Tangled Up in Tinsel

Chapter 1

You’re going to make this happen, right?

An early November chill hung in the air as Parker Kincade regarded his older brother Jordan—a former badass NHL hockey player who’d once slammed his opponents to the ice so hard they temporarily forgot their names—and wondered how the hell a two hundred pound, two hundred percent alpha male had turned into a such a pussy.

I said I would, didn’t I?

Yeah, Jordan countered. But you also said you nailed Britney Bikini Stuffer Braxton and that was a damn lie.

Brother? I hate to be the one to inform you that maybe you’ve taken too many hits to the head, but you’re bringing up something that happened almost two decades ago. Parker folded his arms to match his brother’s stance. I was a kid then. Kids lie to impress their older brothers who called them a pansy ass and dared them to do something stupid.

A smirk curled Jordan’s mouth. So you’re admitting you lied.

Oh, Jesus. Parker tossed his hands up. I don’t have time for this shit. In case you can’t tell by the chaos, I’m trying to open a restaurant here. The restaurant in question was currently a conglomeration of boards, screws, and construction workers using various tools of the trade yet still running weeks behind schedule. It was also Parker’s one chance to help get the family business back on its feet following the deaths of their parents.

Which brings us back to my initial question.

Dude. Parker groaned and stuck out his hand. Hand it over.

Hand over what?

Your man card. I’m revoking it because you’ve officially turned into Groomzilla. And last time I looked I wasn’t your freaking wedding planner.

The wedding planner isn’t standing inside a partially renovated century-old barn where Lucy and I are supposed to have our reception. Jordan narrowed his Kincade trademark blue eyes. You promised you’d get this thing done on time.

And I will if you’ll stop coming in here every ten minutes to check on the progress. Your wedding isn’t happening until the week before Christmas. The pumpkin decorations are still out from Halloween, and the turkeys and pilgrims haven’t yet invaded. So just chill the fuck out.

A glare darkened Jordan’s eyes and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

Parker laughed. Sorry, bro, but you can’t intimidate me with your old hockey glares.

Yeah, but I can still kick your ass.

You can try. But do any damage to me and your fantasy wedding reception will have to take place at the Mother Lode. And just think how disappointed your sweet fiancée will be when someone gets up onstage in that dive bar and starts singing drunk-as-shit karaoke while you’re cutting the damn cake.

Fine. But I’m keeping my eyes on you, little brother. Jordan held two fingers up to his eyes then flipped them around in Parker’s direction. Don’t disappoint Lucy.

No worries. I’m more afraid of her than I am you. Parker wondered why he got such a kick out of seeing his big brother so rattled. He also wondered how Jordan’s fiancée put up with him these days when no one else could. But if you don’t get your ass out of here and keep it out, I guarantee this place won’t get done on time. And then you’ll be crying like a little girl.

Jordan tossed out one last badass glare then did an about-face, flipping Parker the middle finger as he—thankfully—vacated the premises.

As Jordan disappeared through the large opening in the front of the barn where the new entry was being constructed, Parker rubbed the ache in the center of his chest. The pressure was on and he was doing everything possible not to let his fears overrule his motivation. Even though the expectations were huge.

Somehow in the middle of the universe tossing a shitload of personal obstacles in his life, he’d come up with the grand idea to open a restaurant. In a barn. Where horses, cows, and sheep once ate, dwelled, and did their dirty business. Where spiders didn’t bother with a single web, they built entire villages. And where his older brothers were once rumored to have fast-talked a fair maiden or two out of her Fruit of the Looms on top of the haystack. Not to mention the barn sat in the middle of their family vineyard, which resided in the small town of Sunshine Valley instead of the nearby bustling cities of Portland or Vancouver where customers might actually have had a chance to find it.

What the hell had he been thinking?

Standing smack dab in the center of four bare walls, on a plywood sub-floor, he leaned his head back and looked up at the electrical crew stringing the new wiring from atop extension ladders. It would be a damn miracle if they didn’t burn the place down before the fire marshal could even do an inspection.

