Taste (Cloverleigh Farms, #7)(4)

“Sorry. I guess I’m not used to your gentleman routine. And one good deed in twenty-three years doesn’t exactly make up for all the other mean shit you did.”

“Come on. I wasn’t mean, Ellie. I was . . . playful.”

“Playful? You called me a shrimp. You pulled my pigtails. You drew mustaches on my favorite dolls.” Her eyes narrowed. “You pinned me down, sat on my chest, and let drool ooze out of your mouth until it almost hit me before you sucked it back in.”

I laughed. “Fuck, I forgot about that. How about I let you sit on me right now? Can we call it even? I won’t even mind if there’s saliva involved.”

“And let’s not forget the Cherry Festival.”

“Are we still talking about that? Ellie, for fuck’s sake, it was six years ago. We were seventeen. And it’s not my fault you got assigned to the dunk tank—that’s where the reigning Cherry Princess has to sit. And it’s the God-given right of the townspeople to come and dunk their princess.” I could still picture her sitting in that dunk tank in her crown and sash, her smile big, her bikini small. The memory made me warm all over.

“You didn’t have to come back fifty times,” she seethed. “You humiliated me over and over again on purpose. Then instead of using the photo of me from before, when my hair was dry and my makeup was pretty, the newspaper used the one of us from after—I was plastered on the front page looking like a wet raccoon.”

“And I had a face full of whipped cream, since you got back at me for the dunk tank by throwing eight pies in my face.”

“You deserved it. And you got back at me later that night, didn’t you?”

For a moment, we continued to stare at each other, both of transported to a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven played in Tanner Ford’s basement.

That dark room. The door closed. The clock ticking.

“I got back at you? Is that really how you think of it?” I asked her.

She started polishing a wineglass again. “Actually, I don’t think of it at all.”

“Me neither,” I lied.

“It’s ancient history.”

“My point exactly. Maybe as a kid I sometimes did my best to antagonize you, and possibly there were some shenanigans that got out of hand when we were teenagers, but ever since I moved back here, I have been nothing but nice. Can’t you forgive and forget?”

“You get me to Harbor Springs and back in one piece tonight, and we’ll talk.”

“I will. Trust me.”

“Trust me, he says,” she muttered, zipping up the storage box.

“Yes, trust me.” I puffed up my chest, a little insulted. “My dad taught me to be a man of my word.”

“I do like your dad,” she conceded, as if that was the one thing I had going for me. “I guess I could trust you for a day.”

“Thank you.”

“Should we leave at two?”

“Sounds good. I’ll pull my car up at one-thirty and help you load it.”

“I don’t need your help.”

I shook my head. “Why are you so stubborn?”

“Why are you so bossy?”

“Because it’s fun.” Grinning, I slid off the stool and headed for the door, but at the last second, something made me glance over my shoulder. When I caught her staring, she stuck her tongue out at me.

“You’re going to miss me when I’m gone,” I told her with a grin, which would be sooner rather than later if I accepted the offer my agent in L.A. had just dangled in front of me.

She squawked with laughter. “Fat. Chance.”

Whistling “Fever,” I turned around and headed for the kitchen.





TWO





ELLIE





I watched Gianni leave the tasting room, refusing to look at his butt in his jeans.

Okay, I looked.

But in my defense, Gianni’s backside is one of the best parts about him. It’s round and muscular and looks like it might be fun to grab onto—not that I’d ever thought about doing that.

Much.

But if I can see his butt, he’s probably not talking to me, and that’s when I like Gianni best—when he’s not talking to me. Actually, if he would just not speak at all, I’d like his face more too. I’d never tell him this, because he’s cocky enough as it is, but Gianni is undeniably, unreasonably hot.

It’s infuriating. Truly.

When we were in grade school, I didn’t think he was cute at all. He was tall and wiry, his dirt-brown hair was usually a mess, and his nose was crooked because one of his brothers broke it during a fight. His pants always had holes in the knees, his sneakers were always filthy, and he had this way about him that always made me think he was laughing at me.

And nothing was safe around him—not your fresh box of crayons or your neatly tied shoelaces, the homemade treat in your lunch box or the brand new book you were reading, which he’d take from your desk and hold over your head so high you had no chance to reach it. I couldn’t stand him.

But he grew up to look a lot like his dad, whom I call Uncle Nick and have always had a bit of a secret crush on. He’d gotten his dad’s strong jaw and sculpted cheekbones, the dimple in his chin and those thick black eyelashes. The only difference was that Gianni had his mom’s blue eyes, while his dad’s were dark.