Desire (Venture Capitalist Book 3)

by Ainsley St Claire

  CeCe turns to introduce the rest of our group. “Andy, I’d like you to meet Emerson. It was her wedding that we shipped your wine to.”

  “Benvenuta, belle signora. Sono incantato di conoscerla.” He hugs and kisses Emerson on each cheek.

  “Thank you. The wine was delicious.”

  “This is our good friend Greer,” CeCe continues.

  Turning to her, he says, “Bella mai, you’re absolutely the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

  Biting her lip, she flirts, “You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?”

  No one feature makes Andy handsome, though his eyes come close. People often speak of the dark chocolate color of eyes, as if that were of importance, yet he would be beautiful in any shade. From them comes an intensity, an honesty, a gentleness. As each year passes, the lines will deepen upon his face, and he’ll be more handsome still, as if his soul shines through his skin. He has the kind of face that stops you in your tracks. I guess he must get used to that.

  As we’re all sharing our thoughts on our tasting with Andy, I notice a blonde woman with big hair and fake boobs try to get his attention. Her behavior suggests she’s used to getting her way. Andy may see her but doesn’t pay attention if he does. Her frustration evident, she interrupts us. “Andy, dahling, I hope you’ll consider joining us tonight at the French Laundry. I know Thomas Keller personally and told him you might stop by, and he assured me that he would make room for you.” Her nonchalant gaze and a weak smile give away her insecurity.

  Andy blushes, a dead giveaway that he isn’t comfortable with aggressive women. It doesn’t help that he’s so modest with his beauty; it makes the girls fall for him faster and harder. He’s handsome all right, but inside he’s beautiful, and I can tell that Greer’s absolutely smitten with him already. “Thank you, my friend, but as I said before, I have plans this evening.” He winks at Greer. “Please enjoy your evening with Thomas. Give him my best. The food is incredible.”

  The strange woman walks away, obviously disappointed, and I watch her get in a black Ferrari before pulling recklessly out of the parking lot onto the street.

  Apologizing to us, he says, “I’m so sorry, my lovelies. I understand you ladies would like a tour of my vineyard?”

  “Yes, please,” CeCe replies.

  “Well, come with me behind the proverbial curtain.” He opens a door and leads us outside to his fields of vines. “Here at Bellissima Valle, we have over five hundred acres of vines. Making wine is a long, slow process. It can take a full three years to get from the initial planting of a brand-new grapevine through the first harvest, and the first vintage might not be bottled for another two years after that. But when soil and sunlight along with climate combine with winemaking skill, the finished product’s worth the wait.

  “These vines to your right are our merlot grapes. They’re the first I planted almost ten years ago. We have pinot noir, merlot, and malbec vines in this area. A few acres of the petite sirah and finally”—he motions to the far east of his property—“we have over a hundred acres of cabernet sauvignon.”

  Greer is obviously amazed, her mouth gaping. “How many acres have you planted?”

  “We’re a medium-size vineyard with roughly one thousand acres.”

  I’m stunned. “How many bottles of wine does that produce per year?”

  “Well, we get between eight and ten tons of grapes per acre, and on a decent year, it takes one ton of grapes to produce a little more than two barrels of wine. Each barrel contains about sixty gallons, which is twenty-five cases or three hundred bottles. So, one ton of grapes yields about sixty cases, or seven hundred and twenty bottles.”

  We’re all awestruck. Greer, visibly impressed, asks, “What’s your sales channel?”

  “We’re luckier than most, as we have a following from our vines in Italy, France, Germany, and South America, so we’ve been selling well enough to keep our creditors at bay, but when we’re at capacity, we’ll go to more high-end wine shops.”

  He and Greer have a technical winemaking conversation as he leads us to an extended golf cart and drives us to where the real winemaking takes place in a giant warehouse on the property. It’s a temperature-controlled area stacked to the ceiling with row after row of barrels of wine. There must be several hundred barrels with signs above that have a grape type and year.

  I’m stunned. I knew there was a lot of work between the grape and bottling, but not like this. “Wow. What a huge operation.”

