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1. Gianni

gianni

. . .

I didn’t have to go through the tasting room at Abelard Vineyards to get to the kitchen—in fact, it was out of my way—but I never missed an opportunity to mess with Ellie Fournier.

Sure, she was the boss’s daughter and our moms had been best friends forever, but I’d been pushing her buttons since we were six years old and didn’t see any reason to stop just because we were now adults and co-workers.

If anything, it was even more fun now that the restaurant her parents had hired me to open at their winery was up and running. Since she was in charge of the wine list and worked the floor as sommelier, she had to put up with me every single day.

Believe me, I made the most of it.

And I always got a rise out of her. You’d think she’d just ignore me by now, but no—she consistently gave me the satisfaction of a scowl, a dirty look, a barb hurled in my direction. But I couldn’t help myself. There was just something so irresistible about getting under her skin—I was a kid in a candy store around Ellie Fournier.

I took the steps down to the lower level and found her in the usual spot behind the tasting room’s long wooden bar, inspecting wineglasses with a critical eye, lifting them up to the light to ensure they were each perfectly clean. It was Monday morning, which meant the tasting room and restaurant were closed. Although I loved a crowd, the quiet was kind of nice. Even in January, weekends here were jam-packed. Etoile, with only eight tables, was booked out every Friday and Saturday night for months. We had phenomenal reviews for everything from the food to the wine to the setting to the service. I’d like to take all the credit—and sometimes around Ellie, I did, just to bug her—but the truth was, much of it had to be shared with her.

She was fucking dynamite on the floor every night. Smart and energetic and approachable, with an innate talent for pairing food and wine. And she never came off as stuffy or snobby like a lot of sommeliers did—she was genuinely friendly and welcoming to everyone.

Except me.

“Morning, princess,” I called as I approached the bar. Since it wasn’t technically a workday, I was surprised to see her wearing charcoal dress pants and a black blouse that tied in a bow at the neck. I swear she had that blouse in every color of the rainbow—she never wore anything low-cut. Her long, reddish-brown hair was neatly pulled back into a ponytail, the way it always was on the job.

“Could you please not call me that?” She frowned at a smudge on the glass in her hand and set it aside. “I’m not a princess.”

“But you were .” When we were kids, Ellie used to compete in pageants, and I never got tired of teasing her about them. “And old habits are hard to break.”

“Try, please.”

I could tell from her tone and expression she was already in a mood. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Boy trouble? Need me to bust some kneecaps?”

She rolled her light brown eyes. “If you must know, it’s the weather forecast.”

“What about it?”

“They’re predicting a ton of snow later tonight.” She picked up a white linen napkin and rubbed the rim of a glass. “Like a solid ten inches.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They’re calling it the blizzard of the century.” She put the glass in a quilted storage box. “How have you not heard about it? It’s all over the news.”

“I never watch the news.”

“Why not?”

“Do you ever feel good after watching the news?”

She thought for a second. “I guess not.”

“That’s because it’s all bullshit created to scare you into watching more news, so they can solve the problems they made up in the first place.”

One of her brows peaked. “Says the guy who starred on a reality TV cooking show called Lick My Plate . Talk about bullshit.”

“Hey, I’m not saying Lick My Plate wasn’t bullshit, but at least it wasn’t pretending to be anything but entertainment.” I took a sip of my coffee. “And I was very entertaining. My tagline was ‘too hot to handle.’ And whenever I was onscreen, they played that old song called ‘Fever.’”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, turning away with a shrug. “I never saw it.”

“Really? Because your mom told me you guys never missed an episode.”

She picked up another glass and held it to the light. “I may have been in the room when it was on a couple times.”

My grin widened at the lie. “Anyway, what do you have against getting a solid ten inches tonight? Sounds like a good time to me.”

“Spare me the juvenile dick jokes, please.”

“Does that mean I can make adult dick jokes?”

She set the glass on the bar with a clank and glared at me. “This is serious, Gianni. If I can’t get to Harbor Springs tonight, I’ll lose my opportunity to meet Fiona Duff.”

Something about the name was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Who’s Fiona Duff again?”

