The Wedding Bargain

“Several years. We met at one of her art exhibits.”

Also interesting. She was usually quick to figure out what people did for a living, and she had not pegged Michael as an artist, or even an art aficionado. “Are you in the art business?” she asked.

He hesitated before answering, which made her suspect he was hiding something.

“Business, yes,” he said finally. “Not art. As it turns out, your friend Nicola’s husband is also a colleague of mine.”

Jonathan was a lawyer. “Do you work with him?” she asked.

“No, I’m not a lawyer. Just a client.”

“One of their criminal cases?”

His laughter was genuine. “Good one. I try to stay out of trouble, or at least not get caught. Besides, Jonathan is a corporate lawyer.”

Did that make Michael a corporation or just someone who worked for one? She owned her own business, but the only time she’d talked to a lawyer was when she had settled her grandfather’s estate.

“You haven’t tasted the wine.”

Neither had he, she noticed. She obliged and took a sip. “Nice.”

He looked taken aback, as though he’d expected her to say something else.

“Very nice.” To emphasize her point, she took another drink.

He gave the wine in his glass a gentle swirl. “Does the Whiskey Sour have a wine list?”

“Not a list, exactly, but I do stock two kinds of wine.”

“What are they?”

“Red and white.”

His laugh was even sexier than his smile. “Seriously?”

Completely serious. “I really want to reinvent the place as a cocktail lounge, but right now most of my patrons are beer drinkers. A couple of my friends—Nicola and Paige, who is one of the other bridesmaids—drink wine, so I keep a few bottles on hand.”

“Tasting a wine should be like a first kiss. You need to take your time and give it all your attention.”

He tipped his glass slightly to one side. “Did you notice the color of this one?”

Other than it being red, she had not. She focused on the glass for a moment and wondered if she’d ever find out what a first kiss with him would be like. She looked up at him and realized he was waiting for her answer. She managed to shake her head.

He tipped his glass slightly to one side. “If the light was better, you’d see it’s not red. It’s a deep shade of garnet.”

All she saw was a pair of dark blue eyes. “What does that mean?”

“It’s well aged.” He straightened his glass.

“No offense, but doesn’t wine tasting strike you as being kind of pompous? I mean, they’re pretty much all the same.”

His only response was a stunned expression, but he recovered quickly. “Tell me something about yourself.”

“Uh, what would you like to know?”

“Something I wouldn’t expect to hear.”

Would her wanting to explore the whole kissing thing be unexpected? Probably not. “I used to be a high school teacher and I have a brown belt in karate.”

“Really? I guess that’s one way to keep students in line.”

She smiled at that. She wasn’t cut out to be a teacher, but fortunately she’d never had to rely on the martial arts for classroom management. It had come in handy with a couple of her mother’s boyfriends, though. One in particular.

Snap out of it, she told herself. She usually didn’t dwell on the past, so why did it keep shoving its way into her thoughts tonight? Maybe it was being around Rory’s family, or maybe it was the unexpected attention from a handsome stranger who avoided answering questions about himself, but had no trouble wheedling information out of her.

Michael swirled the contents of his glass, but he was studying her intently. “So before you taste the wine, you have to smell it.” He held it out to her. “Inhale slowly, and really think about the scent.”

In her book, there weren’t many things more pretentious than wine tasting, but she played along and took a sniff. “It sort of smells like cherries.”

He smelled it. “You’re right. Ripe cherries, and just a hint of spice.”

Her insides went wobbly. “Your turn. To tell me something unexpected about you, I mean.”

He hesitated, as though trying to think of something that might interest her. “I’m restoring a 1954 Morgan.”

Michael’s hands didn’t look anything like the mechanics’ hands she often saw wrapped around beer mugs at the Whiskey Sour. “Are you actually doing the work yourself, or are you having it restored?”

“A little of both. You know something about cars?”

She cupped both hands around her glass. “A little. My grandfather had an old MGB. I used to help him work on it from time to time, and a lot of his friends are…were…mechanics. Some of them are still regulars at the bar.”

