overprotective and slightly angry aunt.

“I take it this is the rat?” she asks, making me groan inwardly.

“At your service, ma’am.” Gage goes to her, his hand outstretched. Gina eyes it warily, as if it was a snake that might strike her at any moment. “Gage Emerson, aka The Rat.”

She laughs and takes his hand, charmed. Just like that. It might not last, knowing my aunt, but come on . . . everyone seems to fall for him.

Why does her positive reaction rub me the wrong way? Why does
Gage
rub me the wrong way?

If I’m being honest with myself, I could get on board with him rubbing me the right way. And I don’t normally fall for smug assholes. I’m attracted to confident men, but there’s something about Gage I don’t like. His arrogance is over the top. He seems like he’d be bad for me. And I’ve never had a bad-boy fetish.

Not that he’s a bad boy, per se. But he’s definitely trouble. Trouble I don’t want.

Yeah, you do.

I’m arguing with my own self inside my head. Clearly, I’ve lost my mind. I don’t get it. I don’t get my reaction to him.

Correction. I don’t want to react to him, and I can’t seem to help myself.

Chapter Three

Gage

T
HE TWO WOMEN
eye me carefully, the older woman—who I assume is Marina’s aunt—relaxing somewhat.

At least someone has a sense of humor around here. You could cut the tension in this cute little European-style bakery with a cake knife.

“How are you, Marina?” I walk toward the counter, noting how she grips the edge so tight she’s white-knuckling it. Do I make her that angry? Or maybe . . . that nervous?

I know she makes me nervous. She’s all I think about, which can’t be healthy.

For once, I really don’t give a damn.

“Good.” She lifts her chin, her expression neutral. Only her eyes give her away, a hint of nervousness fluttering in their depths. This woman standing before me is completely different from the one I first met a few nights ago. This version looks younger, sweeter. More like the woman in the photo on the Autumn Harvest website. Not quite as poised as the elegant siren luring me in with her dangerous smile and sweet voice. “I’m surprised to see you here.”