“Easy,” Oliver said, taking a seat on one end of the navy blue couch. “Thanks so much for inviting me.”
I set the tray on the coffee table in front of him and poured him a glass. “Mom? Dad? Some wine?”
“None for me, thanks.” My mother sat in one of the striped easy chairs across from the couch, and my father sat in the other one.
“Me neither,” he said.
I poured a little more for myself as April seated herself on the other end of the couch, which left me no choice but to sit between her and Oliver. As I perched ramrod straight on the cushion, I gave her a dirty look and she smiled.
My parents inquired after Oliver’s mom and dad, who spent a little over half the year in Florida and the warmer months at their place in Harbor Springs. They asked about his older brother Hughie’s growing family, and his little sister Charlotte, who was expecting her first baby sometime this summer.
Oliver answered all of their questions politely and sent his family’s best, encouraging us all to join all the Pembertons in Harbor Springs for the Fourth of July on Wednesday. “It’s my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday celebration too. We have plenty of room at the cottage, and my parents said to insist you come.”
I rolled my eyes. They had plenty of room because it wasn’t a cottage, it was a fucking compound, with a seven-bedroom Victorian house, a tennis court, swimming pool, and croquet lawn on the premises.
As he talked, I did my best to ignore him, breathing through my mouth so I didn’t inadvertently catch his scent. Tuning out the deep, warm tones of his voice, which still surprised me to this day after hearing his boyish pipsqueak for almost half our lives. And I tried not to look at his hands, with their long, tanned fingers, which were particularly elegant and skilled. I knew this for a fact and wished I did not. He still wore a wristwatch, and I remembered one time when I’d watched him remove it and set it on a hotel nightstand.
Looking at it, I forgot to breathe.
“Oh, your mother is always on us to get up there for the Fourth,” my mom said with a sigh. “She knows full well that’s impossible until John retires.” Then she gave my dad a pointed look over the rims of her glasses.
My dad held up his palms. “I’m trying, I’m trying. To that end, should we talk a little business, Oliver? I told Chloe about your offer to partner with her.”
I took another small sip of wine and sat up a little taller. Cleared my throat and my head. “Yes, and I’m a little uncertain about the idea.”
“Oh?” Oliver gave me an infuriating smile. “Why is that?”
“Because I don’t trust you.”
“For heaven’s sake, Chloe, mind your manners,” my mother scolded as Oliver burst out laughing.
“It’s okay.” He flashed the prep school smile at my mother. “Chloe has never pulled her punches. I like that.”
“Good,” I said. “Because some things don’t change. Some people don’t change.”
He met my eyes and nodded slightly, and I knew he understood. If nothing else, Oliver and I had an almost extra-sensory ability to communicate.
“Maybe it will help if I explain a little,” he said.
I gave him a fake smile. “Please do.”
He set his glass on the table and looked at my parents. “When I started Brown Eyed Girl Spirits five years ago, the market was much less crowded. And I didn’t have any grand business scheme—just a dream to handcraft something that tasted really fucking good.” He paused. “Excuse my French.”
“Your French is fine here,” April said with a laugh.
Oliver grinned at her. “Thanks. Anyway, I didn’t really know what I was doing, but I knew what I liked and I did my research.”
“And it’s gone well, hasn’t it?” my mother prompted.
“In many ways, yes.” Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. “The gin and vodka were well received, and while distribution is always a challenge for small producers like me, we manage to do decent business on site and we got into some local stores and popular Detroit cocktail bars. But the industry is getting more and more crowded—there are something like eighteen hundred craft distilleries in the U.S. now, and Michigan has more than sixty.”
“Wow,” April said. “I had no idea.”
“Standing out is becoming increasingly difficult, and while overall growth potential is fantastic in the next five to ten years, in my mind it’s just going to get harder for the little guys. We’ll either be bought up by Big Booze, so to speak, or go under. I don’t want to do either.”
“And you think partnering with Chloe might help you stand out?” my father asked.
“I think a partnership with Cloverleigh would be a sound strategy,” said Oliver. “The best opportunity for growth is within a small batch distiller’s home state. I need to expand beyond the metro Detroit area, and you’ve got built-in tourism, the winery tasting rooms, a bar and restaurant … it’s all right here. Plus with Chloe’s background in marketing, she’d be a great asset. Marketing makes all the difference—we need a good story.” He put a hand on my leg for a second, and a tingle shot up my spine. “I know she wants to make a good whiskey, like I do. But that takes more time and investment.”
“In the meantime, you’re just looking for placement for your vodka and gin?” I asked, jerking my knee out of his reach.
“I do want expanded distribution, yes, but I’m also looking for a partner, Chloe. My facility in Detroit doesn’t have all the space I need for additional stills or a barrelhouse, and as I mentioned, crafting a really interesting, flavorful rye is something I’ve got my heart set on. I’ve been experimenting a little, and I think I’ve got a winning mash bill. I bet anything you’ll agree.”
I didn’t miss the word bet, or the twinkle in his eye when he said it, but I didn’t take the bait.