“She’s the chief editor at Tastemaker magazine, and she’s married to Malcolm Duff, some big-shot ad executive who’s also a wine collector. They hired me to do a tasting at their vacation home tonight.”

“They did?”

Ellie sighed. “I’ve been talking about this for weeks, Gianni. You don’t listen.”

“Sorry,” I said, because it was true that listening was not a great skill of mine. My mind tended to wander—usually to food or sex. But in my defense, Ellie could talk the hind legs off a donkey, and it wasn’t like she often stopped chattering to ask my opinion on anything.

Plus, her face sometimes distracted me from what she was saying.

Ellie was beautiful, with an awesome curvy body she usually kept fully covered with those librarian blouses and dressy pants. She did sometimes wear fitted pencil skirts that came down to her knees, and even though I consider myself more of a miniskirt man, I had to admit I liked the way they clung to her hips and thighs.

Her grown-up hotness had sort of surprised me, because as a kid, she’d been short and scrawny, with curly pigtails that begged to be pulled, know-it-all eyes, and a pouty round mouth—which she used to tattle on me all the time.

Although, to be fair, I was a little shit.

I’d steal the perfectly sharpened colored pencils from her desk. I’d take one bite from the cookie in her lunch box but leave it in there. I’d chase her on the playground while she screamed...even though the worst thing I ever did when I caught her was untie her shoelaces. For some reason, that drove her nuts.

But she was just such a perfect little goody-goody—she never did anything wrong. Teachers adored girls like her, and I was constantly in trouble. My mom was always saying shit like, “ Why can’t you be more like the Fournier kids?” because they were all so well-behaved, and my younger brothers and I were fucking devils.

By high school, I’d let up on Ellie somewhat—I was more interested in girls who let me put my tongue in their mouth or my hand up their shirt, and it was crystal clear she was not ever going to be that girl—but I can’t say I ever missed an opportunity to torment her.

Or to fantasize about what her mouth might feel like on my lips or my chest or certain other parts of my anatomy.

It was like a perfect, luscious little plum.

I tore my eyes off it and forced myself to focus. Setting my cardboard coffee cup on the bar, I perched on one of the stools. “Tell me about it again.”

She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath, like she needed it for patience. “Someone I went to Michigan State with works as an assistant editor at Tastemaker . The offices are in Chicago, and she texted me that she heard my name being tossed around in a meeting as a possible candidate for one of the 30 Under 30 spots, and it was right around the time I got hired to do the tasting.”

“Don’t get mad, but what’s 30 Under 30?”

“It’s a feature in the magazine. Every year they name 30 people under age 30 who are doing cool things in the food, beverage, or hospitality industry. Evidently, they heard about the thing I did with the QR codes on the labels.”

“Oh yeah? Congrats.” Ellie had convinced her dad to add QR codes to Abelard’s wine bottle labels, which directed people to a landing page where they could learn more about the winery’s history, its methods of production, and what went into each bottle. There were also pairing suggestions, recipes, and a video featuring Ellie herself giving tasting notes alongside an ASL interpreter.

“It’s too early for congratulations, but if I got a spot,” she went on anxiously, wringing her hands together, “the media attention would be great for Abelard, and for Michigan wines in general. There are small wineries doing such great things here, and no one knows about them. We spend too much time fighting the misconception that we make mediocre wines rather than talking about what really matters.”

“I hear you. Kind of like when I was featured in People magazine’s special issue: The Sexiest Chefs Alive. Everyone knows that what really matters is how sexy a chef is.”

“Gianni, I’m being serious.” Her voice took on a desperate tone. “They usually feature people working for big-name wineries or Michelin-starred restaurants. I just want a chance to have that kind of reach. To be seen and heard by a wider audience. But it won’t happen if I can’t get there.”

“Who’s doing the food tonight?” I asked out of curiosity, picking up my coffee and taking a sip.

Ellie shrugged. “I assume Fiona. She loves to cook and throws fabulous dinner parties.”

“Why didn’t they ask me?”

“I don’t know. Not everything is about you, Gianni.”

