From the Moment We Met Read online

  Also in Marina Adair’s St. Helena Vineyard Series

  Kissing Under the Mistletoe

  Summer in Napa

  Autumn in the Vineyard

  Be Mine Forever

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Marina Adair

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477823590

  ISBN-10: 147782359X

  Cover design by Kerrie Robertson

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014901089

  To Jill Marsal

  I hope that every girl is lucky enough to find an agent and friend like you. Thank you for your endless support, your willingness to listen to every single one of my ideas—even the bad ones—and cheering me on every step of the way. Without you this series never would have existed.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  SNEAK PEEK: NEED YOU FOR KEEPS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Most women spend an average of 150 hours fantasizing and dreaming about the perfect wedding. Not Abigail DeLuca. Nope, she’d spent the past seven years planning the perfect divorce, which as of—she glanced at her watch—eight hours ago had finally been granted. And nobody was going to ruin her first day as a happy divorcée.

  Nobody, she thought grimly after the doorbell rang and she opened the front door to find a bear of a man in grease-stained coveralls standing on her front porch. The man pulled his Rodney’s Recovery, Repossession & Party Rentals trucker hat low on his forehead and flashed a copy of Abby’s marriage certificate. “Are you Abigail Moretti, wife of Richard Moretti?”

  Abby realized she had to amend her previous statement that nobody could ruin her Divorce Day, because there was one person who could ruin it—her pencil dick of a two-timing ex.

  “Ex-wife. As of today,” she clarified, pulling her robe tighter. Her new, silky blue robe that did amazing things to her skin—and her cleavage. She’d bought it specifically to wear today, wanting a perky start to her new life. A bold and confident start. None of which included coming face-to-face with Rodney. “And my name is DeLuca. Abigail DeLuca.”

  She’d stopped going by Moretti the day she discovered that Richard’s favorite pastime during intern season was playing hide the salami.

  “Abby?” A weathered voice called out from over the picket fence that separated her property from the busiest busybody and gossip in St. Helena, save her Nonna ChiChi. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Kincaid. Just getting the morning paper.”

  “Well, you might want to invite your gentleman friend inside before tongues start wagging,” Nora chided, peering over the fence. “This is a respectable neighborhood.”

  Nora was the self-appointed neighborhood watch commissioner of the cul-de-sac and Krug Court, and took her job seriously. She meticulously chronicled her neighbors’ comings and goings, being sure to report any odd findings to the community Facebook page. Even issuing citations for infringement of the Good Neighbor Code.

  Nora had been looking for a reason to cite Abby ever since the St. Helena Sentinel ran an article stating that Abby’s dahlias were the best summer bloom in town—a golden stamp of approval that resulted in the upstaging of Mrs. Kincaid’s royal crown magnolia tree.

  “He’s not my gentleman friend,” Abby clarified, and because she was raised in a house where being rude to one’s elders was considered sacrilege, she refrained from pointing out that spying on thy neighbor was also not a respectable hobby.

  “If you say so.” Nora sounded unconvinced. “It would be a shame if the neighborhood became a drive-thru for the town’s bachelors.”

  Nora would actually be ecstatic if that happened, because she’d capture each and every transgression on film and post it on Facebook. Not that there would be any transgressions of the male variety. Abby was finally single, and she meant to keep it that way.

  So with a polite smile, she said, “And he was just leaving.”

  Only Rodney didn’t budge.

  Raising a brow, Abby reached for the door handle and—as though anticipating her next move, which was to disappear back inside her house, pull the curtains, and toast her D-day with a mimosa—he took a step forward. And wasn’t that just like a man: self-centered, domineering, and, even though he was the one who was crapping all over her good morning, determined to be heard.

  Abby took in the receding hairline, the frown marks, and the cab of the flatbed tow truck peeking out from behind Nora’s enormous manicured shrubs—her gaze landing on the Repossess part of his title—and rolled her eyes. “If you’re here to repossess Richard’s car, you wasted your time, because like I explained only seconds ago, Richard is not here.”

  Nor was he her problem anymore.

  “So if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for an appointment.” Which was not until later that afternoon. But standing on the front porch in her sexy robe, talking to a strange man, where her neighbors idly placed bets on whether he was the first post-D-day walk-of-shamer, was not her idea of easing into respectable singlehood.

  “I’ll make it quick then. The name’s Rodney, of Rodney’s Recovery, Repossession & Party Rentals.” He pointed to the logo on the front of his hat as though that was all the identification required, and extended a newspaper clipping. “I need to confirm if you are the Abigail Moretti, uh, the Abigail who placed this ad in the local paper.”

  Abby’s face heated as she looked at the full-page ad from the Sentinel. It was a copy dating from last summer, boasting a missing persons announcement with a photo of Richard that had been taken on their wedding day. He was dressed in a tux, looking handsome and faithful and like a man in love. Abby nearly snorted.

