Taste (Cloverleigh Farms, #7)(5)

I’d actually had a super sexy dream about his dad once as a teenager, which I’d never told anyone about because it was so embarrassing. For like a year afterward, I could hardly look him in the eye. But I blamed Gianni for that, since it was right around the time of the Cherry Festival and that stupid game of Seven Minutes in Heaven the summer after our junior year.

That night had messed with me. Badly.

Maybe it had messed with him too, because after that, he seemed to lay off me a little. We spent our senior year mostly ignoring each other, and then he’d left almost immediately after graduation for New York City, where his dad—who was also a chef—had gotten him a job washing dishes in some famous restaurant kitchen.

Of course, I loved his cooking, but who didn’t? Gianni talked a big game, but he had the talent to back it up. And he hadn’t ridden on his dad’s coattails—he’d made his own way, worked his way up from the lowest jobs in the kitchen, impressing even the most tyrannical chefs with his talent, his work ethic, and his tenacity. Occasionally his big mouth got him in trouble—I was pretty sure he’d been fired a couple times for insubordination—and he still loved to break rules, but at twenty-three, he was already making a name for himself in the industry. Mostly because of that ridiculous show, but there was no denying he’d been the standout star.

Despite what I’d said to him, I’d seen every episode—twice.

Okay, three times.

I’d also read all his press, which was how I knew so much about his career over the last five years and how in-demand he was. In fact, I’d been shocked when he returned to Michigan last summer and then accepted the job offer from my parents last fall.

I’d sulked like a toddler at the prospect of having to deal with him, his ego, and his constant poking at me day in and day out. But my parents had been thrilled, not only to have his name attached to the opening of Etoile and his expertise in the kitchen, but to have someone they considered family at the helm.

“This is better than we could have hoped for, Ell,” my dad said while I pouted. “Beyond Gianni’s skill and name recognition, he’s someone we trust. That means everything when you’re investing in a new business.”

I’d had no choice but to accept their decision. And since my parents were now empty-nesters—my older brother Henri was in grad school and my younger brother Gabe was a freshman at college—they’d decided to spend some extended time in France, where my dad had been born and where they’d met. Living there had always been their dream and I was happy that hiring Gianni had allowed them the peace of mind to achieve it, but he still drove me nuts.

And I’d be trapped in a car with him for hours tonight.

How the hell had I let him con me into that?

I was still brooding about it when Winnie MacAllister popped into the tasting room. Winnie, who’d been my best friend since kindergarten, had taken over for my mother as guest services manager and event planner at Abelard, and I loved working with her—it almost made up for the fact that I was stuck with Gianni Lupo too.

Right behind Winnie was her older sister Felicity, who’d recently moved back from Chicago. Last night, she and a friend had had dinner at Etoile.

“Morning,” Winnie said brightly.

“Good morning,” I said, smiling at them both. “I didn’t know you were working today, Win.”

“I’m not. I’m just showing Felicity around.” Winnie glanced down at her sweatpants and sneakers, then touched her messy bun. “Can you imagine if your mom saw me at the front desk in this?”

Laughing, I set the final storage case on the bar and unzipped it. “She’s in Paris. Even Mia can’t see sweatpants across an ocean.”

“Doesn’t matter. I feel like she’d sense it in the ether that I was not perfectly put together.”

I snickered. “Yeah, and she’d give you that look I got during my rebellious phase when I tried to sneak out of the house on a school morning in ripped jeans.” I imitated my mother’s voice. “Ellie, you have a closet full of beautiful clothes. Do you have to dress like you just rolled out of bed or put your pants in the blender instead of the dryer?”

“Oh, I remember that phase,” Winnie said with a grin. “It didn’t last long.”

“Nope. Which Mia was quite relieved about. Although she still loves to blame my teenage years for her seven gray hairs and two wrinkles. And probably the worst thing I ever did was get a B on a French test!”

“You got a B on a French test?” Winnie asked in surprise.

“Once.” I shook my head, angry at the memory. “Fucking subjonctif plus-que-parfait.”

Felicity laughed. “Were your parents that strict about your grades?”

“They weren’t strict exactly, they just had high expectations. I felt like I had to be perfect—I mean, I felt like I wanted to be perfect.” I placed two more wineglasses into the box. “I liked the way it felt to bring home good report cards or keep my room perfectly neat or hear my dad say he was proud of me. And I wanted to be just like my mom.”

“Really?” Winnie blinked at me. “I’ve never heard you say that. I always thought she drove you crazy.”

I shrugged. “She drives me crazy because she’s perfect. She’s never made a misstep in her life. It’s like she made a list when she was young—go to college, start business, find soul mate, fall in love, get married, have three children, build dream home, never look a day over thirty—and she just keeps checking all the boxes.”