Taste (Cloverleigh Farms, #7)(18)

“I’m fine.” She went out the door, gently pulling it shut behind her.

I felt terrible she was so disappointed—I’d seen Ellie mad a million times, but I didn’t often see her sad, and I wished I knew how to make her feel better. It occurred to me that for as long as I’d known her, and as much as I saw her at work, I didn’t really know her on a personal level.

What were her favorite things? What made her happy? What did she see for herself five, ten, twenty years down the road? What were her guilty pleasures? What did she think about when she was alone in bed at night?

My mind started to wander—as it often did—down a slightly dirtier path.

What was she like in bed? How did she want to be touched? Had she ever been with anyone who knew what he was doing? Given the jackasses she’d dated during high school, I doubted it, unless her taste had drastically improved in college. The side of herself she showed me at work ran cool and tart, but I had a feeling she ran sweet and hot beneath the surface.

Most importantly, why had she been staring at my crotch in the car on the ride up? I chuckled to myself at the way she’d denied it, because it had been obvious that’s what she was doing. Not that I hadn’t stared at parts of her body from time to time, but I’d at least been stealthy enough not to get caught. And mostly when I thought about her body, I was alone with my pants off, my dick in my hand.

I had this one fantasy of her that I loved, where she crawls across the kitchen floor toward me wearing nothing but that Cherry Princess crown and a smile. I tell her we can’t, I insist that we shouldn’t, I warn her if she comes any closer, I won’t be able to hold back. But she refuses to accept my gentlemanly caution and confesses that she’s only pretended to hate my guts all these years and she can’t hold back any longer—she has to have me or she’ll go crazy.

She reaches my feet and looks up at me, her eyes on fire. She licks her lips and says—

“Gianni?”

Fiona Duff stood before me holding out a check folded in two.

I realized I’d been staring at the door Ellie had just closed—and also that I’d started to get hard thinking about her. Luckily my coat was long enough to cover the crotch of my pants.

“Thank you.” I took the check from Fiona and stuck it in my pocket.

“Thank you for coming tonight. Everything was wonderful.”

“Glad to hear it.” I glanced at the door. “I should get going. The drive might be a little rough.”

“Of course. I’m sorry we kept you a little later than planned.” She winked at me. “I added a little to the check to cover the extra time.”

“Ellie will appreciate that. Thanks again.” I pulled on my gloves just as Hadley burst into the kitchen.

“There you are! Did you ask him yet?”

“I was just about to,” said Fiona, moving closer to me. “Gianni, I wonder if I might get in touch with you about a feature in Tastemaker magazine we do called 30 Under 30. We have one spot left, and I’d like it to be yours. I also think my daughter was right about putting you on the cover—that’s something I’ll have to discuss with my editorial team, of course, but assuming you say yes to the spot, I don’t really see a reason why it wouldn’t be approved. What do you say?”

“Say yes!” Hadley shouted.

My heart had lurched the moment I’d heard 30 Under 30. “Uh, I’m not sure.”

“It’s a great opportunity,” Fiona went on smoothly. “It’s always our biggest-selling issue and our most popular online article. Tons of hits. Granted, you already have more name recognition than anyone else on the list—and facial recognition, which is why it would make sense to put you on the cover—but I still think it would be great for you. We aim for more of a pop culture audience these days, but lots of industry insiders still read. Your name might catch the eye of the person who can rocket your brand to the next level. I’m sure you’re not planning to stay at Etoile forever.”

“No,” I said honestly.

“So what’s your next move? A Michelin Star? A James Beard Award? A line of cookware? Being on the cover of Tastemaker and at the top of the 30 Under 30 would be fabulous publicity—it could give you some leverage.”

“Mom, those things are so boring. He needs his own show,” said Hadley. “And, like, merch. Not just pots and pans, but like sweatpants and T-shirts and hoodies with his signature line from the show! Gianni Lupo: too hot to handle.” She dragged her hand down the side of her leg where the lettering would go. “I could totally design it all for you. My friend got famous on TikTok and I did all his merch. Are you on TikTok?”

“Uh, no.”

“Oh!” Hadley snapped her fingers. “What do you call those things you wear on your hands when you take stuff out of the oven so you don’t get burned?”

“Oven mitts?”

“Yes. How cute would it be to have some made with a pic of you and too hot to handle on them? Your fans would go crazy!”

I had to laugh at the idea of my face on people’s hands in kitchens all over America—my mother would think it was hilarious.

Ellie would not.

“Listen, this is fun to think about, but . . .” I glanced at the door again. “Have you thought about asking Ellie to be on your 30 Under 30 list? She’s doing really cool things at Abelard, and Michigan wines are gaining popularity.”