Taste (Cloverleigh Farms, #7)(16)

Gianni, who’d taken the dumplings from the oven, dipped one in the sauce, sprinkled it with a little homemade ponzu, and took a bite. “Fuck, yes,” he said slowly. “Come taste one of these.”

“I can’t right now. I’m sure they’re good.” I ducked into the butler’s pantry and grabbed a silver tray from the glass cabinet—hopefully Fiona wouldn’t mind if I used it to serve the drinks. Back in the kitchen, I placed the glasses on the tray and picked it up.

“Wait a minute. Just taste this.” Gianni came toward me with the other half of his dumpling, and when I opened my mouth to protest, he stuck it in there. Of course, he also slipped his thumb in too, and before I could stop myself, my lips closed around it. He paused with his thumb in my mouth for just a second, his eyes locked on mine, then slowly pulled it out, my tongue stroking its tip.

Another electric pulse went through me, just like in the car.

“You’re not supposed to eat my finger,” he said.

I chewed and swallowed the bite he’d fed me, trying to act cool. “Then you shouldn’t stick your finger in my mouth.”

“Well? What do you think?”

“Delicious. Which you already know.”

He gave me his cockiest grin. “But what about the dumpling?”

“Get out of my way before I throw every drink on this tray at you.”

Laughing, he stepped aside. “Can I help you?”

“No. Just stay in here until I tell you it’s okay to come out.”

I made my way back to the living room on trembling legs. What on earth was my problem tonight? First, I had that stupid fantasy in the car—and got caught moaning while I stared at his crotch—and then I sucked his thumb in the kitchen!

Even worse, it was probably the most erotic thing to happen to me in a year.

I managed a smile and a steady hand as I served the drinks, answered the door once more, hung up another coat, and turned to see Fiona coming down the stairs in a new outfit. She’d traded her pants and blouse for a cocktail dress and heels that seemed a bit much for a Monday night dinner party at home—and was much fancier than anything her guests were wearing—but maybe that was how she always dressed. Right behind her was Hadley, who’d swapped her hoodie, skirt, and socks for a fitted black crop top with long sleeves, baggy high-waisted jeans, and white sneakers. Her dark blond hair was long and wavy, and her eye makeup looked more professional than anything I could have done.

Fiona went into the living room to see her guests, but Hadley made a beeline for the kitchen. When I got there, she was sitting at the counter, her chin propped in her hand, watching Gianni arrange the dumplings on a platter. It was easy to imagine the cartoon hearts popping out of her eyes.

“You’re, like, so amazing,” she gushed. “And your following is so huge. I’ve been telling my mom she needs to put you on the cover of Tastemaker for months.”

I sighed.

This was going to be a long night.

But just then, Gianni looked over at me and smiled—not his usual arrogant grin. The curve of his mouth was somehow kinder and more private, like he could read my mind and he was on my side.

Something rattled in my chest, shaking loose a warmth that radiated throughout my limbs and sloshed back to pool at my center. I looked away quickly, hurrying to pour another drink.

Gianni isn’t just a chef, he’s an actor, I reminded myself. He was popular on the show for the same reason he’s popular in real life. He can read a room and knows exactly what to say and do to make a person feel special. Taken care of. The center of his attention.

But it wasn’t real.

I’d seen him play the game with plenty of girls in high school, one right after the next, all dying to be the one he wanted—and left heartbroken when he lost interest and moved on. He never stayed with anyone.

He wasn’t cruel, but all he’d cared about was having fun.

And no matter how much I thought about him in private, I vowed back then I was never going to be one of those girls—fooled by those eyes and that smile and the promise of a good time.

It was a vow I intended to keep.





FIVE





GIANNI





I did my best to blend into the background and let Ellie shine, but it was a struggle.

It was like she was invisible.

Every time she started to talk about the wine she’d just poured, someone would ask me about Lick My Plate.

Every time I tried to steer the conversation back to Abelard, someone would mention a rave review they’d just read about the food at Etoile.

Every time one of the guests would compliment the wine Ellie had paired with a particular dish, Hadley would say something like, “Oh, enough about the wine already! I want to know if that chef from New Orleans was really that mean, or if that guy from Dallas really threw a pot at your head.”

I grinned. “No, that was all fake drama, but Ellie here once threw eight pies in my face.”

Finally, Hadley looked at Ellie with interest. “Why’d you do that?”

“Uh, it’s a long story.” And one she obviously did not want to tell.

“I want to hear it,” the teenager insisted. “How old were you?”

“We were seventeen,” Ellie replied.