Undeniable: A Cloverleigh Farms Standalone Page 2

  I gave her a flat stare. “His mother made him ask me. And you made me say yes.”

  “And you were darling together.” She sighed sadly. “Nell and I always thought you’d be perfect for each other. It’s too bad you two never—well, anyway, you’re both so much more mature now.”

  I squirmed a bit in my chair. “I suppose, but I still haven’t forgotten the mean things he did to me when we were younger.”

  “Like when he convinced you that you had Dutch elm disease?” April teased.

  “That wasn’t funny,” I snapped, although the rest of the table burst out laughing.

  “I never knew that,” said Frannie. “How did he do it?”

  “He told her that freckles on the nose were a sure sign, and if she started to grow hair on her legs, she should definitely cover them with peanut butter,” blurted April, that traitor. “He told her that was the only known cure.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” My mother wiped tears from her eyes as she gasped with laughter. “I’d forgotten about that. I found her in the pantry one day just covered with Skippy.”

  “We called her Skippy for months after that,” wheezed April.

  “All I knew was that she broke her leg after he dared her to jump off the barn roof,” said Frannie, giggling. “And didn’t he break his collarbone jumping after her?”

  My mother sucked in her breath, laying a hand on her chest. “Yes! Good Lord, I thought I’d had a heart attack when I saw the two of them lying there.”

  “It was more than a dare, it was a bet—which I won, and he never settled,” I said, grouchy at the memory, “because he was a liar and a cheat and deep down he probably hasn’t changed, and that’s why I don’t want to be his partner.”

  “This is making me feel better about what my kids do to one another,” said Mack, grinning as he picked up his beer bottle.

  “I bet your girls never put a rubber snake under someone’s covers when they were a guest at the family cottage,” I huffed. “Then hid under the bed to see how loud they’d scream.”

  Mack paused with his beer halfway to his mouth and shook his head. “Can’t say that they’ve done that, but it sounds kind of like something I would have done to my sister.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” I said with a sniff, “because unlike Oliver Pemberton, you are a gentleman. And you have manners.”

  “Oh, Chloe, for goodness sake,” my mother scolded. “Oliver has manners. You two used to butt heads just because you were so close.”

  “That’s not all they used to butt,” April mumbled under her breath.

  I gave her another kick in the ankle—harder this time—and tried again to be cool and rational. “Look. I’m willing to be open-minded about this, but I want to be honest, too. I don’t know how well he and I will work together.”

  “He seems to think you’ll work beautifully together,” said my dad.

  I rolled my eyes. “No, he seems to think it will be great to boss me around for six months. That’s what will be beautiful to him. He’ll probably make me scrub the toilets and mop the floors.”

  “That’s not at all what he said,” my mother assured me, reaching over to pat my hand. “He said he was reluctant at first too, since the two of you’d had some friction in the past.”

  Friction?

  That was one way to put it.

  “But then the more he thought about it,” she went on, “he realized what a great opportunity it would be to work with someone as talented and passionate as you.”

  “He said that?” I asked doubtfully.

  “He did. And he also said that he likes the idea of working with someone he knows he can trust, because he sees that as the most important thing in a partnership.”

  How ironic, I thought.

  “I think you should do it, Chloe.” Frannie smiled at me enthusiastically. “You’re amazing at what you do here, but I know you’ve always wanted to challenge yourself to do more. I say go for it.”

  “How would this even work?” I wondered. “Would I have to move to Detroit for six months? What about my job here?”

  “You and Oliver can work out the details of your schedule, but yes, I’d imagine it would involve going down there for some of the time,” my father said. “As for your job here, your mother and Henry will work together to find a replacement.”

  I thought carefully for a moment. My gut told me this was my big chance—if I said no, I lost esteem in my parents’ eyes and the opportunity to really make my mark here. I’d seem like the defiant teenager I used to be, or worse, like a stubborn toddler throwing a tantrum. But if I said yes too quickly, I’d seem too eager and the Boys Club would think they could steamroll me forever. I wasn’t going to be their little rag doll.

  Sitting up taller, I tucked my hair behind my ears and spoke with confidence. “I’ll consider the offer after I hear for myself what Oliver has to say. I’ll reach out tomorrow and set up a meeting.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” my dad said, reaching for another slice of bread. “He’s already on his way up here. He’ll arrive about nine, I think, and he’s staying here for the night. If you’re too tired to stay and chat with him, you can meet with us tomorrow in my office at eight.”

  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 proba
bly 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.

  “Is that for Oliver?” she teased, following me into the living room.

  “No. It’s for confidence.” I looked around, wondering whether I should be sitting or standing when he came in.

  “This really has you worked up, doesn’t it?”

  “A little,” I admitted, debating a casual pose over by the fireplace, perhaps holding a glass of wine in my hand. That’s what I needed—a prop. “Hey, are you staying? Let’s open another bottle of wine.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. The kids have a sitter, and we promised to be back before nine.”

  “I don’t understand why you don’t just bring them. Mom invites them every time. You guys could come more often if you did.”

  “I know.” Frannie sighed. “It’s Mack. He doesn’t want to intrude on Mom and Dad’s family dinner.”

  “Did I hear my name?” Mack appeared in the living room doorway, keys in his hand.

  “Yes. We want you to stop feeling like a guest in this house already.” I went over to him and smacked his shoulder. “You’re marrying in, you’re family. And so are the kids, so you should bring them to Sunday dinner. Mom and Dad are dying to have kids around. They’d take the pressure off.”

  Mack smiled. “Maybe next time.”

  “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mack. Night, Frannie.” I gave my sister a quick hug and Mack another slug on the shoulder before heading to the kitchen, where I pulled another bottle of rosé from the fridge. “Think I can open this?”

  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 tho
ught, 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?”

  “That sounds good.” He looked at me over her shoulder. “Chloe? Will you join us?”

  “Sure. I just opened a bottle of rosé. Is that okay, or would you prefer—”

  “That’s perfect,” he said as April came into the hall, wine glass in hand. They greeted each other and moved into the living room, while I slipped down the hall to the kitchen. Taking a few deep breaths to steady my nerves, I placed the bottle of rosé and some glasses on the tray along with a small plate of crackers and cheese, and went back into the living room. My father was shaking Oliver’s hand and clapping him on the back.

  “Good to see you, son,” he said jovially. My dad had always liked Oliver, and it was easy to see how much he liked having another guy in the house. “How was the drive up?”