  “Yes, I was trying to locate my estranged husband so that I could”—she paused, her face heating again, but this time with anger—“Wait. Don’t tell me that the son of a bitch is trying to sue me for defamation of character? It was an ad. That I had to take out because he refused to show his cheating face so I could serve him with divorce papers.”

  Richard had successfully managed to elude her, her family, and the law for the past seven years. By Abby placing the ad, which qualified as a divorce by publication, Richard had six months to come forward, otherwise the divorce would be granted.

  Richard hadn’t come forward, which meant the divorce was granted today.

  Rodney raised a brow. “The headline reads, HAVE YOU SEEN MY DICK?”

  “It was the question of the hour for women everywhere, I assure you.
”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, you are Abigail Moretti, who married Richard Moretti in St. Helena, California, eight years ago.”

  When Abby only crossed her arms, Rodney gave a decisive nod. Turning around, he waved his hand, signaling—signaling to who, Abby had no idea, but her stomach sank all the same when he hollered, “Bring it on in. This is the right house.”

  Before Abby could process what was happening, a loud beeping echoed throughout the cul-de-sac, announcing the ginormous truck backing up—right over her lawn, crushing the garden bunny one of her piano students had painted for her, and straight through the center of her dahlia garden. Her beautiful dahlias that she’d planted and nurtured into a masterpiece of horticulture supremeness.

  It was the centerpiece of her yard. Hell, it was the centerpiece of the whole damn neighborhood.

  “What are you doing?” Abby raced down the steps, waving a signal of her own. “Stop!”

  “Sorry, but we only get paid if we make the delivery as per the instructions. And we had some pretty specific instructions on this here delivery.”

  “But my dahlias!”

  Rodney at least had the decency to look apologetic, but the truck didn’t stop, not until it had torn up a good half of her lawn and smashed every last bloom in her garden. Then the beeping became more alarming as the open flatbed of the truck lifted—and that was when Abby knew officially, without a doubt, that there couldn’t possibly be lower scum on the entire planet than Richard.

  Before she could say a word or throw herself in front of the oncoming disaster that was quickly becoming her life, a nude, Adonis-inspired statue slid down the ramp of the truck, landing gracefully on her lawn with a small thud.

  “Oh my,” Nora sighed with an expression of sheer appreciation. “Isn’t that an eyeful?”

  Eyeful indeed. Standing well over six feet tall, and except for the embellished bulge and generous amount of hair, the marble statue was a spot-on replica of her ex. Even down to the smarmy smile and trademarked wink.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Rodney asked, and Abby realized she was staring.

  “I’ll say.” Nora fanned herself while a series of impressed grunts came from the two men who exited the delivery truck to take in the sight.

  “He wasn’t that big,” Abby felt the need to point out, then realized how that sounded and clarified. “Tall. I meant he wasn’t that tall. The man was only five ten. With lifts.”

  Looking extremely satisfied with himself, Rodney extended a pen and a clipboard. “I need you to sign here, here, and here.”

  “And I need you to remove that”—Abby waved a hand at the statue—“monstrosity, before I call the cops.”

  “No can do.” Rodney rocked back on his heels. “I got paid for a delivery. It’s been delivered.”

  “Then I’ll pay you to deliver it somewhere else.”

  Mulling over her request, Rodney sized up Abby, then took his time sizing up the statue, finally shaking his head in pure male awe. “You sure? It’s a statement maker. Really brings out the character of your yard.”

  “My yard has plenty of character and that is not the kind of statement I want to be making.”

  “Plus it’s in violation of GN Code Twenty-Seven C,” Nora said, crossing the lawn and pointing her trimmers at the violation in question. “Garden art can’t be more than three feet tall with a base not exceeding half the height, unless it has a water element to it, and then you must get board approval of the fixture.”

  “Oh, it’s got a water feature all right,” Rodney explained ever so seriously, raising his hand to rest it on Richard’s shoulder. “All Mrs. Moretti’s got to do is run a water line to the base and then water shoots out his—”

  “There will be no shooting,” Abby insisted, her right eye beginning to twitch. “And it’s not staying. In fact, I will pay you to deliver it back to where it came from.”

  She was tired of being manipulated by men. There was no way she’d let Richard weasel his way into her life—not again. She wasn’t that lost, heartbroken college student anymore. She was a successful, independent, man-free woman who was in charge of her own destiny and—

  Oh. My. God. Abby froze at the sight of a real-life Adonis pounding the pavement—pavement that happened to fall within her neighborhood watch territory. Moving with a confidence and masculine grace that was far too natural to be manufactured, Jack “Hard Hammer” Tanner, as he had been known in the NFL, was 100 percent pure, unadulterated eye candy—no embellishments needed.