  “It didn’t start out this way, but over time and several bank loans, we’ve grown. Maybe one day we’ll make a profit, but I love this business. It’s in my blood. The wine has been likened to ‘poetry in a bottle.’”

  Greer's lips quirk, and she shares with him, “Just like any creative process, winemaking requires knowledge, commitment, and time.”

  Andy lights up, and if I was a betting woman, I’d guess he was just as smitten with Greer.

  We pull up in front of the tasting room at the end of our tour. It’s beginning to close for the evening, and he gets out some specific bottles for us to sample from the vineyards in Italy and Argentina. “How do these compare?”

  Greer beams. “I can tell the maturity of the vineyard. I smell some vanilla and peach in the notes. It lingers appropriately on my palate. Truly a wonderful wine.”

  “Is there any chance of ordering some of these bottles?” CeCe asks.

  “Unfortunately, we only sell futures for these vintages.”

  I’m still surprised by people paying for something and not getting it for at least another year. Not wanting to appear dumb, I ask, “What’s the futures timeline for these wines?”

  “We have more buyers than wine, so right now we’re selling seven seasons from now.”

  “I’ll take a case,” CeCe says. Turning to me, she shares, “We can split it.”

  I nod in agreement.

  Andy collects all our information and then helps us load eight cases and a few odd bottles into the trunk of the Meadowood car. It’s a tight fit, but we manage.

  “What a glorious afternoon,” Greer dreamily says.

  Andy hugs and kisses us each on both cheeks, lingering a bit with Greer, then waves goodbye as we drive away in the Meadowood shuttle.

  We have dinner plans on property at The Restaurant at Meadowood. It’s a Michelin three-star-rated restaurant, which normally I would pass on—too expensive for one meal—but I want to splurge this weekend. Dinner will run over $500 a person. I normally don’t spend that kind of money on something as disposable as food, but it is my birthday, after all. Plus, as I turn another year older and my biological clock is ticking louder and louder each day, I can’t help but feel a bit heartbroken by Cameron. I would love to explore something with him, but my brief conversation with his dad still has him avoiding me.

  The dining room’s a sophisticated barn of sorts, decked with polished stone tables, wood columns, and rural splendor. It makes for an elegant backdrop for romantic evenings for our girls’ weekend, as long as we don’t get too rowdy and interrupt the other patrons.

  This is a serious restaurant for the true foody, and I’m in heaven. It doesn’t seat many people, which gives the impression of an intimate dinner. The maître d’ greets us by name as we arrive and shows us to a private dining room overlooking the courtyard lit by flame torches. As he holds my chair for me and then places the napkin on my lap, he says, “Happy birthday, Miss Hadlee. We are so pleased that you are sharing your birthday weekend with us. The chef has prepared a few surprises for you.”

  The Restaurant at Meadowood offers a tasting menu or a regular one, which they call the “Counter Menu.” Tonight’s rack of lamb or the cod as the main course sound too good to pass up, so we all agree to go with the five-course meal on the tasting menu. CeCe has brought with her several bottles of various wines of Bellissima Valle’s reserved wine for us to enjoy with a corkage fee.

  “Dillon is so jealous that we’re eating here,” Emerso
n exclaims. “We had such a great meal a few years ago at the French Laundry. I’m sure this will be at least as good.”

  “I love them both equally,” CeCe confides.

  As we enjoy our meals and rehash our day at the spa and touring Bellissima, I turn to Greer and ask, “So, what did you think of Andy?”

  She grins wide and says, “There’s no doubt that he’s handsome.”

  We all nod and talk about his dreamy chocolate-brown eyes, gorgeous dark hair, and the broad shoulders to match.

  “But I don’t think he was interested in me.”

  CeCe appears shocked. “What do you mean?”

  “Remember that strange woman in the tasting room?”

  We all nod and say in unison, “Yes.”

  “Well, he was just as polite to her as he was with us.”

  CeCe huffs. “I don’t know about that. He didn’t offer to show her the grounds.”

