Undeniable (Cloverleigh Farms #2)(5)

My jaw dropped, and I felt the steamroller move over me, hot and heavy, leaving me crushed.

It wasn’t the first time Oliver had left me feeling that way.

And it wouldn’t be the last.





3





Oliver





NOW



God, I wish I could have seen her face.

Every time I thought about how mad Chloe must have been when her parents told her about the deal I’d proposed—and how they’d basically accepted on her behalf—I laughed out loud.

I hadn’t spoken with her in a few years, but I could picture her perfectly, not only because I occasionally stalked—I mean stumbled across—her photos on social media, but because we’d known each other since birth and I was familiar with every single one of her expressions.

Hot and angry because you’d distracted her and then eaten the cookie off her plate.

Stubborn and determined when you bet her she couldn’t run as fast as you (I had no idea why she took those bets—I was way taller with much longer legs and beat her every fucking time).

Outraged and defiant when you called her a chicken for refusing to do something stupid you dared her to do (she did it every time).

Narrow-eyed and resentful when you both got caught doing something dumb and dangerous that had been your idea, even though she never tattled on you.

Flushed and breathless, her dark eyes half-shut, her mouth open as you slid inside her, her hands clutching you desperately, your name a plea on her lips …

Fuck.

Shifting in my seat, I focused on the highway again.

It had been a pretty easy Sunday evening trip. Most people were heading south on I-75, returning home after a vacation up north. My family had a summer place in Harbor Springs, but it was about a two-hour drive from Cloverleigh, so instead of staying there, I’d decided to take the Sawyers up on the offer to stay in one of the guest bedrooms at their house.

Had they told her I was coming yet? I started to smile again. Uncle John had said the family would have Sunday dinner at seven, and that’s when he’d mention my offer. He’d invited me to join them, but I figured it would be better if she heard about the deal when I wasn’t in the room. Probably she’d have turned it down right then and there just to spite me, and that wouldn’t have done either one of us any good.

Despite what she was bound to think, I was doing this for both of us. I knew how badly she wanted a distillery, and I could make it happen—but I would need her help.

How furious was she? Would she even stay to talk to me? Or would she already have stormed out, furious and feeling like we’d ganged up on her?

Rubbing one finger beneath my lower lip, I figured the odds were about even. If she let her temper get the best of her, she’d probably left for home already, possibly after throwing something. If she took a moment to think reasonably about the deal, she’d realize it was in her best interest to stick around. Chloe’s blood ran hot, and she was not my biggest fan at the moment, but she was no fool. And she wasn’t terribly patient, either. If she thought I could get her what she wanted sooner than she could get it on her own, she might be inclined to play nice.

I decided the odds were probably tipped in favor of her staying long enough to greet me, sniff out the situation, and announce her unquestionable displeasure, if not her downright outrage.

But then she’d say yes. She never could resist me.

My grin grew even wider, and I pushed down a little harder on the accelerator, eager to get there.

Damn, I wished I could have seen her face.





4





Chloe





NOW



My first instinct, of course, was to flip the table and storm out.

But did I? No. No.

Because I was not a tempestuous child anymore, but a calm, mature adult. A woman astute enough to recognize an opportunity and entertain its possibilities with an open mind. A woman secure enough in her own self-worth—mostly—to let bygones be bygones, forgive and forget.

Or at least that’s how I wanted to appear.

To that end, after helping my mother with the dishes, I tried out some body language in my parents’ first-floor bathroom, or what we called “the powder room” because it had a tiny adjacent area with a marble topped vanity and three-way mirrors that reached the ceiling.

I stood there for a full ten minutes auditioning different poses and expressions I might employ as Oliver made his pitch. I tried out detached, bemused, discerning, skeptical, cautiously optimistic, polite but pessimistic, and downright outraged. When I was confident with them, I quickly fluffed my hair with my fingers, applied a coat of an old lipstick I’d found in the drawer, which wasn’t really my shade but was better than nothing, and pinched some color into my cheeks. I wished I was wearing something nicer than cut-off denim shorts, but at least I’d traded my white tank for a cute green blouse and my sneakers for sandals.

When I emerged, Frannie was standing in the hallway looking at me quizzically.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You were in there forever.”

“I’m fine.”

She arched a brow. “What’s with the lipstick? You weren’t wearing it before.”

“What? Yes, I was.” I moved past her, feeling heat in my cheeks.