Sean Scott, the architect/construction project manager on the job, told him it would have been easier to construct a brand-new up-to-code building instead of trying to breathe life into something that had sat unused and unloved for at least the past twenty years. But for too many reasons to count and all of them personal, Parker insisted on retaining a Kincade legacy. Regardless of what smelly farm animal activity had once occurred beneath the rafters, he loved this place his great-grandfather had built with his own two hands.

There was a hell of a long way to go for it to become the dream he envisioned, but like the little engine that could, hopefulness surged inside him.

He could do this.

He would do this.

He had to.

And it wasn’t just because he was sinking his entire savings into the project.

In the past he’d earned the disreputable title of black sheep of the family. Yes, he’d overcome the shame, but he still had something more to prove to the family he’d once wronged.

Checking for bats?

Parker dropped his gaze from the rafters and turned toward the source of the question. In the opening where his brother had been just minutes before stood a lusciously curvy female.

Hello. Her red high heels tapped across the plywood floor as she came into the barn, where Parker got a better look.

Jeans, faded and painted on, hugged a shapely pair of hips and thighs. One sleeve of her thin beige sweater had slipped to reveal a bare shoulder, and long, silky brown hair draped in big loopy curls down her back. When his gaze eventually made it to her pretty face, her cherry red mouth and dark chocolate eyes were smiling.

Yeah.

She’d caught him checking her out.

As she came forward and stretched out her hand, he realized she was much shorter up close. Hell, he towered over her even with her wearing those high heels.

His hand engulfed hers as they shook.

I’m pulling a blank. Puzzled, he tilted his head. Have we met before?

Not formally. Gabriella Francesca Montani, she said in a voice that sounded like a shot of smooth whiskey. I’m your new chef.

My what? He glanced around the interior of the barn looking for the camera his brothers must have planted when they’d set up this prank.

She gripped his hand tight before letting go. Surprised?

Being that I’m not currently in the market to hire anyone? Yes.

But you will be soon. Her brown eyes sparkled. Correct?

Eventually. For now the walls are barely up and the restaurant won’t be opening until after the holidays.

Good. She flashed a smile that exuded confidence. I like being the first in line.

Suspicion rattled his bones. How did you know I was building a restaurant here? I haven’t made a formal announcement yet.

But you’ve talked about it to your food truck customers.

You’re a customer?

Yes.

And I’ve discussed it with you?

Not directly.

Ah. So you eavesdropped.

Probably.

Does that mean you’re stalking me? Not that he minded. She was beautiful and sexy as hell.

"I wouldn’t say stalking. She chuckled and the sound rippled through his blood with images he had no business envisioning. I just like to know everything I can about an employer before I work for them."

Though she sounded more hopeful than pushy, there was no way he could lead her on about a job. Even if, on a personal level, he wouldn’t mind getting to know her a little better. It wouldn’t be fair. Well, I appreciate your interest, but I’m sorry you wasted your time, Ms. . . .

Montani. But please, call me Gabriella.

Everything male inside of him said he’d call her anything she wanted as long as her legs were wrapped around his waist and he was getting to know her in the most personal way possible.

Ms. Montani. No sense doing the whole how-ya-doin’ thing since she’d only be here a few minutes. Unless he could talk her into staying for a far more intimate reason. As you can see I’m hardly in the position to hire anyone right now. I’m sorry you’ve come all this way for no reason but . . . well, there it is. You’ve come all this way for no reason.

"Believe me, Mr. Kincade, anything I do is well thought out. You’re offering an amazing opportunity here and I want to be your chef. I can promise you that coming here was not a mistake."

The woman was tenacious, he’d give her that. Unfortunately he had nothing to offer.

"You do realize that I’ll be the executive chef, right? I mean, this is my restaurant. Why would I hand over control to a perfect stranger?"