“So to be clear,” I said, “what you want is a partnership with Cloverleigh—the use of its retail space, distribution network, tasting room, some real estate on the bar’s cocktail menu, and land on which to build another production facility and a barrelhouse.”
He shrugged. “More or less. But I also—”
“Then why, exactly, do I have to work for you for six months?”
“I thought you wanted to branch into distilling spirits here. Brandies from local fruit to start?” He glanced at my dad. “That’s what your business plan said. I have it in my bag if you’d like to check.”
I glared at my father. “Dad! You gave him my business plan?”
“Hear him out, honey,” my dad encouraged. “He liked your ideas.”
“That’s true,” said Oliver. “I think your plan is solid, and I’m willing to invest. But if I’m going to be making a considerable contribution toward your business startup costs, purchasing stills and grains and bottling equipment and the like, it only makes sense to be reassured that you know what you’re doing. Plus, I won’t be on site up here all the time. I’ll need you to oversee production in my absence, especially once we get started on the whiskey.”
“It makes perfect sense,” my father agreed. “All the research in the world can’t compete with hands-on training. If you’re serious about this, Dimples, you need to roll up your sleeves and put in the man hours.”
“I’m willing to put in the work, Dad,” I snapped. “No one can accuse me of being lazy.”
“Chloe, dear, we didn’t say that,” my mother said.
“Frankly, I’m pretty sure I’ve done more man hours, whatever the hell that means, on the farm than Oliver here has ever done anywhere. And I’ve had the dream of handcrafting whiskey just as long as he has, I just didn’t have his trust fund to get started.” I stood up, realizing I needed to leave the room before I said something I’d really regret. “Forgive me if I don’t jump at this opportunity to take orders from you, Oliver. But I need some time to think about this.”
With that, I set my wine glass down and stormed out of the room, down the hall, and through the kitchen, throwing open the sliding glass door to
the yard.
I needed some air.
Some space.
Some distance between me and those blue eyes. That smell. Those hands.
It had been years since they’d touched me, but I hadn’t forgotten how it felt.
I hadn’t forgotten anything.
5
Oliver
THEN
“This is torture.” Chloe spoke through her teeth, a smile plastered on her face.
“I know. Sorry.” I did the same. Our mothers hovered with their digital cameras like vultures, taking photo after photo of us and of the rest of my friends and their dates fully decked out in formal prom attire.
Well, some of us were fully decked out in formal prom attire.
“Those shorts look so stupid,” Chloe told me, struggling with the word stupid as she continued to smile. “Couldn’t you guys afford suits?”
She was referring to the shorts my friends and I had chosen to wear with our dress shirts and navy blue blazers. My shorts were pale red, but all shades in the preppy rainbow were represented: kelly green, salmon pink, aqua blue, lemon yellow. Loafers, no socks. We wore bow ties, too. Mine was red and blue striped, and I thought I looked pretty badass, actually.
“This is a choice. Not a circumstance,” I assured her when our mothers finally took a break to cry and hug and say things like I can’t believe this is how old we are.
Chloe cocked a brow. “Really.”
“Yeah. We don’t want to be like every other guy who’s ever gone to prom. We’re proclaiming our individualism.”
“In matching short pants. Got it.”
“They’re not matching; they’re coordinated. And why should we be forced to wear tuxes or suits? We’re graduating. We’re sick of rules, and we’re sticking it to the man.”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Oliver. Look around you. You guys are the man.”
I glanced at my friends and had to admit everyone there was wealthy and privileged, headed for ivy-covered schools where we’d study business or law or politics or medicine, following in our fathers’ footsteps, which would most likely lead us right back here to a big brick house near the water, where we’d live with our first wives and kids and dogs. We’d sail in the summer, ski in the winter, join country clubs, play golf on the weekends, and tennis after work. After a while, some of us would probably get divorced and move into a flat in the Park where our angry kids would be forced to spend time with us. Then maybe we’d get remarried and start the cycle all over again. It was kind of depressing, actually, how clearly I could see it all.
But Chloe was right. One thing we probably wouldn’t be was powerless or poor. Was I supposed to feel bad about it?
“Hey, it’s not my fault my family has money,” I told her. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know, maybe use some of your millions to make a difference in the world? Do something meaningful?”
“We give plenty to charity.”
“Like what?”
I had no idea, but I was sure my mother was on the board of at least three philanthropic organizations. I made some shit up. “The Shriners,” I told her. “Those people with the funny hats that ring the bell outside grocery stores at Christmas.”
Chloe snorted. “I think you’ve got your charity hats confused. The bell-ringing is for the Salvation Army.”
“Oh. Well, I’m positive we give to both. And I’m donating my time to a sailing camp for underprivileged kids this summer.”
“Are you?” She looked surprised. “That’s cool.”
“Yeah.” I’d almost forgotten my mother had roped me into doing it. At first I’d complained because it meant getting up at the ass crack of dawn, and it would seriously cut into the time I planned to spend on my own boat this summer, working on my tan and trying to win back Caitlyn Becker. We’d been together all year until I’d fucked it up by messing around with a sophomore right before prom. Caitlyn found out and dumped my ass last week. Maybe I should tell her about the sailing camp, I thought. Chloe was looking at me kind of differently right now, as if she saw me in a new, more favorable light.
