Heard It Through The Grapevine. Pamela Browning

in town dislike him for what he had done to Gina on the show? Didn’t they understand it was all a bit of make-believe, conjured up by a couple of producers who were interested in the show’s entertainment value and not much else? They hadn’t expected him to fall in love with the woman he chose. The most they had hinted should happen was that he and Tahoma might want to keep in touch and give themselves a chance for real romance to develop. He wished there were some way he could let everyone know that he realized he’d chosen the wrong woman. What was he supposed to do—emblazon a sign across his forehead? He pondered the wording of such a sign. I Should Have Picked Gina. No, that made her sound like a bunch of grapes. I Was Stupid. Now, that was more like it. It seemed to fit in with the locals’ opinions of him.

      Josh walked slowly back into the cottage. Gina was arranging fresh flowers in a vase on one of the front window-sills, and he marched up to her.

      “Gina, tell me one thing. Do you hate me for the way the show turned out?”

      She was so startled that she dropped a handful of cut ferns, which scattered around her feet. Josh bent to help her pick them up.

      “Well,” Josh demanded, “do you?”

      At that moment several other customers came in, and Gina, after one last annoyed glance in his direction, went to see to their needs.

      She hadn’t answered. So perhaps she did hate him. If so, was any of this pursuing doing any good? Was she so totally dead set against renewing their friendship that all his efforts were a waste of time? Would it help if he told her how much he’d matured since the Mr. Moneybags experience, now that he’d reflected on what had happened? If he mentioned that, ultimately, choosing the wrong woman had made him a wiser, better man?

      He hoped that the customers wouldn’t linger over their choices, but two of them seemed inclined to study every bin and the card next to it in order to learn more about treating various symptoms with herbs, and another, who was apparently a friend of Gina’s, embarked on a long explanation of a complicated family situation that required patient listening on Gina’s part.

      As if that weren’t enough, Josh stood too near some dried goldenrod, began to sneeze and couldn’t stop. He fled outside and sat down on a garden bench beneath an oak tree while he waited for the customers to leave.

      The trouble was, they stayed longer than Josh expected, and fast on their heels came three more carloads of people. He peered in the window and saw Gina talking animatedly with one group while the others browsed, and she soon had a line at the cash register.

      As soon as everyone left, Josh ambled back inside. Gina, who wore a pencil behind one ear and was adding up receipts, glanced up with a smile of greeting as he entered. It quickly faded when she saw him.

      “I thought you’d gone,” she said pointedly.

      “I was only biding my time. Could you ring up those sachets for me, please?”

      “Glad to,” she said through tight lips.

      “About lunch, Gina.”

      She tucked his lavender and his cash register receipt into a bag and handed it to him.

      “What about it?”

      “Let’s run downtown and grab a sandwich.”

      She let out a long sigh. “I can’t leave. My relief salesperson won’t be in today, so I’m going to make do with peanut butter and crackers.”

      Disappointment washed over him. “Who’s your relief?” The thought occurred to him that he could find whoever it was and beg him or her to show up.

      “My sister fills in for me when I need a break. She lives so close that it usually works out well. Today she’s at the winery, cleaning up after last night’s party. Oh, hello, Shelley. How are things at the Bootery?”

      Josh grew glum as he listened to the two women talking about Shelley’s business, a shoe store downtown, and soon more customers arrived, some on a tour bus on a day trip to the valley from San Francisco, which was only an hour and a half’s drive away. Getting time alone with Gina was almost impossible.

      When twelve o’clock came and went, he decided that he might as well leave, but not for good. He’d be back soon, this time with food.

      GINA BREATHED AN AUDIBLE sigh of relief as she saw Josh’s car exit the parking lot. She and Shelley had business to discuss: the bachelor auction, which was Gina’s latest project. Gina had shepherded the auction project through the city council’s permit process, had assembled a crackerjack committee and was going to emcee the event. The project would benefit the teen center that was so important to Gina and her family as well as the entire community.

      “I’ll see you at the next committee meeting,” Shelley said after they’d hammered out several decisions concerning the wine to be served, decorations for the stage and recruiting an auctioneer. As soon as Shelley left, Gina recalled that she had promised to phone the other committee members to let them know the time and place of the next meeting. Since this was a lull, she might as well do it now.

      She was flipping through the pages of her address book when the door opened and Josh walked in. He carried a paper bag and looked cheerier than he had a right to be.

      “Before you tell me to get out, you’d better hear what I have to say,” he announced before setting the bag down on the counter in front of her. From it wafted a tantalizing scent of meatballs and marinara sauce, and she recognized it right away as one of Mom’s famous sandwiches. Belatedly, she recalled that she’d never eaten lunch.

      “You have to eat something,” he said.

      She stared at him, taking in his determined stance, his sinfully blue eyes and the earnestness that shone from within. What was it about this man that she found so arresting? So fascinating? So all-fired absorbing?

      “I suppose you propose to eat what’s in that bag,” she managed to say, even as her mouth was watering at the thought of sinking her teeth into one of Mom’s savory concoctions.

      “That’s why I brought it,” Josh said. He leaned forward on the counter, resting his hands on it and invading her personal space. “What do you say?”

      She studied him for a moment, assessing his immovability and his perseverance.

      “I think,” she said slowly, “that once we eat these sandwiches, they will practically ensure that we won’t want to get this close to each other or anyone else until the garlic wears off. Although,” she continued distractedly, “we could nibble parsley. It cleanses the breath.” She slid down from the stool and went to a cabinet, where she located a stack of paper napkins.

      “That’s not all I could nibble,” Josh said under his breath, and she almost didn’t hear him. She decided to let his comment pass, however, considering the uselessness of objecting. Besides, she was hungry.