“Yeah, but the food’s better when it is.”

She rolled her eyes and picked up another glass, getting back to work. “I don’t know why I bother talking to you about this stuff. You don’t understand.”

I was going to argue with her, but she looked so upset I decided against it. Maybe she was worrying for no reason—it wouldn’t be the first time. Ellie liked everything just so . Setting down my coffee cup, I pulled out my phone and checked the radar app, prepared to tell her she was making a big deal out of nothing, just like TV news people did.

But that shit looked bad.

I trusted my instincts, and something about that mass of grayish white moving across the upper Midwest on the screen made my gut a little uneasy. “I don’t know, Ell. I’m not sure you should be on the road tonight.”

“You sound like my dad, who’s texted me twice already from France telling me to cancel.”

“That’s probably a good idea. This storm looks big.”

“Didn’t you just say the news was full of made-up problems?”

“Yeah.” I flashed the screen at her. “But this isn’t a made-up problem. This is a polar vortex.”

She lifted her chin. “I’m not canceling.”

“Ell, I get that the opportunity is important to you, and that you love to disagree with me whenever possible, but it’s not worth spinning out on an icy highway or sliding into a ditch.”

“I’m going .” Her eyes blazed with determination. “The snow isn’t supposed to start until ten or so anyway, and the tasting is at six. I’ll probably be back home in my pajamas with a cup of hot tea before we get an inch or two. I don’t even know why I mentioned it.”

But I heard the shaky note in her voice and looked at my phone again. According to my weather app, Ellie was right and the worst of it wouldn’t reach northern Michigan until later tonight—but that could change. Weather was unpredictable. “I still think you should reschedule.”

“Well, you’re not the boss of me.” She folded her arms. “And if something was this important to you , I know you’d find a way to get there.”

“It’s really that important to you?”

“Yes!” She threw her hands in the air. “I can’t explain it, but I just know that somehow, tonight will change my life. Look, I know this place doesn’t matter to you like it does to me, and Etoile is just a temporary diversion for you while you weigh your next big Hollywood career move, but this is it for me, Gianni. This is my dream and my family legacy, and I want to give it everything I have.”

“Abelard matters to me too,” I said defensively. “Just because I don’t want to spend my life or career in one place doesn’t mean I don’t care.” I made a split-second decision. “I’ll take you tonight.”

The scowl was back. “No. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I’m not letting you drive more than a hundred miles north in a blizzard tonight by yourself, Ellie. In what car?”

“Mine.”

“Your little Honda? That thing looks like a toy. I had Matchbox cars bigger than that.”

“Not all of us can afford a fancy new SUV.”

“My SUV isn’t new or fancy, but it does have good snow tires. I’m driving you.” I stuck my phone back in my pocket like the matter was settled.

Ellie continued to glare at me. “This is you not listening again, Gianni. I don’t need you to protect me.”

“Yes, you do. Remember Tommy Tootag from grade school?”

“What about him?”

“He stole your Scholastic book fair money in third grade.”

“Gianni, you stole my Scholastic book fair money in third grade. Then you gave it back to me because I threatened to tell on you.”

I shook my head. “The money I gave you was mine. Tommy Tootag took yours.”

She looked at me skeptically. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because Tootag was a fifth grader and he was fucking huge—he had a beard already.” I shrugged. “And you were crying. I felt bad.”

Her expression softened—slightly. “Well, thank you for the book money, but I’m not eight anymore. I can take care of myself.”

When she turned around like the matter was settled, I changed tactics. “Stop being so selfish.”

She whirled to face me again, her mouth agape. “Selfish!”

“Yeah. Tonight is my night off, you know, and I had plans with my dad. But how am I supposed to enjoy them when all I’d be doing is picturing you shivering beneath an overpass, wishing you’d have listened to me?” I gave her a little performance just for fun. “Gianni...Gianni,” I moaned pitifully, “why didn’t I believe you? I’m sorry... you were right all along.”

“That is ridiculous.” But her lips were dangerously close to a smile.