“You should hold your glass by the stem,” he said. “That way you don’t transfer the warmth from your hands to the contents of the glass.”

“Oh.” She adjusted her hands accordingly.

“I rebuilt the engine myself. With my brother, actually. We’ve been working on it together. It’s a nice change of pace from…what I usually do.”

Okay. Maybe the brother was a mechanic.

“Now you should taste the wine again,” he said, but he reached for her hand and stopped her before she could raise the glass to her lips. “Let it slide over your tongue and around the inside of your mouth before you swallow it.” His voice had taken on a sinfully deep tone and she swore it was reverberating through his hand and up her arm. “Try it.”

She took a sip and so did he. She watched his mouth, and didn’t swallow until he did.

“What do you think?”

She was at a loss for words, and that almost never happened.

“Peppery, just a hint of oak,” he said. “Full-bodied.”

“Yes. You took the words right out of my mouth.”

He smiled at her. “Can you still taste it?”

She thought about that for a second or two, and nodded.

“That’s one of the best characteristics of this particular wine. It has a long, warm finish.”

Holy crap. She should ask about his car, or his brother or what kind of business he was in. Instead she took another slow, careful sip of wine, imagined she was being kissed, and contemplated everything implied by a long, warm finish.

Chapter Two

Michael Morgan followed his real estate agent out of the shabby building she’d just shown him in the South of Market district and waited on the sidewalk while she locked the door. The large windows overlooking the street had been boarded up with plywood, and that had been covered with several coats of paint in an unsuccessful attempt to keep graffiti under control. Even the big for-sale sign had been tagged so many times, it was almost unreadable. It was the third place he’d seen and the least disastrous, which wasn’t saying much.

“It definitely needs work,” the agent said. “I do think it has potential, though. Nice high ceilings and all that exposed brick. And there’s already lots of new development nearby.” She had helped him find the two previous locations for his new wine bars—the first at Fisherman’s Wharf and the second on Nob Hill—and she now had a good sense of what he wanted.

This place was a dump, but she was right, it had potential. A trendy-looking deli and coffee shop had recently opened across the street, a new residential building next door boasted upscale loft condos and there was more new construction on the next block. On the downside, this place required a major renovation and he had no idea how much of the building’s character and existing structure could be salvaged, or how much capital he’d have to sink into it.

“It is a good location,” he said. “Let me talk to my sister and find out when she can check it out. She’s the architect who’ll be handling this project.”

“Of course. If it makes life easier for you, have her call me directly and we’ll set up a time.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that.” Michael unlocked his car, got in and checked his cell phone for messages. Nothing that couldn’t wait. He pulled up his sister’s private number and studied the building’s facade while he waited for her to answer. The windows and front entrance were set in brick arches. The second-story windows were tall, almost floor-to-ceiling on the inside. He could picture them with ironwork Juliet balconies on the outside, and maybe some planters.

“Hey, big brother. What’s up?”

“Hi, Lexi. I’ve just toured a possible location for the new wine bar in SoMa. Any chance you can take a look sometime this week?”

“I’ll be happy to.”

He gave her the real estate agent’s number and said he’d leave it to her to set up an appointment. “I guess I’ll see you at home tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t miss it. What time will you be there?”

“I’m driving up first thing in the morning. I have a meeting with Ginny at the winery, then I thought I’d hang out with Ben for the rest of the day. What about you?”

“I plan to catch up on some work here and leave around lunchtime, but I’ll take a look at this place before I go. The party’s not till six, right?”

“That’s right, but I think Mom would like you to be there a little before she serves dinner.”

“Gee, you think?” Lexi laughed. “Oh, hang on a sec.”

He waited and listened to her give a series of quick instructions to an assistant.

“Okay, I’m back. I’ve already told Mom I’ll be there before dinner, and she talked me into staying the night. I also told her that if she wants us to drop everything and spend the whole day up there, then she shouldn’t throw a party in the middle of the week.”