So you have a problem handing over control?

In work? Yes.

In bed? Never.

But he didn’t tell her that.

Depends.

No one can do everything all alone. She smiled again and he realized she used that smile like a weapon to weaken mortal fools. I’ve eaten your food. I’ve watched you work.

"So you are stalking me."

Observing. And only enough to figure you out.

I never knew I was so easy to read. Which was bullshit. He’d been told more than once that he was an open book. Maybe it was time he became a little more mysterious.

Only in the way you work, she said. Your dedication is admirable, and your attention to detail is flawless.

Good thing she didn’t know how he thought or she might slap him right now. Because nothing, and he meant nothing, turned him on more than an assertive woman who knew what she wanted and went after it.

Thank you.

The way you see food is important to me, she said with enough emphasis in her tone to assure him she meant business. I won’t work for someone who just slaps something on a plate and calls it a specialty. I’m looking for someone who sees food in its truest nature. Someone who, instead of trying to change the taste by smothering or crisping it to death, knows how to enhance a flavor to awaken the senses and make it a mouthwatering experience. Like the way a perfectly ripened tomato bursts sun-warmed sweetness in your mouth.

Jesus.

If the woman waxed poetic like that about food, he couldn’t imagine the way she’d sound in bed.

Then if you aspire to work for me, he said, I’ll take that as a compliment.

"I have to admit I saw you on Chopped and I couldn’t agree more with the judges when they applauded your creativity and artistry in making your dishes visually appealing."

The compliment felt genuine. Still . . . Are you trying to butter me up so I’ll hire you even though I don’t have a job available?

Just being honest. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to compete on that show.

Difficult? He shrugged. More of a personal challenge than anything. The Food Network show wasn’t as much a cooking competition as a game show. Once he’d made that realization he adhered to the theory throughout the final rounds and miraculously came out with a win.

Well, whatever it was you conjured up to make it happen, it worked. Congratulations.

Again, I thank you. He smiled, hoping she wasn’t just some kind of foodie groupie of the show. Better make sure she knew what she was talking about. Just in case. So what is it you do now? What job are you so eager to leave behind?

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and the smallest of sighs lifted her shoulders.

Her hesitation intrigued the hell out of him.

Hell, everything about the woman intrigued him.

And that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Gabi heard Parker Kincade’s words buzz through her ears in the same way her head hummed after she’d consumed too much wine.

Dangerous.

Intoxicating.

And oh how she’d like to strip that dirt-streaked T-shirt right off his back to see those muscles that teased her from beneath the worn cotton.

Focus, Gabi. Focus.

His intelligent, riveting blue eyes smiled in a face so strikingly handsome it left her stupid. Not something she ever aspired to be. But the magical combination of his eyes surrounded by thick, dark lashes, a squared, stubbled jawline, and longish nearly black, wavy hair, gave him a wild look she couldn’t resist.

A distraction for sure, and bad news for her all around. Anything that detracted from her goal was a dilemma she seriously needed to consider.

Currently I’m a personal chef, she said.

Cushy job.

I work for Milton Skolnick. You might have heard his name before. He won the nation’s biggest lottery two years ago.

So you’re well paid too. His large hand came up to absently rub the beard stubble darkening his chin. Now I’m really curious why you’d want to leave.

She’d seen him rub that beard stubble on the episode of Chopped he’d been on, and she knew it meant his brain was clicking on all cylinders. When she’d discovered that he owned a food truck in her own city of Portland, she occasionally stopped there for lunch on her days off. She’d been intrigued by the creative dishes he prepared and the obvious passion with which he created them. Almost as much as she’d been intrigued by him.

While he worked he shamelessly flirted with his female customers and treated the male customers like buddies. He had an easygoing way about him and all of his patrons seemed to love him. If she wanted to work for Parker Kincade, she knew she needed to be more approachable, more responsive, and above all honest. Or at least as honest as she could be without actually telling him the truth.

