Taste (Cloverleigh Farms, #7)(6)

Felicity laughed. “I’m sure she’d tell the story differently.”

“Maybe, but sometimes I feel like I’ll never live up.” What I didn’t say was that I had my own list too—I’d inherited my mother’s obsession with them—and so far, I’d only checked off one box: graduate college. Next on the list were things like, eliminate chemicals from our farming methods, grow brand awareness for Abelard, increase retail sales, prove to my parents I could run this place when they retired . . . At some point I was hoping to meet the man of my dreams and have a family too, but I wasn’t in a rush. I was only twenty-three, and I figured that could wait until I was closer to thirty.

That’s why it really wasn’t too worrisome I hadn’t been on more than a handful of dates in the last six months, and all of them had ended with me alone on my couch in my pajamas, eating M&M’s off a spoon I’d dipped in peanut butter, and watching reruns of Friends.

“Anyway, how was your dinner last night?” I asked Felicity.

“Oh, it was amazing—thank you so much for getting us in.”

“You’re welcome.” I smiled at her. “I’m happy you enjoyed it.”

“The food was just incredible,” she gushed. “The friend I was with is a pretty influential food blogger and photographer, and she was really impressed.”

“Oh, nice! What’s her name?”

“Her name is Kate, but her blog is called The Side Dish.”

“Oh my gosh! I’ve seen it—she takes gorgeous photos.”

“Doesn’t she?” Felicity laughed. “It’s like food porn. I don’t know how she makes broccoli look sexy, but she does.”

“I didn’t realize she was from around here,” I said.

“She’s not—she lives in Chicago, but I begged her to come up and take some promo photos for me.”

“Lissy is starting her own food blog and catering business,” Winnie said proudly, putting an arm around her sister’s shoulders.

“Really? That’s great!”

“Thanks.” Felicity pushed her glasses up her nose. “I’m still in the early stages of putting a business plan together, but I’m excited.”

“What’s your blog going to be called?”

“I want to focus on plant-based recipes, so right now my favorite is The Veggie Vixen.”

I laughed. “I like it. You went to culinary school, right?”

“Yes. And I worked as a sous chef in Chicago for a couple years before veering sideways into food science. Which was interesting—I liked the test kitchen, and I learned a lot—but I missed being in a real kitchen, creating food from real ingredients that people would enjoy eating just for pleasure. Beyond that, I discovered that I don’t love working for a big corporation. I’d like to work for myself.”

I smiled. “I don’t blame you.”

“But that sort of means starting from scratch,” she said with a laugh, self-consciously tucking her straight dark hair behind one ear. “So here I am, age twenty-seven and living at home again, saving up money and trying to get a business off the ground.”

“I think it’s awesome,” I said. “And don’t feel bad. I still live at home too.” When I’d first moved back last year, my parents had let me stay in one of Abelard’s guest cabins, although my mother had reminded me daily how much that was costing us since it couldn’t be rented out to paying guests. Last fall, I’d moved back into my former bedroom in the main house, which I was trying to view as a smart financial decision rather than a backward move.

But it was so convenient—I worked a lot of late nights, didn’t have to drive home, and with my parents in France and my brothers away at school, I had plenty of privacy . . . not that I used it for anything fun. But a long dry spell was perfectly normal when you worked as much as I did, right?

“I told Felicity she could stay in the second bedroom at my place, but she turned me down,” Winnie said.

“Um, and listen to you and Dex going at it on the other side of the wall every night?” Felicity laughed and shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“It’s not every night.” Winnie blushed. “Just . . . most nights. But he and I could always stay at his place.”

Felicity poked her sister’s shoulder. “From the stories you’ve told me, I’d probably still hear you.”

I laughed—Winnie had fallen in love with the guy who’d moved into the condo next to hers last summer, and they were disgustingly crazy about each other.

“So will you work out of the kitchen at Cloverleigh Farms?” I asked Felicity. Their dad had been CFO at Cloverleigh Farms for as long as I’d known their family, and their stepmom’s family owned it. Like Abelard, Cloverleigh was a winery and an inn, although it was much bigger, with a large restaurant and bar on the premises, and soon they’d be opening a spa.

“In the beginning, yes,” said Felicity. “I have an arrangement worked out with Alia, the head chef there—I’ll use the kitchen during the hours between lunch and dinner at Cloverleigh for now, since I don’t want to step on Alia’s toes. But speaking of chefs, Gianni Lupo is incredible.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Yeah. I know.”