Undeniable (Cloverleigh Farms #2)(94)

He set my suitcase down and tucked the bottle into a side pocket. “Perfect fit.”

I turned around to face him and held out my arms. “Well? How do I look?”

“Perfect,” he said with a smile. “Ready to go?”

“Ready to go.”

I had to admit I actually felt sort of excited and exhilarated tossing my backpack into the back of Oliver’s SUV and hopping into the front seat. I didn’t know exactly where we were headed, but it was a gorgeous summer day, I wasn’t at work, and I really did love an adventure. I sometimes hiked with April or with friends, but it had been a long time since I’d done an overnight. I felt free and spontaneous and—yes, I’ll confess—even a little bit grateful to Oliver for making me do this.

It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? He still knew how to push my buttons, but he seemed more mature. More focused on his goals and not just on having a good time. Maybe he was right, and this partnership was going to be a good thing for both of us.

If I could learn to trust him.

As we drove west out of town on Highway 72, windows down, my arm out, warm air rushing over my skin, I tipped my head back and sang along with Stevie Wonder on satellite radio.

Oliver laughed. “I forgot how terrible your singing voice is.”

I reached over and poked his shoulder. “As I recall, yours isn’t any better.”

“Nope, it is not.” He glanced at me. “Know where we’re going yet?”

“I have an idea.” I bit my lip. “But only because you said island.”

“What’s your idea?”

“North or South Manitou?”

He grinned but kept his eyes on the road. “South. Have you been?”

“Not in years,” I said, sitting up straighter in the passenger seat. “I remember once going with Sylvia and my dad because she was into photography and wanted to take pictures of the lighthouse. I must have been about thirteen then. We hiked the island, but Sylvia’s not really a camper, so we didn’t stay the night. We caught the last ferry home.” I found myself even more excited. “I’ve always wanted to go back, and I never have. Seems silly, when you think about how close it is. I’ve hiked all over the map but haven’t really explored my own state.”

“Well, if all goes as planned today, we’re going to explore the whole island, top to bottom and everything in between.”

“Cool!” I clapped my hands. “I can’t wait! But I have to ask what this trip has to do with business. I can’t imagine what South Manitou Island has to do with distilling.”

His grin grew wider. “That’s where the story comes in.”

“So tell me,” I said.

“All in due time. For now, let’s just relax and enjoy the ride.”

I stuck my tongue out at him, but a minute later I was perfectly happy again—eyes closed, wind in my hair, Motown on the radio, anticipation in my belly.

I was glad I’d come.





After grabbing a quick lunch in Leland, we purchased sandwiches to have for dinner and tucked them into our packs before heading to the Fishtown dock, where Oliver purchased park passes and a camping permit. Then we bought our tickets and boarded the Manitou Island Transit ferry.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

Oliver and I sat up top, and it was so sunny I needed my hat to protect my face. I grabbed my sky blue Cloverleigh cap from my pack, stuck it on my head, and pulled my ponytail through the back. Oliver wore a cap too—it was navy and said CSYC on it, which I assumed was a yacht club he belonged to.

I also rubbed sunscreen onto my arms, legs, chest and face, but Oliver said he’d do it later. He was already tanned at this point in the summer.

“You sailing a lot?” I asked him.

“A fair amount. I’m a volunteer instructor at a sailing school.” He pushed his tortoise Ray Bans up his nose.

“You volunteer?”

He shrugged. “It’s part of a summer program for underprivileged kids. My mom roped me into doing it years ago, but I ended up enjoying it.”

“Oh yeah, I vaguely remember you telling me about that. Do you still have your own boat?”

He shook his head. “I did for a while, but I sold it to a friend in Chicago a few years back. I sometimes sail to Mackinac with him.”

The mention of Chicago jarred me a little, and I looked across the deep blue water of Lake Michigan for a minute, away from Oliver. Were we ever going to talk about what had happened there? Did I want to? Would there be any point? For years, I’d convinced myself I didn’t need any closure where he was concerned. But maybe I was wrong.

The ferry captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker, welcoming us on board, letting us know someone would be coming around to collect our tickets, and telling us the ride would take about an hour and a half.

“An hour and a half,” I said, poking Oliver in the leg. “Plenty of time for you to tell me a story.”

He exhaled as if I was a big pain in the ass. “Okay, fine. But you shouldn’t be so impatient. That’s not going to serve you well in the whiskey business, you know. Aging takes time. You can’t rush things.”

“Thank you, I know. I’ve done my research, too. Now tell me a story, and it better explain what I’m doing on this boat, headed for an island in the middle of Lake Michigan where I will be forced to share a tent with you tonight.”