Undeniable (Cloverleigh Farms #2)(79)

April, who was leaning against the counter checking her phone, looked over at me. “Of course. Good idea.”

“Where are Mom and Dad?”

“Dad’s in the den, and I think Mom went upstairs to make sure the guest room was ready for Oliver.”

I uncorked the bottle. “Wish I had a rubber snake to put in the bed.”

She laughed and set her phone aside. “So when was the last time you two spoke?”

I thought about it as I pulled a couple glasses down from the cupboard. “Two and a half years ago. The last time the Pembertons came here for the Christmas party. He brought his fiancée.” I sneered at the word. “Remember her? The ice queen?”

April laughed. “Oh yeah. The blonde with the heels and pearls and designer handbag. She was pretty.”

“Did you think she was pretty? I didn’t.” It was a lie. I’d thought she was beautiful—tall and elegant and refined. Cool and polished. All the things I wasn’t. The sight of them together had infuriated me.

“I wonder what happened with her,” April mused. “They weren’t engaged for very long.”

“She probably came to her senses. Here.” I handed her a glass of rosé. “I’m going to watch out the window for his car.”

She gave me a knowing grin. “Excited to see him?”

“No.” I snorted. “I just don’t want to be ambushed. I want to be prepared.”

“Prepared for what?”

“To stand up for myself! I don’t want Dad and Oliver to think they can just call all the shots. And I feel like now that Dad’s retiring, he’s trying to bring Oliver in to babysit me. Keep me in line.”

“And why would Oliver have an interest in babysitting you?”

I shrugged. “To torture me? Who knows? The guy’s sadistic.”

She rolled her eyes and lifted her glass to her lips. “I agree what he did to you in Chicago was shitty, but I don’t think he’s sadistic. And he must want to work with you. I mean, Oliver Pemberton isn’t short on cash—if he wanted to open a distillery up here, he’d likely just do it.”

“True,” I admitted, standing a little taller. “I hope you’re right. Because I really want this, April. I want to prove to Mom and Dad that I can envision something, do the research, lay the groundwork, and follow through.”

“You can absolutely do it …” Her smile turned wry. “You just have to put up with Oliver Ford Pemberton first.”

Three quick raps on the front door punctuated her statement.

We exchanged a look and took a drink of wine, mirroring each other since I’m a lefty and she’s a righty.

“You ready?” she asked as I set down my glass.

“Yes. I’m going to stand up for myself. And I’m not going to let him charm me this time.”

She grinned. “Good luck.”





With my fingers wrapped around the front door handle, I paused for a breath. Closed my eyes for a second. Reminded myself that on the other side of the door was the same boy I’d known my entire life, and he wasn’t any smarter or savvier or better than me. Just ten times richer, two days older, and five times as confident.

But I knew him. I could handle this.

Yanking the door open, I kept my facial expression neutral, if not cool.

And there he was.

Handsome as ever, the rotten bastard. Thick dark hair, cropped close above the ears and a little longer on top—the same preppy haircut he’d had since he was eight. It was a little tousled, but not messy like he hadn’t brushed it, more like windblown in that I-just-got-off-my-sailboat-and-now-it’s-time-for-a-G&T sort of way.

“Hey, Dimples.” His blue eyes had the nerve to light up at the sight of me, his mouth hooking into that prep school smile.

“Hello.” I was careful to remain expressionless, although his use of the nickname annoyed me.

He put one hand on my upper arm and pressed his lips briefly to the right of mine. “It’s good to see you. Been a while.”

Not long enough, I thought, but I bit my tongue. “It has. Come in.”

I opened the door all the way and pressed back against it. He stepped across the threshold into the house, and I caught a whiff of him—a hint of expensive cologne, a trace of starch, and beneath it all, something boyish and familiar that was uniquely him. It made my nether regions tighten in a manner I did not like one bit.

Resisting the urge to plug my nose, I held my breath and closed the door.

Oliver carried a well-worn canvas bag over his shoulder, (monogrammed OPF, of course). I’d half-expected him to show up in khaki shorts and a Vineyard Vines T-shirt—which was his teenage wardrobe—but he wore jeans and a white golf shirt, which showed off his tan and his muscular forearms.

“Oliver!” My mother came hurrying down the stairs and embraced him. They kissed each other’s cheek. “Look at you. So tall and handsome.”

He gave her a winning smile. “Thanks, Aunt Daphne. You look great. Did you cut your hair?”

My mother fluffed her short, piecey bob. “I did. Thank you for noticing. Are you hungry, darling?”

“No thanks, I grabbed something on the way up.”

“How about a drink? Cocktail? Glass of wine?”