He was willing to concede that Lexi made a good point, even though he didn’t agree with her and neither would their mother. As far as Sophia Morgan was concerned, nothing was as important as family, and he felt the same way. As much as he had wanted to build on his father’s business—and so far his success had exceeded even his expectations—he had done it as much for his family as for himself.

He divided his time between his family’s home in Napa Valley and his apartment in San Francisco, which meant he was back and forth fairly often. His sister Ginny and her husband lived in the valley at one of the family’s vineyards. Lexi was the only one who’d chosen a career outside the family business and made a permanent move to the city. She was a shrewd businesswoman, even a little hard-nosed at times, and was also the only one of his siblings who was periodically at odds with their mother. The fireworks had started the day she hit puberty, escalated through her teen years and finally settled into an accepting but arm’s-length relationship around the time she left for college.

“Has our mother ever thrown a party that wasn’t on the actual day of someone’s birthday?” he asked.

“No, but it’s not like Ben would know.”

“Ah, but she would,” he reminded her.

“Yeah, I know, and I’ll be there. I will. Just not for the whole day.”

“Okay, okay. No guilt trips from me. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

He tossed the information packet from the Realtor into the glove compartment, took out a pair of sunglasses and flipped open his appointment book. This had been his last scheduled meeting for the day. Now he’d satisfy his curiosity about a little bar called the Whiskey Sour and the high-spirited redhead who ran the place. He’d thought a lot about both since he’d met her at Rory and Mitch’s wedding on Saturday evening, and he was looking forward to seeing her again. This time on her turf.

He was more interested in her bar than he was in her, though. She had implied that her business wasn’t doing all that well, so there was a very good chance she’d consider selling. And if she hadn’t considered it, well, he could be persuasive.

Still, she was an intriguing woman in her own right. That amazing cascade of red hair would make any man a little crazy, and those piercing green eyes could cut through any pretense. He didn’t often meet a beautiful woman who didn’t use her looks to her advantage, and that’s what had intrigued him most. She had introduced herself simply as Jess, but it had been easy enough to find out that her name was Jessica Bennett. She was the owner and sole proprietor of the Whiskey Sour, and according to the telephone directory she rented an apartment about six blocks away. Which might sound a bit stalkerish, but he’d learned the hard way to check out people, especially women, before letting them into his life.

Not that Jess had given any indication she wanted in. She hadn’t come across as a gold digger, but then neither had most of the others. Jess seemed down-to-earth and completely unpretentious, and she had made her thoughts on wine tasting abundantly clear. She thought it was pompous. Then there’d been the quip about him being one of Jonathan’s criminal cases. Somewhat to his surprise, he had found it refreshing, and it still made him smile. She might have been more restrained if she’d known who he was, but there was also a good chance she wouldn’t.

The sun had finally put in an appearance, and before he drove away he put on the sunglasses and debated whether or not to put the top down. Better to leave it up, he decided. He’d have to park on the street and he wasn’t all that familiar with the neighborhood. A few minutes later he pulled into a parking spot behind a red scooter and knew he’d made the right decision. Jess’s bar was on the street level of a two-story building that had seen better days. It was in better shape than the place he’d just seen and although the location was sketchier, there was some new development down the block.

This should be interesting. In spite of her elegant appearance on Saturday night, she had not been comfortable in the strapless gown or the high-heeled shoes—especially not the dress—but he still had trouble picturing her running a blue-collar establishment, and that’s clearly what this was.

He opened the door and stepped inside the dimly lit space, realizing he’d forgotten to leave his sunglasses in the car. He shoved them up onto his head and waited for his eyes to adjust. The place smelled of beer and disinfectant with a hint of deep-fryer fat that was past its prime. Gradually he became aware that all eyes—those of two older men perched on stools that flanked one corner of the bar and the young brunette behind the bar—were on him.

Or…was that Jess?

It was. The lighting was deceptive and the brunette was actually a redhead. He approached the bar, taking in the unexpected transformation of the ill-at-ease woman in the strapless blue gown into this casual ponytailed barkeep in a man’s blue-and-white-pinstriped dress shirt worn jacket-style over a gray T-shirt. He had been oddly attracted to the initial version, but he was out-and-out intrigued by this one.