  At six foot five and 250 pounds of solid muscle, Jack Tanner was a mountain of testosterone and sculpted male perfection. He was sporting a pair of black jogging shorts slung low on his hips, a San Francisco 49ers ball cap, and a matching T-shirt that—sweet baby Jesus—dangled from his waistband instead of covering his chest, leaving miles of tan torso that made her mouth dry and her palms wet.

  Because in true Abby fashion, it wasn’t a sweet engineer or reliable bookkeeper who got her hot and bothered. Nope, after seven years without a single flutter of interest, it was NFL legend, football god, and St. Helena’s most lickable and available bachelor who had flicked her switch.

  And just like her ex-husband, Jack Tanner was responsible for a good portion of the town’s female fuses being blown. Which was why she sagged with relief at the sight of him jogging down the cul-de-sac and past her house.

  Her premature celebration ended when, as though her morning wasn’t complicated enough, Tanner reappeared, slowly walking backward, retracing his steps, and coming to a stop at the curb of her driveway. He took in Shrine de Richard, then his gaze drifted to Abby, pinning her with an amused look before releasing a lethal smile that left more than just her hands wet.

  Another in a long list of reasons to stay away from him.

  “Before we can talk terms,” Rodney said, and Abby had to strain to understand him over the blood pounding in her ears, “we have to close out this transaction.”

  “Fine.” Abby grabbed the clipboard and scribbled her name.

  A here, here, and here later, she was one step closer to eliminating Richard from her life, and it gave her something to do besides gawk at the way Tanner’s muscles played as he jogged up the driveway—straight toward her.

  Rodney took the clipboard. “I can get your package—”

  “It’s not my package,” she clarified as Tanner strode up. He didn’t talk, just silently situated himself way too close for her to ignore. But she tried her damnedest.

  “That signature there says it is.” Rodney’s meaty finger stabbed at her signature scrawled on the delivery slip. Then he flipped the page and wrote up a new delivery form and handed it to her. “Now, if you want to hire me to ship it back, that’s going to cost you nineteen-oh-four, with tax.”

  “Fine. I’ll go get my purse.”

  “We don’t take checks.”

  “I have cash.”

  “I don’t know if I feel comfortable carrying that much money around on my person,” Rodney said, running a greasy hand down the front of his coveralls.

  At his comment, Abby looked at the total he’d scribbled on the paper and felt her heart plummet straight to her toes. “You meant that nineteen-oh-four. You’re going to charge me two grand to return a statue that isn’t even mine?”

  “You signed for it, right there, so legally it’s—”

  “Mine. Yeah, yeah,” Abby mumbled. “But two grand?”

  “You see the size of him,” Rodney said, his eyes straying back to Richard’s package.

  “He wasn’t that big!”

  “Need any help?” Tanner offered sweetly from beside her.

  “Nope, I’ve got it.” Abby squared her shoulders and signed the form.

  Last year, she’d set out to get herself a divorce and find living arrangements that didn’t include her childhood bed or her nonna as a r
oommate. Check. And check. This year, she was determined to prove to this town—and herself—that she could stand on her own two feet. Starting today.

  And that didn’t include a man.

  “Do you take credit cards?” Abby asked. She had no idea how she would afford two thousand dollars right now. That added up to a lot of piano lessons.

  “Yup. Let me call the station and make arrangements.” Rodney disappeared into the cab of his truck, leaving Abby alone with Tanner.

  “I got to hand it to you, if that’s your solution to ward off would-be suitors, it’s working, darling.” The way he said darling, low and husky, felt like an intimate caress. Too bad he was staring at Richard’s overembellished ego. “It’s enough to give most guys a complex.”

  “You intimidated, Jack?” she asked, pulling her robe even tighter.

  “Nope.”

  Of course he wasn’t. The man was far too capable and accomplished to give in to anything as silly as intimidation. Most people admired that about Tanner. Abby just found it annoying.

  Almost as annoying as the way her heart picked up as his gaze took a lazy journey down her body. She revisited the urge to smooth down her hair, just like she resisted the urge to kick him in the shin, when his gaze reached her feet and he chuckled. She didn’t need to look down to realize that she was wearing her Godzilla slippers—they were big, green, badass, and growled every time she walked.

  “And I’m not just any guy,” he said, leaning in until she could smell the clean sweat and male perfection wafting off him. “I’m a Hall of Famer.”

  Abby glanced at the big Super Bowl ring on his right hand and rolled her eyes. “For most pass receptions in the NFL.”

  “Yup, I’m in that Hall of Fame too.” His lips twitched and so did her thighs.

  “What are you doing here?” Because this could not be happening. Today was supposed to be the start of her new life. And she didn’t want to begin it with an eerily lifelike replica of the man who had broken her heart, her confidence, and the bank when he’d absconded with twelve million of the town’s dollars. Not to mention staring down the man who’d taken her virginity and something so much more valuable—her ability to trust.