Because telling the truth was not an option.

Sometimes being well paid isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, she said. Mr. Skolnick wants the status of having a personal chef but he doesn’t even know the difference between a turnip and a potato. He believes that peanut butter and potato chip sandwiches are a delicacy. And he insists that Chex Mix snacks are a better party choice than a platter of crab beignets or seared steak lettuce cups.

So you’re saying you have culinary differences with him.

Among other things. His recent unintentional/swears it was an accident groping didn’t help matters either. And though she needed a job, she didn’t need one bad enough to submit to that kind of bad behavior. I’m underutilized, underappreciated, and I need more creativity from my work than throwing a frozen pizza in the oven or cooking weenie kabobs over a gas stove. Mr. Skolnick doesn’t want a chef with an imagination. He wants Chef Boyardee.

A smile hovered at the corners of Parker’s masculine lips. You have no room for exploration at all? The suggestive hint of something else darkened his eyes. Something that took her imagination on a trip altogether different than the conversation at hand.

None.

So you’re caught between a rock and a hard place. Good pay. Few benefits.

She pulled a breath into her lungs. You have no idea. Nor would he. While her employer and his questionable behavior paid her a decent salary, she had something to prove.

You intrigue me, Ms. Montani. As Parker settled back on the heels of his work boots, he regarded her. But as I said, I have no job to give you.

All I need is a chance. She doubled her efforts and reached deep. I’ll even audition.

Excuse me?

I’ll audition. Cook for you. I’ll prove that you need me here in your kitchen. She pulled in another breath for courage. "I’ll prove that more than just needing me here, you’ll want me here."

Curiosity brightened his eyes as he scanned her face. She could almost hear his mind click through all the possibilities.

She hoped. Prayed. Quietly begged that he’d at least give her a chance.

When? he finally asked and she had to control the breath that threatened to rush from her lungs.

Friday night?

If I say no will you keep coming back and stalking me?

She smiled. You can count on it.

Okay then. A slow nod brushed his thick, dark hair against the neck of his T-shirt. You’re on. But I expect you to bring it. Don’t waste my time.

I would never do that.

Uh-huh.

Relief sped like buzzing bees through her stomach while he grabbed a construction pencil from a nearby sawhorse. He searched for something to write on. Finally, tearing a piece from a crumpled bag, he scribbled something and handed it to her.

An address.

On a pier.

A houseboat? she asked.

That’s where I live.

You want me to come to your house?

His broad shoulders lifted. "Where else would you suggest? Like I said, the kitchen here isn’t done, the food truck isn’t an option, and I don’t live at the vineyard. If you want to audition—he made air quotes—you’ll go where you need to go. Right?"

Of course.

Unless you’ve just been pulling my leg all this time.

Her gaze unintentionally shot to the crotch of his perfect fitting jeans. No. I’m legit, and I want this.

Then I’ll see you Friday night. He tossed her a benign smile. Eight o’clock. At that address. Just press the button on the gate in the parking lot and I’ll let you in.

I’ll be there, she said. Because she did want this.

The bigger problem?

She might want him too.

And that definitely wasn’t a good thing.

Chapter 2

Parker’s curiosity about Gabriella Montani skyrocketed as he took a break from the construction chaos and walked past the harvested grapevines and up the hill to the vineyard office. The gravel road was still dotted with pumpkins and hay bales left over from a wedding in the event center the previous weekend. Soon the giant scarecrow welcoming all to the vineyard would be replaced by a giant turkey. Or maybe he was the turkey, because apparently his reasoning lately seemed overcooked.

Exactly why he’d agreed to let Gabriella audition for a place in his kitchen when he didn’t even have a kitchen yet was a wild guess. Although when it came right down to it, his reasons probably had more to do with the way those jeans hugged her luscious curves than anything she could accomplish with a frying pan or colander. Aside from trying to get the restaurant constructed, the recent deaths of his parents, the vineyard being in financial trouble, his new half sister, his angry other sister, and his brother’s upcoming wedding, Parker barely had time for a sane thought that wasn’t family related.