  “CeCe, you have bought many cases of wine from him for your business, Emerson’s wedding, and yourself. You’re a good customer,” Greer implores. “He didn’t really talk to me. He was very good at flirting with all of us equally.”

  CeCe seems disappointed. “You both spent a lot of time talking about wines, and I thought when you said the bit about wine being a creative process that he was going to bend you over the table and take you right there.”

  “You’re funny. I think he was good with customer service. I like him, and there’s a small spark, but I don’t think there was a lightning bolt.”

  Not to be deterred, CeCe asks, “Well, if he were to ask for your phone number, could I give it to him?”

  “Sure. But don’t offer unless he asks.”

  I lean in to Greer and pat her arm. “Honey, we’ve talked to Andy many times. We thought you’d both like each other. If you don’t like him, that’s fine. We’ll put CeCe’s yenta matchmaker hat on and put her back to work.”

  She smiles. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’m ready to date.” Greer dated Mark for eight years, but he dumped her a little over a year ago for another woman who he felt was a better political match and had less family baggage than Greer.

  CeCe cuts in. “Mark was an asshole. He will go nowhere in politics if I have anything to say about it.”

  “And he has a little dick, too.” Greer holds up her pinky finger and flexes it for us to see and laugh hysterically.

  “You deserve much better than that,” Emerson shares.

  As I glance around the room, I note that all the servers are impeccable, professional, and understand how to keep their guests happy and at ease. Our water and wineglasses are never empty, and they seem to have a sixth sense to know what we want before we do. It almost seems as if there are more servers than diners.

  Our first course arrives, and it’s a wonderfully fragrant abalone, wild onion, and bean soup. I can taste a hint of butter, but the abalone is what makes this a wonderful take on onion soup. The sommelier pairs it with the Italian chardonnay, which is a crisp and perfect complement. I come up just short of licking the bowl, it tastes so wonderful.

  Turning to Emerson, I ask, “Do you think they serve seconds?”

  She giggles. “Possibly, if you want more.”

  “This probably is one of those soups that is more a minute on the lips, forever on the hips,” I muse. They roll up a cart, and it’s mesmerizing to watch them make the salad course next to the table. This is something they’re famous for—eggplant foster, a vegetable take on bananas foster. The server informs us that the beautiful small purple fruit is grown fresh and was picked today from the garden in the back. We watch them pan fry the eggplant in butter, adding rum and a liqueur before the server places several pieces of the eggplant on a bed of endive leaves of lettuce and a generous portion of mascarpone cheese. Spooning lavish amounts of the liqueur upon the dish, they light it on fire for a stunning display that burns itself out shortly after being placed in front of each of us.

  Taking my first bite, my senses are overwhelmed by the perfect balance of fresh and exotic.

  Greer moans her satisfaction as Emerson leans over to me. “This is pure food orgasm.”

  “Incredible,” CeCe agrees.

  Recovering from our food enchantment, our conversation moves to fashion. CeCe is the CEO for the makeup manufacturer Metro Composition Cosmetics, and she shares, “We’re so excited. Metro Composition has been asked by three major designers to do the makeup for Fashion Week in New York.”

  This is huge for CeCe, especially since a percentage of the profits her company makes goes back into women’s charities. She’s been working on landing Fashion Week for years. “Are you serious? You’ve wanted to do this forever. Why didn’t you tell us you were working on this?”

  Very dramatically, CeCe says, “Oh, we’re always working on something.” Leaning in so no one around us can hear, she whispers, “And besides, not everyone wants to work with us. We aren’t a big name.”

  “You could sell to the big cosmetic companies, but you love that you make a difference,” Greer chides her.

  “Will you be the makeup artist?” Emerson asks.

  “No way. I’ll be there and in and out of the various shows. I believe I’ll get extra tickets. Anyone want to join me?”

  We all give her an enthusiastic “Yes!”

  “I’ll include Sara, and I like Cynthia, the new partner at SHN. Maybe she’ll want to come, too?”

  “She’d be crazy not to,” Greer declares.