“This is a surprise,” she said.

He’d be willing to wager that he was more surprised than she was. Without taking her eyes off him, she finished pulling a glass of beer and slid it across the counter to one of the only two customers in the place.

Michael nodded a greeting to the two men and took a stool, leaving an empty one between them, and turned his attention back to Jess. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“Were you?” Her tone implied that she didn’t believe him. “What brings you down here?”

You, he was tempted to say, but that wasn’t entirely true and she’d never believe it anyway. “Real estate,” he said instead.

“I see. Buying or selling?”

“Buying.”

She was back to looking skeptical again. At the wedding she had mentioned that the mechanics who had been her grandfather’s old friends still frequented the place. Her two customers had to be them.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

He thought about asking for a glass of wine just to see what she’d give him, but he was pretty sure that would tick her off. Instead, he did a quick survey of what she had on tap. A small but impressive selection. “I’ll have a Guinness.”

She reached for a glass and while she filled it, he studied her face. At the wedding she’d worn her hair loose and her makeup had been flawless. Today he doubted she was wearing any, except maybe some mascara. With her coloring, the long, sweeping eyelashes seemed too dark to be natural. She looked young, probably much younger than she actually was, and the faded, slim-fitting jeans and black-and-white high-topped sneakers made her seem even more youthful.

She set the glass on a cardboard coaster in front of him. “What kind of real estate are you looking for?”

“A location for a new wine bar.”

“So you really do know something about wine.” Her grin took the edge off the dig.

“I do.”

“I sure don’t need any more competition, but a wine bar sounds like the kind of place the neighborhood newbies will go for.”

Unlike the two men seated at the bar. They were a couple of old-timers in every sense of the word. Michael took a quick look around the interior. “I don’t know. If you fix up this place, you’d attract a diff—” The two men had stopped talking and had tuned in to his conversation with Jess. “You’d bring in more business.”

She gave him a long, thoughtful look. “I’m working on it.”

If she had a plan, she apparently wasn’t going to share it with him. “Have you considered selling?” he asked instead.

She’d started to clean the counter with a damp cloth, but she paused in midswipe. He noticed that the pink nail polish she’d worn at the wedding was gone. “If that’s why you came in here, you should have saved yourself the trouble. The Whiskey Sour is not for sale.”

It had been an innocent enough question, but she was genuinely offended by it. “No problem. I just looked at a place on Folsom Street. It needs work, but it’s the best I’ve seen so far.” With the exception of this place. He wanted a building that had the feel of an old warehouse, in keeping with the neighborhood, and Jess’s bar had everything on his list—interior brick walls, exposed overhead ducts and wiring, and original plank floors that had, over the decades, been buffed into a natural patina. Didn’t she realize she was sitting on a gold mine? Then again, her business was none of his.

“Do you live around here?” Her voice sounded distant all of a sudden, and he could tell she was still suspicious about his motivation for being here. Damn. That’s not what he’d intended.

“I have an apartment on Nob Hill. What about you?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

“Not far from here.” She backed away and leaned on the counter behind the bar, arms folded, ankles crossed.

This was not going well.

He took the sunglasses off his head, folded them and set them on the bar. “So I was wondering, would you like to go out for dinner sometime?” She looked as surprised as he felt. He’d thought a lot about asking her out since he’d danced with her on Saturday night, but he usually had more finesse than this.

“Oh. Um…I work here most nights so…no. But thanks.”

The skinny man sitting closest to him shifted slightly on his stool. “She doesn’t work on Thursdays,” he said.

“Larry! No help from the peanut gallery.”

Both men were smiling broadly and nudging one another with their elbows. “When was the last time you went out on a date?” the heavyset man asked.

Jess’s face turned a revealing shade of red. “Bill, that goes for you, too. You guys are as bad as Granddad used to be.”

The man named Larry wasn’t finished. “She has another bartender who’s here every Thursday,” he said to Michael. “So tomorrow night would be good.”

