Taste (Cloverleigh Farms, #7)(61)

“I won’t say a word. What’s the show about?”

I gave her the gist of it, and she laughed.

“Sounds perfect for him. But kind of a bummer he’s leaving Etoile.”

“No, it isn’t. Good riddance, if you ask me.” I tried to sound like my old self, the one who couldn’t stand Gianni Lupo, the one who resented him for being so hot and successful, the one who didn’t know how he kissed or touched or tasted. The one who’d be glad to see him go, not the one who’d always wonder if we could have been good together.

Winnie spread brie on a cracker. “I thought everything was better with you guys.”

“It was. In fact we spent all of yesterday and last night having a really good time. And then this morning, he dropped another bomb on me.”

Winnie’s eyes went wide as she took a bite.

“That whole thing about his SUV being dead? It was a lie. He made it up.”

“Why?”

“So he could have me to himself for one more night at the motel.”

Winnie started to choke and had to get up and get herself a glass of water. After grabbing a glass from a cupboard, she filled it at the sink and guzzled it. Then she turned to face me. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Gratified by her reaction, I went on. “That asshole kept me prisoner a whole other day and night, like I was his toy.”

“Wow,” said Winnie. “What a jerk.” Then her expression changed. “But it’s kind of sweet too.”

I gaped at her. “No, it isn’t, Winnie! He lied to me. To suit his own selfish purposes. He was only thinking about himself.”

She sighed. “Yeah. You’re right—it was shitty of him. But it’s kind of cute that he wanted to be alone with you that badly. And that he confessed. He must have felt bad.”

“I didn’t see it that way. I saw it as just one more way he messed with me. I was furious, especially since—” I stopped myself.

“Since what?”

I played with the stem of my wineglass. “I don’t even want to say it out loud.”

“Do it anyway.”

I pursed my lips. “Since I was . . . having some feelings.”

“Feelings? For Gianni?” Winnie was suitably shocked.

“Maybe just one feeling.” I took a breath as the memory of being skin to skin with him washed over me. “But it was a nice one.”

Winnie took it in slowly as she walked back around the island to take her seat again. “Are you sure it’s gone?”

“Yes. It was snuffed out like a candle as soon as he told me about the lie. Because that’s when I knew he hadn’t changed—he’s still that same kid who tortured me all through school, and dunked me fifty times just for the hell of it, and made me want to kiss him in a closet then refused to do it. He’s a game player and always will be. He’s gorgeous,” I went on grudgingly, “and we have some good chemistry, but he’s too immature and self-centered for me. He doesn’t even want to grow up. He just wants to run around and set things on fire. And I’d be stupid as hell to waste my time hoping he’ll change.”

Winnie said nothing for a minute. “Well, I guess now you know.”

“Now I know,” I said with finality. “And I can move on.”





And I did.

At least, I tried.

It was hard with Gianni right there all the time. He accepted the offer to do Hot Mess, but production wasn’t starting until April, and in the meantime, we still had to work together.

But just when I was positive he couldn’t change his ways, he kept his word not to bother me anymore.

He stopped coming to the tasting room to antagonize me. He didn’t tease me in the kitchen at Etoile. When we had meetings or discussions about the menu, he was professional and polite—no cocky attitude, no boasting, no dirty jokes, no flirty references to anything that had happened between us. It was just like he promised.

I was totally baffled.

Worse? I missed the attention—not that I’d admit it to him.

Then one morning, about two weeks after the blizzard, he came to the tasting room to tell me he’d turned down Fiona Duff’s offer.

“I hope you didn’t turn it down because of me,” I said, even though part of me was desperately hoping that was exactly why he’d turned it down.

“There were several reasons. You were one of them.” He shrugged. “It didn’t feel right.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I just wanted you to know.” He gave me an impersonal smile and started to walk away.

“Gianni!” I blurted, because I didn’t want him to leave.

He faced me again. “Yeah?”

I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated the gesture and give him a hug and feel the warm strength of his body against mine again. I wanted to confess that I thought about him way more than I should. I wanted to say the words—I miss you. I pushed you away because I was scared.

But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“Um, thank you. For telling me.”

“You’re welcome.”

As he walked away, I felt like crying.





Days passed.

Occasionally I’d catch him looking at me across the dining room, or see him walk past the tasting room and pause like he might come in, but he never did. Every time, my breath would catch and I’d hope for something from him, some sign that he was thinking of me too, that he couldn’t stay away, couldn’t keep his promise.