Crush on You Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  Chapter 20

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Teaser chapter

  Dirty Sexy Knitting

  Praise for the novels of Christie Ridgway

  “Christie Ridgway writes with the perfect combination of humor and heart. This funny, sexy story is as fresh and breezy as its Southern California setting.”

  —Susan Wiggs

  “Delightful.”

  —Rachel Gibson

  “Tender, funny, and wonderfully emotional.”

  —Barbara Freethy

  “Pure romance, delightfully warm, and funny.”

  —Jennifer Crusie

  “Smart, peppy.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Funny, supersexy, and fast-paced . . . Ridgway is noted for her humorous, spicy, and upbeat stories.”

  —Library Journal

  “Christie Ridgway is a first-class author.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Christie Ridgway’s books are crammed with smart girls, manly men, great sex, and fast, funny dialogue. Her latest novel . . . is a delightful example, a romance as purely sparkling as California champagne.”

  —BookPage

  “Ridgway delights yet again with this charming, witty tale of holiday romance. Not only are the characters sympathetic, intelligent, and engaging, but the sexual tension between the main characters is played out with tremendous skill.”

  —Romantic Times

  Titles by Christie Ridgway

  HOW TO KNIT A WILD BIKINI

  UNRAVEL ME

  DIRTY SEXY KNITTING

  CRUSH ON YOU

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  CRUSH ON YOU

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / June 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Christie Ridgway.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18787-6

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Micki Plummer, with thanks for your encouragement and friendship!

  And, as always, for Rob.

  Wine gives courage and makes men more apt for passion.

  —OVID

  1

  If God were a woman, Alessandra Baci thought, holding her breath as she struggled to fasten the thirty buttons behind her back, a wedding dress would fit forever.

  Knuckles rapped on her closed bedroom door. “Allie?”

  At the sound of her name, Alessandra gave a guilty start, losing both that puff of breath and her grip on the latest pearl-sized fastening.

  “Allie, let me in,” her sister Stephania called from the hallway.

  Glancing at her bedside clock, she called back, “Not right now.” She didn’t want anyone seeing her like this.

  “But, um, Allie, we have a little problem.”

  No kidding. Alessandra sucked in another breath and tried a second attack on the buttons that marched up her spine. The dress wasn’t designed to don solo, especially five years and seven pounds past its due date.

  Her mind flashed back to the first morning she’d stepped into the frothy layers. She’d been twenty years old and standing in this very bedroom, in front of this very mirror, but surrounded by her two sisters and the other four bridesmaids. A hairdresser had already pinned the jeweled tiara in her updo and the filmy veil had brushed her bare shoulders.

  She’d been wearing a lace demi-bra that she’d foregone today, just like the veil, though the little crown was perched on her unbound, dark and wavy hair. Instead of the sheer, thigh-high stockings and matching panties she’d been wearing on her wedding day, this morning she’d left on her striped cotton pajama bottoms.

  Still, she could exactly recall her excitement—the hollowed-out feeling of her belly and the kamikaze butterflies winging inside it—as she dressed in the strapless gown with its layers of tulle for the eleven o’clock ceremony.

  A knock rattled her door again. “Allie,” a new voice said, sounding impatient. It was her oldest sister, Giuliana, joining the hall-to-bedroom conversation. “Look, we need to reconsider this vow thing.”

  Alessandra frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the vow we made to Papa on his deathbed. We can’t—”

  “A promise is a promise,” Alessandra hissed, giving up on the buttons to glare at the closed door, knowing neither of her sisters had the guts to say such a thing to her face. “A promise is a promise is a promise.”

  “I know you feel that way, Allie,” her sister responded, her voice softening, and she could imagine Giuliana’s big brown eyes full of sympathy. “And I know why you feel that way. You didn’t get to make . . . well, you know. But we might not be able to do this.”

  Alessandra pressed two fingers against her forehead, just above the bridge of her nose. She didn’t want to cry. Not yet. Dropping her hand, she glanced around to loc
ate the white satin wedding shoes.

  “Let us in, okay?”

  “No.” This was Alessandra’s private pity party. Her sisters wouldn’t understand and would only worry if they knew that she annually dressed the part, then drenched herself in memories, allowing herself to feel every drip of romance before every drop of regret. “We’ll talk later.”