Michael laughed. He felt a bit like a teenager asking a girl’s father for permission to take her out. “Thursdays. Good to know. Unfortunately, I have plans tomorrow. A family dinner,” he added quickly so she didn’t think it was a date. “It’s my brother’s birthday. Next Thursday would be good, though.” He hoped he was free that night, but if there was something on his calendar, it would be easy enough to change.

Jess stepped forward, planted both hands flat on the bartop and leaned toward him. “Hello? I said no.”

Ah, but did she mean it? He put his own hand down so it was almost touching hers. “I’d be interested to hear your thoughts on running a bar in this part of the city. It would just be a business dinner.”

“A free business dinner,” Larry said.

Bill, who’d been slowly nursing his beer, set his glass down. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Jess rolled her eyes and glared at them.

Michael was sure she was having second thoughts.

“Do you have a pen?” he asked.

She plucked one from a jar beside the cash register and handed it to him.

“Thanks.” He took a fresh coaster from a stack on the bar, flipped it over and wrote his number on the back. “This is my cell phone. I’ll pick you up here at six next Thursday, but if something comes up you can call me.” He could give her a business card but decided against it. Too much information. For a second he had even debated whether or not to write his last name on the coaster, but he left it at Michael. Until he got to know her, the less she knew about him, the better.

He slid the coaster across the bar. She didn’t pick it up, but he knew she’d keep it, and although she still hadn’t said yes, she had stopped saying no.

He swiveled a little to the right on the wobbly seat of the bar stool. “You gentlemen must be regulars,” he said to Larry and Bill.

As he had surmised, both were mechanics who worked nearby. They’d been dropping in for a beer every day after work for years, had been longtime friends of Jess’s grandfather and had more or less watched her grow up, which accounted for their avuncular affection. They talked about cars and he told them about the old Morgan he and his brother were restoring while he drank his Guinness and subtly—at least he hoped he was being subtle—watched the woman behind the bar.

Likewise, Jess kept herself busy, but he could tell she didn’t miss a beat. She perked up when their talk drifted to the old sports car he was restoring. He thought she might even join their conversation, but she didn’t. Larry said he knew of a reliable supplier for rebuilt auto parts. Michael pocketed the man’s card and said he’d be sure to give him a call when he needed something.

Twenty minutes later, after he finished his beer, he pulled out his wallet and opened it. Before he withdrew a bill, he finally made eye contact with Jess. “Walk me out?” he asked.

He half expected her to tell him to get lost, but she skirted the bar and joined him. He tossed a bill onto the counter and walked with her to the door. He wanted to touch her, but he knew she wouldn’t want that, not with Larry and Bill watching.

“I enjoyed meeting your friends at the wedding,” he said instead. “You and Rory and the other bridesmaids seem pretty tight.”

“We are. They’re like my family. Now that my granddad’s gone, they’re really the only family I have.”

Interesting. He couldn’t imagine life without a close-knit family—a biological one—and was tempted to ask about her parents. No, that could wait. She gave the impression she would open up only when she was ready and not a moment sooner.

“Having friends who have your back is always a good thing.” He pushed the door open and she followed him outside. “So I’ll see you next Thursday.”

She drew the front of her shirt closed and folded her arms over it. “No offence, but why do you want to go out with me? The woman you met at the wedding the other night isn’t the real me. This—” she uncrossed her arms and made a sweeping gesture “—this is the real me.”

“Relax. It’s business, and it’s just dinner. I’m interested to hear what you think of my plan for the new wine bar.” Which wasn’t the case at all. Once he made up his mind about something—and he already knew what he wanted in this neighborhood—he wasn’t interested in what anyone else had to say about it. He had good instincts about these things and so far following them had paid off.

“So long as we’re clear about one thing. Dinner is strictly business, and the Whiskey Sour is not for sale.”

Or so she thought. Everything and everybody had a price. He could be very persuasive, and he was accustomed to getting what he wanted. And right now he wanted the Whiskey Sour. “Understood. I’d like to hear what you have planned for this place, too.” He had the impression that she didn’t actually have a plan, though, and that was going to work to his advantage. “See you next week.”