Undeniable (Cloverleigh Farms #2)(34)

Meeting his eyes, I wondered if he, like me, was thinking of the night he came up with the name. My pulse started to race.

“Say yes, Chloe,” he urged. “Let’s do everything together.”

But I couldn’t say anything at that moment. All I could do was stare at Oliver’s mouth and think about what a good kisser he was. I felt hot and dizzy, assaulted by memories of being skin to skin with him, his body moving over mine. My vision started to cloud as his words circled through my head.

Let’s do everything together.

I took a step back. I’d been at this crossroads before and made the wrong choice. I couldn’t get swept away again. “Okay, that sounds good.”

“Great. When we get to Detroit, I’ll set up a meeting with my financial advisor, and we’ll make it official on paper.” He offered a hand. “Partners in everything?”

I put my hand in his and shook it, wishing I could blame the heat for the erratic way my heart was beating. “Partners in everything.”





We made it to the Feldmann farm by about six-thirty and knocked on the front door of the house—an old, weather-beaten, two-story structure with flaking white paint, a sagging front porch, and a black-shingled roof. Our knock was answered by a stout, pot-bellied guy whose bushy beard was about half gray. He wore a yellow T-shirt advertising a charter fishing business in Wisconsin, and his skin was ruddy from years in the sun.

“You the guy from Detroit?” he asked Oliver.

“I am.” Oliver held out his hand. “I’m Oliver Pemberton, and this is my business partner, Chloe Sawyer.”

“Nice to meet you. Josef Feldmann.” He shook hands with both of us. “Come on in. Dad’s in the back.”

We followed him into the house, which was cluttered but clean. I noticed Josef walked with a limp.

“Dad’s a little hard of hearing, so you’ll have to speak a bit louder if you want him to hear you.” Josef shook his head as he led us through a small, dated kitchen—the latest upgrade appeared to be a Formica countertop—adding, “He refuses to wear his hearing aids, the damn fool.”

“No problem,” Oliver said.

“The back” turned out to be a small den, which had been added onto the house sometime after it was built. Jergen Feldmann was sitting on a beat-up recliner watching Jeopardy on television at an absurdly high volume.

“Dad?” said Josef loudly. “They’re here.”

“What?” The old guy blinked at us through thick-lensed glasses.

Josef muted the television. “The people who want to make an offer on the farm are here,” he shouted.

“Oh.” Jergen struggled to get out of his chair.

“Don’t get up,” I said clearly, moving into the room and offering him my hand. “Hello. I’m Chloe Sawyer.”

He shook it. “Jergen Feldmann.”

Oliver introduced himself as well, and Josef gestured to the sofa. “Please sit down. Can I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

He smiled. “Not even a little taste of whiskey made from our rye?”

My eyes widened. “You have some?”

“Sure, we do. We’ve been making our own moonshine here for generations.”

Oliver and I exchanged a glance. “Why not?” I returned Josef’s smile. “We’ll try it.”

The whiskey was rough, but it had a distinctive, unique flavor that both Oliver and I loved. I knew with the right equipment and process, we had the potential to create something that would taste extraordinary. After chatting (loudly) with the Feldmanns about their farm and family history, Josef asked us if we’d like to take a walk around the farm.

We took him up on his offer, and if I hadn’t been sold on the idea of buying this land before tasting the whiskey made from the rye that grew there, I was now. Maybe it was the slight buzz I had, maybe it was the beauty of the fields in the early evening light, maybe it was the growing excitement I felt about being a part of this story, but I knew we had to have that land.

“Have you given any thought to my offer?” Oliver asked Josef as we circled back toward the house. It felt glorious to walk without the weight of the pack on my back.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’ve discussed it.” Josef scratched the back of his neck. “The other offer is higher, you know, but Dad likes yours better.”

“It’s cash up front,” Oliver explained to me. “They can stay in the house as long as they want.”

“And he doesn’t much like the idea of someone tearing down the house and carving up the farm,” Josef said. “My great-great grandfather built this house and raised that barn. My great-grandmother taught school at that schoolhouse up the road. Their bones are buried right over there in the cemetery. We don’t want all that erased.” He sighed. “But it’s hard to say no to more money.”

“It is,” I agreed, turning on the charm. “But there are some things money can’t buy, and a legacy is one of them. In fact, your family’s history is a huge part of what we want to do here. We plan to not only keep it alive, but celebrate it. We were even thinking of naming the whiskey we make after your great-great grandmother—Rebecca’s Rye. If it’s okay with you and your dad, of course. We wondered if we could see a picture of her?”