  “Allie—”

  “Papa’s been gone three months,” she said. “Will another hour or two really matter?”

  “Every minute matters,” Giuliana muttered. “When we promised him we’d save Tanti Baci we didn’t have any idea what a mess he’d made of it.”

  “He didn’t make a mess of the winery,” Alessandra spit back. “He . . .” He’d made a royal mess of the Napa Valley winery that had been in the family for generations.

  She pressed her fingers to her forehead again, guilt adding to her mix of emotions. Of the three sisters, as the only one employed by Tanti Baci—Many Kisses, a play on their last name—it was she who should have guessed the dire state of the family business. But she’d been just as staggered as the other two when Mario Baci had confessed his concerns as he lay dying.

  His three daughters hadn’t hesitated to swear they’d save Tanti Baci. They must! It was their legacy.

  “If you won’t let us in, Allie, then you have to come out,” Stevie said. “Liam Bennett is here, and he has one of the bastards with him.”

  As if that would get her moving, Allie thought, resettling the tiara on top of her head. The Bennetts were just another thorny issue she didn’t feel like facing right now. They were their neighbors and their competition . . . and despite an old feud, also part owners of Tanti Baci. Liam and his younger brother Seth had lost their father not long ago, too, and though the Bennett patriarch had left their family’s winery and other financial holdings in good shape, his will had publicly acknowledged two children who were the products of his heretofore secret affairs.

  One of those “bastards” must be on a wine country visit. She felt a twinge of curiosity about the newcomer as she spied her satin shoes and slipped them on her feet.

  “Allie . . .”

  “I can’t come out just yet,” she replied, glancing at the clock by her bed.

  It read 10:44.

  Her sisters’ interruption forgotten, Alessandra’s pulse dipped to a slow thud, as ominous as a funeral dirge. She met her own eyes in the mirror, trying to push away the hovering dread in order to recapture those last moments of delighted anticipation on her wedding morning. She had been so happy. Her dreams came true.

  Every year, on the anniversary of that day, she made herself replay those hours. The good parts included—in an effort to remember that life held moments of supreme joy. To remember, and to hope—

  The LED flicked to 10:45.

  Grief slammed into Alessandra, just as it had at that exact moment years ago, a bitterly cold wave that took out on its tide her happiness, her joy, and the determined belief she’d held in happy endings. Then, surrounded by her bridesmaids, she’d been told about Tommy and she’d shuddered in her sisters’ arms as her heart contracted to the size of a stone.

  Five years later, Alessandra shuddered again.

  “Allie,” Giuliana said, her voice more insistent. “Look, this is really urgent.”

  “What?” she asked, her throat so tight that the words were half-whispered. “What is it?”

  “You’ve got to come out.”

  “No.” She couldn’t. Not wearing the wedding dress and not with sorrow carving at her insides like a knife. Bowing into herself, she pressed her fists against the hard, shriveled rock of her heart.

  “It’s about the cottage.”

  Alessandra’s head came up. The raging grief gave a little hiccup. “What?”

  “The cottage. That’s the problem we’ve been trying to tell you.”

  A contractor was renovating the historic residence of the original founders of the winery, Anne and Alonzo Baci. The cottage was an essential element of Alessandra’s brainchild—that of offering the winery as a wedding destination. This service would provide a new revenue stream for the family business and the success of her plan would prove to the bank, to her sisters, to everyone, that Tanti Baci should remain in their hands. To that end, she’d already jumped through hoops to get the right zoning, building, and events permits.

  She took a step toward the hall. “What kind of problem?”

  “The guy you hired says he has a better offer. He’s packing up right now and claims he’s not coming back.”

  “No!” A flush of rage shot over Alessandra’s skin. She flew to the door, wrenching it open and then pushing past her sisters even as she noted their startled faces. “You’re wearing . . .” Giuliana choked on the rest of her words as her gaze took Alessandra in from head to toes.

  Following her sister’s eyes, Alessandra saw her white satin high heels. With a little growl, she kicked them off, then reached down to yank Stevie’s rubber thongs right off her feet. Wearing them herself, she rushed away, feeling her tiara sliding as the hem of her wedding dress fluttered in the breeze of her outrage.

