Undeniable: A Cloverleigh Farms Standalone

by Melanie Harlow

  “Worth it.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Get out of my way, asshole.”

  “No.”

  There was no chance of my out-muscling him. I thought about kicking him in the balls, but wasn’t sure I could stoop so low. There had to be a way to outsmart him. Turning around, I ran over to my bag, which was on the floor at the foot of my bed, and reached inside to grab my phone. I’d text Frannie, and then—“Hey!”

  Oliver had tried to swipe the phone from me, but I was quick enough to switch it to the other hand and keep it out of his reach.

  “Knock it off!” I yelled as he struggled to get at it. I jumped up on my bed, bounced off Frannie’s, and went running around the perimeter of the room.

  He cut me off by the dresser and I shrieked as he made another grab at my phone, managing to duck beneath his arms and make a run for the door. But just as I closed my fingers around the handle and pulled, his hand shot out above me and slammed it shut.

  “God, you are such a jerk!” I yanked on the handle but it was no use. He had me prisoner.

  His front pressed up against my back. My cheek was on the door. Both of us were breathing hard. “You want this,” he said. “Admit it. You wanted me then and you want me now.”

  “I want you to let me out of here, you arrogant son of a bitch,” I seethed through clenched teeth. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you.”

  “So scream.” His voice was low in my ear, and then his mouth was on my neck. “Text your sister. Call for help. Call 911, for fuck’s sake.” One hand snuck around my waist and slid down the front of my dress. “I won’t stop you.”

  I knew I should say no, but his tongue was doing things on my throat and his fingers were edging beneath the hem of my shift and wandering up my inner thighs. Then there was his voice, all deep and intense.

  “But I don’t think you really want to go. I think you want to see what it’s like to be with me again.” His fingertips rubbed me over my thin lace panties. “I’m much more patient now. And I’ve got all kinds of new tricks.”

  “You do?”

  “Mmhm.” He turned me around, putting my back against the door. His lips hovered above mine. “I bet I can make you come within five minutes.” His expression was cocky. “Care to bet against me?”

  I bit my tongue, refusing to reply.

  “So stubborn. Nothing ever changes.” He kissed me, and I felt myself sinking. Then it was Oliver sinking—to his knees in front of me. Pushing up my dress. Pulling down my underwear.

  I think I whimpered. I dropped my phone.

  He laughed as he tossed one of my legs over his shoulder, and I felt his breath on me. “Don’t worry. I promise I’m going to be very, very gentle.”

  And he was gentle—soft kisses up my inner thighs; sweet, lingering strokes with his tongue up my center; slow, dizzying spirals over my clit.

  I flattened my palms against the door and struggled not to make the kind of embarrassing noises you heard through hotel room walls.

  Then he wasn’t gentle—flicking the tip of his tongue over my clit in a quick, fluttering motion that made my lower body hum; sucking it into his mouth and moaning with delight; clutching my thigh with one hand as he fucked me with two fingers on the other.

  I clapped a palm over my mouth. I banged on the door. I felt my legs begin to shudder and go numb with pleasure, the one I stood on about to buckle.

  “Oliver,” I panted. “I can’t stand up. I can’t stand up.”

  He laughed, but he didn’t let up, and within ten seconds, my entire body was convulsing, wave after wave of pure pleasure rippling out from his tongue to the tips of my toes and the ends of my hair and my tingling breasts that ached to be touched. It was the most intense, most otherworldly, most powerful orgasm I’d ever experienced, and it made me want more.

  I wanted Oliver to fuck me. I craved it. And he had to be hard, right? He had to want it just as badly as I did.

  Suddenly I heard a beeping noise, like a phone alarm going off.

  “Yes!” Oliver fist-pumped and picked up my cell from the floor. “Under five minutes. I win.”

  I pulled my leg off his shoulder, the sultry haze around me evaporating. “Huh?”

  He looked up at me triumphantly. “I made you come in under five minutes.”