The last time we’d hung out, she’d gotten pissed about some comment I made about her stupid boyfriend, Chuck. I wasn’t sorry, though. That guy was a fucking tool. I don’t even recall exactly what I said, maybe something about him being the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard, but she’d gone off on me, accused me of being a privileged, judgmental, prep school asshole. A sheep in a navy blazer and khaki pants.
Sometimes I worried she was right.
But I still thought I looked good.
She looked good tonight too. Like the rest of the girls, she had on a long strapless dress and wore sparkly things in her ears and around her neck. Her dark hair was done up, which made her look older and more sophisticated. It also meant her tattoo was visible across her upper back—that was something the other girls in the group definitely didn’t have. It was a line from a book or something, but I forgot which one. She said her parents had been so furious with her for getting it without permission, they’d grounded her for a month. Taken away her keys, her phone, her freedom.
She’d also said it had been worth it. I dug that.
The moms were making the girls line up alone for a photo, and I watched them all smile for the camera. Their teeth were all really, really white but their dresses were all different colors. They sort of looked like a row of frozen yogurt flavors at TCBY. Chloe’s would be key lime, I thought, but even I knew that probably wasn’t something I should say out loud.
She was definitely the shortest girl in the group, but in my opinion, she was the hottest—another thing I wouldn’t say out loud. She’d either take it the wrong way and think I liked her liked her, or she’d hit me. We were pretty damn close, but it didn’t always feel like a choice. Even tonight had been set up by our mothers. And if her dark eyes and dimples sometimes drifted into my head while I was jerking off in the shower, it wasn’t on purpose.
“So what happened with Chuck?” I asked her later as we swayed awkwardly on the dance floor, my hands on her hips, hers on my shoulders.
She shrugged. “We broke up.”
“Good.” Then I couldn’t resist taking a jab. “Even you can do better than that douchebag.”
She glared at me. “What happened with Caitlyn?”
“I cheated on her.”
“With who?”
“Some random sophomore.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” I tried to remember why I’d done it. “Caitlyn wasn’t around one night and this girl was cute.”
She shook her head. “You’re a pig.”
“Yeah, it was stupid,” I admitted. “I actually want to get Caitlyn back. At least for the summer. I don’t want to go away to college with a girlfriend.”
“Do you love her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I love the blowjobs she gives me.”
Chloe thumped me on the chest and made a disgusted sound. “You are the actual worst. What am I even doing here?”
“Getting ungrounded.” Her mother had shortened her punishment for the tattoo by two weeks after she’d agreed to be my date tonight.
“Oh yeah.” She grimaced. “I guess I’ll have to suffer through it.”
But actually, we had a pretty good time. Unlike Caitlyn, Chloe didn’t really care if I made an ass of myself doing the worm across the floor. She could talk to anyone, even the adults, and she laughed at all my jokes. It was comfortable and fun being with her, like old times. And she looked so fucking good in that dress. We’d never fooled around before, but I caught her looking at me once or twice, like she might be open to it. I couldn’t decide how I felt about that.
After the dance was over, we went back to my friend Jeff’s house for a pool party, and all of my buddies were drooling over Chloe’s body in her skimpy white bikini. I stayed silent, although truth be told, I was drooling too. Since when had she gotten those curves? Had they been ther
e inside that key lime dress all night long? I wondered what they’d feel like under my palms.
“Pemberton, you don’t mind if I hit that, do you?” asked Lowell, his eyes on Chloe as she lowered herself into the hot tub with some other girls.
“Yeah, I do,” I said, realizing that I minded way more than I thought I would, and not just because I thought Lowell was a dickhead. “So don’t even fucking think about it.”
The guys all gave me shit about my reaction, and Lowell started getting in my face a little, so I left them and went over to stretch out on a deck chair near the hot tub. I didn’t want to get into a fight with my friends on prom night. And actually, I wanted to hang out with Chloe more than I wanted to be with them.
When she saw me sitting there alone in the dark, she got out, wrapped a towel around herself and dropped onto the chair next to me.
“Hey,” she said over the music. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” She lay back, crossing her bare legs at the ankle. “I don’t believe you.”
“My friends are being assholes.”
“Ah.” She glanced over toward the pool, where Lowell was busy flexing on the diving board. “That guy’s a dipshit for sure.”
“He thinks you’re hot.”
“Ew. Fuck him.”
“He asked me if I’d mind if he hit on you,” I told her, sensing an opportunity to be a bit of a hero. Maybe she’d be grateful enough to put her hand down my pants or something.
“What did you say?”
“I told him to stay away from you.” Tucking my hands behind my head, I felt proud of myself.
Except then she got huffy. “Is that what you’re doing over here by yourself? Guarding me? Because I don’t need you to do that. I can take care of myself.”
“Fine.” So much for a gratitude handjob.
A moment later, she asked, “Just out of curiosity, what would you do? If he didn’t stay away from me, I mean.”
“Like if he tried something with you and you didn’t want him to?”
Undeniable: A Cloverleigh Farms Standalone Page 3