  Her pajama bottoms flapped around her ankles and her heaving breaths threatened to lift her breasts right out of their boned nest. She’d never managed to get the dress completely buttoned, she realized, which meant God must be off somewhere enjoying a fly-fishing tournament.

  Behind her, she heard her sisters sputter as they trailed her down the stairs.

  “Maybe you should change first . . .”

  “There are, um, people out there who might get the wrong impression . . .”

  Not a word they said stopped her. Nothing could do that.

  Even her flinty heart couldn’t weigh her down. As a matter of fact, she welcomed its stoniness now. If anyone looked at her twice, if anyone got between her and the success of the weddings she’d booked for Tanti Baci—the weddings that would save the winery—she was going to rip the worthless thing from her chest and use it to murder the one who got in her way.

  In the middle of a leafy vineyard, leaning against the warm side of his half brother’s Range Rover, Penn Bennett decided his first day in Napa had all the elements of a great night of television. He should know, as the “star” of Penn Bennett’s Build Me Up, a four-year-old prime-time show that had been in Nielsen’s top ten for the past two seasons. When asked to describe the program’s premise, he’d once quipped that it was about improving deserving families’ homes as well as their self-esteem, one low-flow toilet at a time. Yet he knew the appeal had nothing to do with water conservation and even went beyond watching muscled men wield power tools.

  It was all about the story, man.

  Liam, the oldest of the two legitimate Bennett siblings, ran his hand through dark blond hair that had surprised the hell out of Penn the first time he’d seen him. It was the exact shade of his own, and the physical similarity didn’t end there. Before this, Penn had never known a soul who looked like him.

  “Sorry about the delay of your wine country tour,” the other man said. “I know I told you this was going to be a brief stop.”

  Penn waved the concern away. He wasn’t on a tight agenda—he was on an escape mission. Here, miles from the mistake he’d made in L.A., he intended to enjoy a few weeks of pure R & R. No work. No women. No trouble.

  Liam frowned, shoving his hand through his hair again. “You’re being damn decent about all this.”

  Penn settled himself more comfortably against the vehicle. “All this,” he knew, referred to the recent revelations in Calvin Bennett’s will. They’d surprised Penn, true, but it was obvious the news of his father’s extramarital affairs had rocked Liam’s well-ordered world. A half-smile crossed Penn’s face. Yeah, good TV drama in the making.

  Big family shake-up: check.

  His head tilted back to take in the blue sky that was a perfect match to the seventy-five-degree sunshine. A raked-gravel parking lot separated the torn-up bungalow from the entrance t
o wine caves carved into the hillside. Standing as sentry on either side of the caves’ double doors sat two dwarf lemon trees planted in halved wine barrels. Orderly rows of paper bag-brown grapevines with their lush, spring-green growth covered the rolling acres surrounding them. Penn’s showbiz-trained brain imagined an aerial view of the countryside in the opening credits.

  Sweeping visual appeal: check.

  Just then a woman came into sight, flying toward them from the direction of a simple, two-story farmhouse. Ah, yes, he thought. The final element to complete the necessary triumvirate of Hollywood small-screen success.

  Beautiful, busty young woman: check.

  His eyes narrowing on the oncoming figure in the white strapless number, Penn straightened. Based on her determined expression and the strange getup she was wearing, the TV show he was building in his head might be pitched with a logline that went something like “Desperate Housewives meets Say Yes to the Dress.” When he caught himself moving toward her, he forced his body back against the warm metal of the car. Knight errant wasn’t a role that suited him.

  Liam, however, let out a muffled oath and seemed unable to stifle the same impulse that had struck Penn a moment before. He surged forward to intercept the small figure with her cloud of dark hair, her froth of wedding dress, and her—were those pajama bottoms? But she shoved Penn’s half brother out of the way without a blink, her rubber thongs flapping against the soles of her small feet as she sped toward the battered Ford F-150 pulled alongside the cottage.

  A couple of Hispanic men were loading tools in the bed while the truck’s owner, a sweaty guy with a stubble of hair on his nearly bald pate and a beer belly stretching out his grubby T-shirt, looked on. Wedding Dress Girl didn’t hesitate to get a handful of that dirty cotton in her small fist. “Newton Smalls, what do you think you’re doing?”