  My mouth fell open. There were so many things wrong with what he’d said, I could hardly think. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” I put out a hand. “You set a timer?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “On my phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shook my head. “How did you even—”

  “Your passcode is your birthday.” He gave me an admonishing look. “You should really be more careful.”

  “But … I didn’t even notice you playing with it.”

  “I know. I’m good, right?”

  I brought my legs together. Tight. “You are vile and loathsome. And I never took any bet.”

  He burst out laughing. “Doesn’t matter. It was more of a challenge I set for myself. Under five minutes.” He wiped his mouth and sat back. “Damn, I’m good.”

  I wanted to punch him. For giving me an orgasm. What the fuck was going on?

  “This whole thing was a ruse, wasn’t it?” I demanded. “You were never worried you didn’t know what you were doing with women. Or that they were faking it.”

  “Fuck no,” he scoffed. “Maybe I didn’t go to Harvard, but I know my stuff.”

  I shook my head. “You were just mad you hadn’t made me come.”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “I cannot believe I actually had warm, fuzzy feelings toward you tonight.”

  “Aww.” He put a hand on his heart. “That’s cute.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He put his hands on the button of his shorts. “I mean … we can. I’m certainly willing and able.”

  “Fuck. You.” I yanked the door open, grabbed my phone from the floor, and took off down the hall, without shoes, without underwear, without dignity.

  And I swore—I swore—to myself that I would never let Oliver Ford Pemberton get near me again.

  It was a promise I couldn’t keep.

  What was wrong with me?

  12

  Oliver

  NOW

  I relaxed. That could not have gone better.

  Beside me, Chloe was talking a mile a minute about the marketing possibilities of our heritage whiskey—what we might call it, the potential for ad campaigns, the label on the bottle, the price point—and I could hear in her voice how thrilled she was with the idea.

  “And you’re positive the farmers are going to sell to you?” she asked, her brows knit together.

  “Well, at this point, there are only two full-time commercial farmers left on the island,” I told her. “A father and son by the name of Jergen and Josef Feldmann—Jacob and Rebecca’s grandson and great-grandson. Both widowed, still living in the original house. They grow some Feldmann rye right now, but not a ton of it. ”

  “Incredible,” she marveled. “And you’ve spoken to them?”

  “Several times. They’re willing to increase production right away and devote several hundred acres exclusively to Feldmann rye. They’ll plant it this fall.”

  “Really? They agreed to it just like that?”

  “Uh, not exactly.” I readjusted my cap on my head. “See, they’re looking to get out of the farming business in the next few years. Jergen’s getting older, and Josef has a bad leg. They had a buyer all ready to give them top dollar for their land, too. Some automotive tycoon who wants to build a vacation house.”

  Chloe recoiled. “Fuck that. He can’t have our land.”

  I laughed. “That’s the thing. It’s not ours. Not yet, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, in order to secure the land for our purposes, I had to offer to purchase it outright.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You mean, not just buy the rye from the Feld
manns but the farm itself? Won’t that be expensive?”

  “Uh, yeah. I had to promise to come close to what the tycoon was offering, which was almost a million.”

  Her jaw fell open. “Sheesh.” Then she grinned and thumped the tops of my legs. “But that’s like a drop in the bucket for you, right? And what better investment for your inheritance than land? It’s not like it will lose its value, right?”

  I cleared my throat. “I hope not.”

  “So did you agree on a price?”

  “I think we’re close.”

  “And you need me to seal the deal, eh?” She elbowed me in the ribs. “Not to worry, I can charm anyone into anything. My dad always says I could sell sand to the beach.”

  “Good. Because I’ll definitely need your help. Not only do we need them to agree to our price, but we need them to stay on for at least the first few seasons. I’m no farmer.”

  “Can we find a tenant farmer?”

  “You want to trust our precious Russian rye to a tenant farmer who doesn’t know the land?” I asked her.