  The staff has cleared our plates and poured Bellissima's pinot from Argentina. I take my first sip and immediately fall in love with this wine. It sits nicely on my palate, not too fruity or bitter. “Wow. I think this is my favorite Bellissima wine yet.”

  Greer takes several small sips and pronounces, “I like it.”

  CeCe giggles. “You’re funny.”

  Cupping her hair from the bottom and turning to gaze over her shoulder while channeling Marilyn Monroe, Greer breathlessly croons, “Why thank you.”

  The staff arrives with our dinner. Placed in front of me are the most glorious lamb chops with roasted pluot, finished before our eyes with a copper pot of marigold-coriander jus. I hate to disrupt the beauty of the plate, but my taste buds are screaming for me to start. It’s pure heaven, the soft flavors of cauliflower custard topped with caviar nearly exploding in my mouth. The hint of mint and a spice I can’t place combine to create perfection.

  CeCe has the cod main course with roasted cabbage and oysters with a nettles sauce. She offers me a bite, and it’s also incredible. She tries my lamb and nods enthusiastically with a big “Mmm.” She calls the server over and says, “Please share with Chef Pierre that every course has progressively gotten better. Truly a fantastic meal.”

  “Thank you, Miss CeCe. I will be sure to tell him. Would you like him to come out to the table?”

  “We’d love that, but make sure he knows he can come only if he has time.”

  The server nods and pours more wine into each of our glasses.

  CeCe leans over and says, “It’s not over yet, birthday girl.”

  I blush. “Everything’s been perfect.”

  We sit for a short time, our private room reserved for the evening so we can enjoy the time together uninterrupted. Dessert is a wonderful tart with exotic fruit and berries from their orchards and gardens. Mine is placed last with a giant sparkler, and the room fills with what seems like the entire restaurant staff. The lights dim while the chef and CeCe lead all who’ve gathered in singing “Happy Birthday.”

  The sparkler gives the room a beautiful muted appearance as I gaze at my collection of friends and the very kind staff of the restaurant. My life is almost perfect. I’m grateful for so many things. I miss my mom so much this time of year, but I’m lucky to have these people who love me unconditionally.

  I feel as if I’m only missing one thing. Closing my eyes tightly, I wish for Cameron to be here with me, too.

  In a beautiful French accent, Chef Pierre croons, “M
ay all your dreams come true.”

  I enjoy every last bite of the delicate custard and crisp assortment of fruit. It takes all of my willpower to not lick the plate clean.

  “Thank you. Dinner was perfect.” I can’t help but grin from ear to ear and try to keep the tears at bay.

  CeCe and Greer gush about their meals, and Emerson grabs my hand below the table and gives me a warm squeeze, whispering, “Happy birthday, sweetie. I do hope your wish includes a man who adores you.”

  I smile. “I hope so, too.”

  I don’t even notice the check placed discreetly at CeCe’s elbow until Emerson and Greer each hand her their credit card. I attempt to pull mine from my purse, when Greer declares, “Oh no. Don’t even think about it. This is our treat.”

  I try to convince them it isn’t necessary, that it’s too extravagant, but the girls split the bill three ways, paying for my dinner. It’s incredibly sweet of them, and I’m overwhelmed by the generosity of my friends.

  Hadlee

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Slowly and reluctantly, I uncover my face. I blink, close my eyes, and blink again. Streaks of sunlight penetrate the window and blind me. My brain is in overdrive.

  Sitting up, I drag my feet off the bed and rub the sleep from my eyes, then stretch my arms above my head and yawn. My legs dangle above the sparkling golden wood floors, the fatigue of everything going on in my life slowly seeping out of me as the goldfinches chirp their morning greeting. Eventually, I get out of bed and stumble across to the other side of the chalet in search of coffee.

  Waking up can be harsh, especially if your dreams are better than reality. In my dreams, I have my house as it was before the fire and a loving relationship with Cameron. The saddest part of it is that eventually, the memory of my dream fades—if I’m even lucky enough to remember it. In place of my dreams come my daydreams. Because without those daydreams, I’m left with this lonely feeling of detachment and the reality of the empty void of emotions, the only proof I ever had of the dream to begin with.