4. Ellie

ellie

. . .

Jesus, he smelled good.

I’d always had a really sensitive sense of smell—and it definitely helped me professionally—but right now I wished I could turn it off.

The scent of him was filling my head and doing pleasant but worrisome things to my body...warming my skin, stirring my insides, quickening my pulse. It was giving me ideas I didn’t want, making me wonder things I had no business wondering about—like what kind of kisser he was or what he looked like naked or whether he was greedy or generous in bed.

A guy like Gianni, who knew how hot he was and had never lacked for female attention, would probably be a selfish lover, right? Or would his ego demand that he made sure a woman never left his bed unsatisfied? As puffed up as he was, I’d never really heard him brag about the size of his dick or how many notches he had on his bedpost. He made a lot of dirty jokes and he was a relentless flirt, but he didn’t boast about his sexual conquests.

Before I could stop myself, I glanced over at his crotch. One of his hands was resting on his thigh, and I got distracted by it. His thick wrist was hidden inside the sleeve of his wool coat, but I’d stolen enough glances in the past few months to know what it looked like. The back of his hand had visible veins, and he kept his fingernails short and clean. His fingers were long, not too skinny and not too thick, and they gave his hands a sort of elegance that I secretly admired sometimes while he was plying a knife or kneading some dough or tossing a skillet. He had strong hands, but they were dexterous too. Graceful. Artistic.

Suddenly, my brain took an unauthorized turn. I imagined him unzipping his pants and reaching inside them, taking out his cock and starting to stroke it with slow, deliberate, artistic bends of his wrist, his flesh growing hard and thick as it slipped through his fist. Veins would appear. His breath would come faster. Maybe he’d moan softly, his voice raw and deep.

Except that I moaned. Out loud .

“You okay?”

“Huh?” I looked up, startled. My pulse was racing.

“Are you okay?” he repeated. “You made a weird noise.”

“I was...singing.” I reached for the volume on the radio and turned it up. “Any music requests?”

“You can pick.”

“No, because you’ll just make fun of what I like.”

“That’s because you like weird, sappy stuff no one has ever heard of.”

“I like to support independent singer-songwriters, okay? Not every great band or musician wants to sign their life away to a giant label that’s just going to take their money.”

“I get that. It’s the same reason I like to support local farms. But the music still has to be good.”

“It is good! It’s just not as loud and chaotic as the music you like. It’s more about lyrics and mood.”

“Okay, so instead of arguing with me, why don’t you sync your phone and put on one of your playlists? I’m sure you have one called Snowy Winter’s Day or something, full of acoustic guitar and melancholy.”

I reached over and punched his shoulder. “You said you wouldn’t make fun of me.”

“I would never say that. I just said I’d listen to your lonely girl music, but if you don’t want to play it for me, I’d be happy to listen to you moan some more, especially if you want to stare at my crotch while doing it.”

“I wasn’t staring at your crotch!” I shrieked, mortification burning a hole in my chest.

He chuckled. “Sorry. I must have been mistaken.”

“Why on earth would I stare at your crotch?”

“You tell me.” He glanced over, sending a little bolt of lightning straight to my lonely girl parts.

“I wouldn’t. You were mistaken.” I reached into my bag for my phone and busied myself connecting it to his car, my heart thumping hard all the while. Damn these nerves! They were messing with me, making me think weird things.

A couple minutes later, we were listening to my current favorite playlist, which happened to be called Winter Vibes, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. As we drove, the snow fell faster and the light faded. Visibility grew worse, but Gianni didn’t seem worried—at least, he didn’t say anything to that effect—and he was able to drive the speed limit.

We didn’t talk much on the rest of the drive up, which was fine with me because I didn’t want him to tease me again about staring at his crotch. In fact, the only time we spoke was when he asked me for the address so he could enter it in his GPS.

We pulled up in front of the Harbor Springs vacation home of Malcolm and Fiona Duff around five o’clock. By then, it was pitch dark and their multi-million-dollar home was blanketed with a few inches of snow.

“Nice place,” said Gianni, parking on the street.

My stomach twisted with nerves, and I put a hand on it.

“Hey. Don’t be nervous.” He grabbed me by the elbow and shook my arm. “You’re gonna crush it. Do you need me to play you some good music to get you pumped up?”

“No. I just need a second to breathe.” I inhaled and exhaled, willing my pulse to slow. “I don’t know what’s with me today. I’m normally not so tense. This is my job. I know my stuff.”

“Yes, you do.” He thumped a hand on my leg. “Come on, princess. Chin up.”

I gave him a warning look. “No princess jokes in there, okay?”

“None?”

“None.”

He sighed. “You’re taking all the fun out of this, but fine. Let’s go.”

We trudged through the snow covering their front walk, and Gianni knocked on the door. When no one answered after a minute or two, we exchanged a look and he knocked again. A moment later we heard a muffled yell from inside.

“Coming!”

The front door swung open and an older teenage girl wearing a huge gray hoodie, a plaid skirt, and knee socks gave us a sullen look, like we’d just interrupted her Gossip Girl marathon.

“Hi,” I said brightly. “I’m Ellie Fournier from Abelard Vineyards. And this is—” But I didn’t have a chance to finish my introduction because the girl suddenly let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“Eeeeeeep! Gianni Lupo!”

I blinked at her as she stared at Gianni and jumped up and down, the messy bun on the top of her head coming loose. Then I looked at Gianni—did he know this girl?—but he seemed as bewildered as I was.

“Hadley! Did you get the door?”