  “I see your point.” She was quiet a minute. “I’m sure for the right amount of money, they can be persuaded to stay. We’ll just have to make sure it’s worth their while. Good thing you have deep pockets.”

  I coughed. “Right.”

  “We’re almost there, look!”

  Up ahead, the island’s tree-lined, rocky shore grew nearer. Chloe continue to bubble with excitement as we docked, lifting her heavy pack and slipping it onto her back as though it weighed nothing at all. I was surprised she didn’t start skipping down the gangplank. Once we arrived on the island, I completed our camper registration and showed a ranger the permit I’d purchased at the Fishtown dock.

  I was feeling a little guilty about how happy and hopeful Chloe was about this trip and the farm—after all, I hadn’t exactly told her the entire truth. But I’d thought about it a lot beforehand, and I’d come to the conclusion that it would be better to sort of let the truth trickle out in small increments rather than lay it on her all at once. If I’d done that, she’d have only focused on the downsides and completely ignored all the opportunity. This way, I gave her a chance to grow attached to the idea of the distillery and our heritage rye … so attached I was hoping she’d do anything to have it.

  “So what should we do first?” I asked her. “It’s three-thirty. Our meeting with the Feldmanns is at seven. I set it up for later because I wasn’t sure which ferry we’d be able to catch.”

  Chloe nodded. “So should we hike first? Check out the lighthouse? Maybe take a swim?”

  “Sure. Actually, that’s perfect because the farm is on the north side of the island, which isn’t far from our campsite. We can end up there.”

  She beamed. “Let’s do it.”

  Chloe remained in high spirits on the half-mile hike along the boardwalk to the lighthouse, on the 117-step spiral climb to the top, and as we stood on the top of the observation deck taking in the incredible view.

  “God, it’s so beautiful,” she said, the wind whipping at her hair, her voice full of awe. “I can see why the tycoon wants a vacation house here.”

  I thought of the price the tycoon was willing to pay—the price that I was going to have to match—and nearly made a joke about jumping. But I didn’t want her to get suspicious that I didn’t have the money. “It is beautiful.”

  She sighed. “I don’t think I could ever live anywhere too far from the water.”

  “Me either.”

  “But sometimes I miss the hustle of the city, you know? I did like Chicago. That had water and hustle.”

  “Chicago is awesome,” I agreed.

  “But my roots are up here,” she said firmly. “And I like working for my family.”

  “You’re lucky your passion matched up with your family business,” I said. “I’ve got no interest whatsoever in soap, toothpaste, and laundry detergent.”

  “Do your parents still pressure you to work for the company?” she asked.

  “Not really. They have Hughie, after all, the golden child. What do they need with me?”

  “Oh, come on.” She elbowed me. “Your parents adore you. My parents adore you. You’ve always been the one with all the charm. Nothing against Hughie, of course, but he’s about as charming as a bar of soap.”

  I laughed. “True. And as squeaky clean. He never did anything wrong. Never got in any trouble.”

  “That’s because he was boring and unimaginative. Give me trouble any day.”

  I looked over at her. “Still?”

  She shrugged and laughed a little. “Old habits are hard to break. I’ve learned to deal more … productively with some of my impulses, but I still crave chaos. I don’t like to sit still, don’t like taking no for an answer, I’ll argue about anything, and I often act without thinking things through. Although my therapist is trying to help me with that.”

  “You have a therapist?” I was surprised she’d shared that kind of personal detail. Chloe seemed so determined to put up a front where I was concerned—the admission allowed a little vulnerability to seep through. Her honesty made me feel worse.

  “Yeah. His name is Ken.” She grinned ruefully. “I started seeing him a few years ago after another relationship ended badly, to try to sort out some things in my head, maybe discover why I’m always attracted to dickheads.”

  “Did you figure it out?”