Not that he didn’t love them all, and not that he wasn’t determined to do right by each and every one of them, but all the turmoil barely left time for anything more than a quick moment of self-satisfaction. Aka a warm willing woman who wanted nothing more than a nice dinner and a couple hours of commitment-free pleasure.

Shrugging the emotional burden off his shoulders, he looked forward to a lull in the day and a cup of his brother Ryan’s coffee. When he opened the vineyard office door, all four of his brothers were arguing loudly about the previous night’s game between the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Philadelphia Eagles.

Nothing unusual.

The Kincade boys argued about everything. When it came to sports they poured on the passion and it became a shouting match until someone either grew bored or left the room. No one ever cried uncle. Though Parker had been looking for a quiet break, he didn’t mind the chaos. At least, for a change, they weren’t discussing the vineyard finances, their parents’ deaths, or their father’s infidelity.

Why aren’t you working on the restaurant? Jordan asked him, picking up the tired conversation they’d had only a few short hours ago. Don’t you know I have a wedding coming up?

You do? Parker audibly gasped. Shit. Why didn’t you guys tell me Mr. Pansy Ass was getting hitched?

Ryan, Declan, and Ethan laughed.

Fuck you. These days Jordy’s snarl possessed a lot less punch than when he’d been earning his living on the ice.

Parker was mildly tempted to cut him some slack. But where was the fun in that?

How about you send Lucy over to do the reception planning, Parker said. She seems a lot more laidback about the whole thing.

Newsflash, Ryan, the oldest, said. Lucy’s handed over all the wedding planning to our dear brother.

All of it? Declan asked as though someone had just performed the world’s greatest magic trick.

All the way down to the flowers and figuring out how her dog is going to carry the rings to the altar. Jordan leaned forward in his chair and dropped his head into his hands. I am so screwed.

Is she crazy? Ethan, the youngest brother, asked.

"She says he’s the crazy one," Ryan said.

More like a control freak, Declan said.

Is he picking out the bridesmaids’ dresses too? Ethan wanted to know. Because I have got to see that.

You guys do realize I’m sitting right here, Jordan said.

Even better. Parker grinned. Then we don’t have to talk behind your back or wonder what pretty outfit you’re going to wear down the aisle.

I hate you guys. Jordan looked undoubtedly flustered.

No, you don’t. You gave up hockey just to be with us, Ryan reminded him.

I gave up hockey to be with Lucy.

Awww. Ethan jumped into the bullshit. That’s so sweet. Now you’re going to make me cry.

Jordan flipped them his middle finger. The truth is Lucy’s really busy with school. She has some difficult students this year.

More difficult than our sister was last year? Declan asked.

Apparently. And since I quit hockey and haven’t really figured out what to do with the eight hours a day she’s gone, I told her I’d help with the wedding if she needed me to.

Kidding aside, Parker said, that’s a really nice gesture.

Yeah. Except I didn’t know what I was walking into. I was thinking things like planning the bachelor party or moving heavy furniture. But she handed me a list five pages long and a butt load of bridal magazines. Then she kissed me and went to work. I couldn’t say no. Her first wedding and marriage were a disaster. I want ours to be special.

You’ve got more money than you’ll ever spend. Why don’t you just hire a wedding planner? Dec, the financial wizard brother, asked. Brooke was more than happy to hire one to plan our wedding.

"Yeah, but your fiancée is not only busy constructing a family fun center here while she’s still commuting back and forth to Southern California, her fiancé is busy with his own business too, Jordan pointed out. Lucy knows I’ve got nothing but time on my hands."

Why don’t you ask Lili to help? Ethan suggested.

Not only had they recently discovered they had a new half sister, they’d also discovered she was a twenty-three-year-old woman and an event planner—a position the vineyard was in dire need of. Despite