“No, it isn’t. And I’d feel terrible. Your parents would never forgive me. In fact, I’d probably lose my job, and soon I’d be poor and homeless. Hot girls wouldn’t go out on dates with me, I’d never have sex again—for fuck’s sake, I might as well join the priesthood at that point. No one would ever taste my cooking again. And it would be all your fault, which is why I will cancel my plans in order to chauffeur your ass safely to Harbor Springs and back.”

“Give me a break. You would never join the priesthood.”

“What if you got a flat tire?” I persisted. “What if you ran out of gas? What if you were driving perfectly safe but someone skidded out of control and hit you ?”

She chewed on her lip, and I could see her resolve start to melt.

“It’s safer to go together,” I told her with finality. “You know your dad would feel better if I took you. Go ahead and text him right now. See what he says.”

She didn’t even get her phone out because she knew I was right.

“I’m not asking you to do this,” she said quickly. “Just so we’re clear.”

“I know—it’s a gesture, Ellie. A nice, gentlemanly gesture, like giving you my Scholastic book fair money. Jeez.”

“Sorry. I guess I’m not used to your gentleman routine. And one good deed in twenty-three years doesn’t exactly make up for all the other mean shit you did.”

“Come on. I wasn’t mean, Ellie. I was . . . playful.”

“Playful? You called me a shrimp. You pulled my pigtails. You drew mustaches on my favorite dolls.” Her eyes narrowed. “You pinned me down, sat on my chest, and let drool ooze out of your mouth until it almost hit me before you sucked it back in.”

I laughed. “Fuck, I forgot about that. How about I let you sit on me right now? Can we call it even? I won’t even mind if there’s saliva involved.”

“And let’s not forget the Cherry Festival.”

“Are we still talking about that? Ellie, for fuck’s sake, it was six years ago. We were seventeen. And it’s not my fault you got assigned to the dunk tank—that’s where the reigning Cherry Princess has to sit. And it’s the God-given right of the townspeople to come and dunk their princess.” I could still picture her sitting in that dunk tank in her crown and sash, her smile big, her bikini small. The memory made me warm all over.

“You didn’t have to come back fifty times,” she seethed. “You humiliated me over and over again on purpose. Then instead of using the photo of me from before , when my hair was dry and my makeup was pretty, the newspaper used the one of us from after —I was plastered on the front page looking like a wet raccoon.”

“And I had a face full of whipped cream, since you got back at me for the dunk tank by throwing eight pies in my face.”

“You deserved it. And you got back at me later that night, didn’t you?”

For a moment, we continued to stare at each other, both of us transported to a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven played in Tanner Ford’s basement.

That dark room. The door closed. The clock ticking.

“I got back at you? Is that really how you think of it?” I asked her.

She started polishing a wineglass again. “Actually, I don’t think of it at all.”

“Me neither,” I lied.

“It’s ancient history.”

“My point exactly. Maybe as a kid I sometimes did my best to antagonize you, and possibly there were some shenanigans that got out of hand when we were teenagers, but ever since I moved back here, I have been nothing but nice. Can’t you forgive and forget?”

“You get me to Harbor Springs and back in one piece tonight, and we’ll talk.”

“I will. Trust me.”

“Trust me, he says,” she muttered, zipping up the storage box.

“Yes, trust me.” I puffed up my chest, a little insulted. “My dad taught me to be a man of my word.”

“I do like your dad,” she conceded, as if that was the one thing I had going for me. “I guess I could trust you for a day.”

“Thank you.”

“Should we leave at two?”

“Sounds good. I’ll pull my car up at one-thirty and help you load it.”

“I don’t need your help.”

I shook my head. “Why are you so stubborn?”

“Why are you so bossy?”

“Because it’s fun.” Grinning, I slid off the stool and headed for the door, but at the last second, something made me glance over my shoulder. When I caught her staring, she stuck her tongue out at me.

“You’re going to miss me when I’m gone,” I told her with a grin, which would be sooner rather than later if I accepted the offer my agent in L.A. had just dangled in front of me.

She squawked with laughter. “Fat. Chance.”

Whistling “Fever,” I turned around and headed for the kitchen.

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