  She shrugged. “Ken thinks I go for guys I know will disappoint me. I set myself up for failure so I don’t really have to put myself out there. I think I just have shitty taste in men.” Then she laughed. “But it doesn’t really matter anyway, because I’m so busy at Cloverleigh now, especially with my father on the verge of retiring. I don’t really have time to date. Should we head down?”

  Without waiting for me to answer, she turned and started the descent down the spiral staircase.

  When we reached the bottom, we decided to take a trail leading west toward the shipwreck of the Morazan, visible in the water from the south shore of the island, and the Valley of the Giants, a grove of massive, old-growth cedar trees.

  “So your dad is retiring, huh?” I asked, walking next to her on the sandy dirt path. “Will he promote you as his replacement? He sort of gave me that impression when we spoke last month.”

  “I don’t know for sure,” she said, staring at her feet. “I hope so. My dad’s been so reluctant to retire we haven’t talked much about it in any detail. But it would make sense, since April has no interest in anything beyond weddings, and we’re the only two siblings who work there anymore.”

  “What would be the reason if he didn’t promote you?”

  She sighed. “Who knows? I think I’ve proven myself where work is concerned, but sometimes I feel like he looks at me and still sees the smart-mouthed teenager who ignored curfew, bent rules, and didn’t give a shit what people said. Maybe he’s worried I’ll make too many changes and not respect tradition.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said, reaching ahead of her to move a branch in our way. “I get the feeling he trusts your instincts and appreciates your work ethic. I’ve seen the increased sales and visibility of Cloverleigh wines over the past several years. I think you’ve proven yourself.”

  “Thanks.” She gave me a smile. “I was thinking the other day that if I do get promoted, I’d probably move back to Cloverleigh, maybe into Frannie’s old apartment over the garage, now that she’s moved into Mack’s house.”

  I whistled. “Move back home? You’re brave.”

  “Well, I’d like to be on site more, and I think my parents are planning to travel a lot, so they won’t be breathing down my neck all the time. That’s my hope, anyway.”

  We walked a little further in silence, slapping at the occasional mosquito, pulling out water bottles for the occasional sip.

  “Tell me about Frannie and Mack. He’s the CFO, right?” I asked.

  “Right. They started dating over the winter and just got e
ngaged a couple weeks ago. He’s a single dad of three girls that Frannie absolutely adores. They’re perfect for each other and totally in love. I think she wants to get married this fall.”

  “Wow. That’s fast.”

  She looked over at me with mischief in her grin. “That’s kind of the way it’s supposed to be, Oliver. You get engaged so you can get married.”

  Somehow I had veered into dangerous territory, and I tried to back out of it. “Can I borrow your sunscreen? I think the back of my neck is getting burned.”

  “Sure.” She grabbed a can of SPF 30 from a side pocket of her pack. “Want me to do it?”

  “Okay.” I turned around and let her spray me, hoping she’d forget about the topic of engagement.

  Nope.

  “So whatever happened to your fiancée?” she asked as we started moving again. “What was her name? Alice? Ellen?”

  “Alison.”

  “Alison. Right.” When I didn’t say more, she poked again. “So where’s Alison now?”

  “In Chicago, I assume. With her new husband.”

  Chloe stopped walking. “She left you for someone else?”

  “No. I broke it off.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was never going to work. I wasn’t who she thought I was,” I said, continuing to move along the path.

  Chloe hurried to catch up. “Who did she think you were?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that without giving everything away. “Probably my brother Hughie.”

  She snorted. “So she wanted someone stuffy and predictable?”

  “She wanted a certain kind of life. She wanted to get married, quit her job, and move into a house like Hughie and Lisa’s, where she’d have a housekeeper, chef, and personal trainer at her fingertips.” I stared at the ground as we walked for a moment. “When we first started dating, I think she hoped I’d play around with the distillery for a while and then get serious and go to work for Pemberton. Join the country club. Buy a yacht. I could tell she felt let down when that didn’t happen. Also, she told me so constantly.”