Taste (Cloverleigh Farms, #7)(2)

“They did?”

Ellie sighed. “I’ve been talking about this for weeks, Gianni. You don’t listen.”

“Sorry,” I said, because it was true that listening was not a great skill of mine. My mind tended to wander—usually to food or sex. But in my defense, Ellie could talk the hind legs off a donkey, and it wasn’t like she often stopped chattering to ask my opinion on anything.

Plus, her face sometimes distracted me from what she was saying.

Ellie was beautiful, with an awesome curvy body she usually kept fully covered with those librarian blouses and dressy pants. She did sometimes wear fitted pencil skirts that came down to her knees, and even though I consider myself more of a miniskirt man, I had to admit I liked the way they clung to her hips and thighs.

Her grown-up hotness had sort of surprised me, because as a kid, she’d been short and scrawny, with curly pigtails that begged to be pulled, know-it-all eyes, and a pouty round mouth—which she used to tattle on me all the time.

Although, to be fair, I was a little shit.

I’d steal the perfectly sharpened colored pencils from her desk. I’d take one bite from the cookie in her lunch box but leave it in there. I’d chase her on the playground while she screamed . . . even though the worst thing I ever did when I caught her was untie her shoelaces. For some reason, that drove her nuts.

But she was just such a perfect little goody-goody—she never did anything wrong. Teachers adored girls like her, and I was constantly in trouble. My mom was always saying shit like, “Why can’t you be more like the Fournier kids?” because they were all so well-behaved, and my younger brothers and I were fucking devils.

By high school, I’d let up on Ellie somewhat—I was more interested in girls who let me put my tongue in their mouth or my hand up their shirt, and it was crystal clear she was not ever going to be that girl—but I can’t say I ever missed an opportunity to torment her.

Or to fantasize about what her mouth might feel like on my lips or my chest or certain other parts of my anatomy.

It was like a perfect, luscious little plum.

I tore my eyes off it and forced myself to focus. Setting my cardboard coffee cup on the bar, I perched on one of the stools. “Tell me about it again.”

She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath, like she needed it for patience. “Someone I went to Michigan State with works as an assistant editor at Tastemaker. The offices are in Chicago, and she texted me that she heard my name being tossed around in a meeting as a possible candidate for one of the 30 Under 30 spots, and it was right around the time I got hired to do the tasting.”

“Don’t get mad, but what’s 30 Under 30?”

“It’s a feature in the magazine. Every year they name 30 people under age 30 who are doing cool things in the food, beverage, or hospitality industry. Evidently, they heard about the thing I did with the QR codes on the labels.”

“Oh yeah? Congrats.” Ellie had convinced her dad to add QR codes to Abelard’s wine bottle labels, which directed people to a landing page where they could learn more about the winery’s history, its methods of production, and what went into each bottle. There were also pairing suggestions, recipes, and a video featuring Ellie herself giving tasting notes alongside an ASL interpreter.

“It’s too early for congratulations, but if I got a spot,” she went on anxiously, wringing her hands together, “the media attention would be great for Abelard, and for Michigan wines in general. There are small wineries doing such great things here, and no one knows about them. We spend too much time fighting the misconception that we make mediocre wines rather than talking about what really matters.”

“I hear you. Kind of like when I was featured in People magazine’s special issue: The Sexiest Chefs Alive. Everyone knows that what really matters is how sexy a chef is.”

“Gianni, I’m being serious.” Her voice took on a desperate tone. “They usually feature people working for big-name wineries or Michelin-starred restaurants. I just want a chance to have that kind of reach. To be seen and heard by a wider audience. But it won’t happen if I can’t get there.”

“Who’s doing the food tonight?” I asked out of curiosity, picking up my coffee and taking a sip.

Ellie shrugged. “I assume Fiona. She loves to cook and throws fabulous dinner parties.”

“Why didn’t they ask me?”

“I don’t know. Not everything is about you, Gianni.”

“Yeah, but the food’s better when it is.”

She rolled her eyes and picked up another glass, getting back to work. “I don’t know why I bother talking to you about this stuff. You don’t understand.”

I was going to argue with her, but she looked so upset I decided against it. Maybe she was worrying for no reason—it wouldn’t be the first time. Ellie liked everything just so. Setting down my coffee cup, I pulled out my phone and checked the radar app, prepared to tell her she was making a big deal out of nothing, just like TV news people did.

But that shit looked bad.

I trusted my instincts, and something about that mass of grayish white moving across the upper Midwest on the screen made my gut a little uneasy. “I don’t know, Ell. I’m not sure you should be on the road tonight.”

“You sound like my dad, who’s texted me twice already from France telling me to cancel.”