Behind the exuberant teen, a woman appeared, wearing an apron over black pants and a red silk blouse. I knew right away it was Fiona Duff because I’d stalked her online obsessively over the past couple weeks, learning her favorite wines, her pairing preferences, her likes and dislikes.

She was even more intimidating than in her photos—tall and thin, with attractive, angular features and dark hair styled in a smooth, chic bob.

“Hadley,” she scolded. “Why didn’t you invite them in?”

“Sorry, Mom. But look who it is!”

“I apologize for my daughter’s manners,” she said, motioning us inside. “I’m Fiona Duff. You must be from Abelard?”

“Yes,” I said, as we stepped into the foyer. “Nice to meet you. I’m Ellie Fournier. And this is?—”

“It’s Gianni Lupo, Mom!” her daughter squealed, bouncing up and down again. “From Lick My Plate ! You know—the ‘too hot to handle’ guy!”

Fiona’s face suddenly lit up too. “Is it really?”

“Nice to meet you.” Gianni held out his hand, and they both shook it, Hadley’s cheeks turning pink, my stomach turning over.

“Gianni is the chef at Abelard’s new restaurant, Etoile,” I said, “but since we’re closed tonight, he offered to make the drive with me and help out.”

“How nice.” Fiona smiled broadly at Gianni. “We haven’t been to Etoile yet, but I’ve heard so many good things. And I’ve just started watching Lick My Plate . Hadley has been telling me for months that I need to binge it, and I’m sorry I resisted—I’m addicted now!”

“You are?” I couldn’t help being surprised. Fiona seemed like a person who preferred Roquefort with a fresh baguette, and Lick My Plate was Cheez Whiz on a Ritz cracker. (Although, for the record, I loved Cheez Whiz on Ritz crackers.)

“Of course I am.” She laughed. “It’s such good, campy fun! The intersection of culinary and popular culture. I think most people in this industry take food and wine way too seriously. And chefs are the hottest new celebrities.” She shimmied her shoulders.

“I wouldn’t call myself a celebrity,” said Gianni in this aw-shucks voice I’d never heard him use before. “Just a chef. But tonight, I’m only here to assist Ellie.”

“I wish I’d have known you were available this evening.” Fiona looked distressed. “I did all the food myself, but I’d have hired you to cook in a heartbeat.”

“I did prepare something for tonight, but?—”

“You did?” Fiona clasped her hands together. “Did you really?”

“It’s nothing fancy, just some prawn and chive dumplings with sake butter that could work as an appetizer maybe, but don’t feel?—”

“I’m delighted,” Fiona assured him with a smile.

“Mom, can I come to dinner?” Hadley asked in a rush.

Her mother faced her, hands on her hips. “Earlier, you said you’d rather eat dirt than attend another one of my boring Monday night dinner parties.”

“I changed my mind.” Hadley glanced at Gianni and giggled.

Fiona rolled her eyes and gestured at her daughter’s attire. “Well, you’re not coming to my dinner table dressed like that, so go clean up if you want to attend. You can sit at your father’s place since his flight was delayed, and he won’t make it home on time to eat with us.”

“Okay.” After giving Gianni one last adoring look, Hadley raced up the stairs.

Sighing, Fiona watched her go. “I thought the terrible twos were bad, but seventeen is ten times worse. She drives me crazy.”

I laughed politely. “I think I drove my mother crazy at seventeen too.”

“Although it’s hard to blame her for being excited.” Fiona smiled at Gianni like I wasn’t even there. “And my guests will be thrilled. They’re not quite here yet, but let me show you where the kitchen is.”

“We have some things to bring in,” I said, feeling like I’d invited myself to Gianni’s job and not the other way around. “Cases of wine and glasses. Where would you like us to put them?”

Fiona turned to me like she’d forgotten I was there. “Oh! The kitchen, I suppose.”

“Do you have a back door we can use? I don’t want to get your floors wet.” I glanced at the gleaming dark wood. “They’re so beautiful—your whole house is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Fiona said. “We do have a back door. Maybe you could pull into the driveway and drive around?”

“Sure.” Gianni glanced behind us. “And if you have a shovel, I don’t mind shoveling your front walk and maybe the steps—I’d hate for your dinner guests to slip.”

Fiona laughed girlishly as she reached out to pat Gianni’s cheek. “Aren’t you adorable? You don’t have to do that.”

“I really don’t mind.”

“I might take you up on it since Malcolm isn’t here. He’d normally be the one I sent out there in the cold.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Gianni assured her.

She beamed. “You’re an absolute doll.”

I took a deep breath and counted to ten.

Fifteen minutes later, Gianni headed outside to shovel while I added flute wineglasses to each of ten place settings on the Duffs’ long, rectangular dining room table. It was a beautiful, dramatic room—high ceilings, walls painted a deep gray, a huge gold candle-style chandelier, chairs upholstered in navy velvet. I’d changed from my snow boots into high heels, and they sank into the plush Persian rug under the table.

Nearly one entire wall was windows, and through them I could see the snow coming down hard and fast. I could also hear the scrape of plastic against cement as Gianni shoveled the Duffs’ front walk, and the noise was shredding what was left of my nerves. It was obvious Fiona and Hadley Duff were completely starstruck, and I felt like a total jerk for being upset about it, but I was. He was stealing my thunder without even trying!

After I had everything in place for the first course—which would be Gianni’s dumplings as well as the clam chowder with warmed radishes Fiona had made—I returned to the kitchen through the old-fashioned butler’s pantry, which included a wet bar. In the kitchen, Fiona was spooning her soup into tiny white mugs placed on a cast iron serving tray.

It was a beautiful space, of course—in contrast to the dining room, it was decorated in bright colors and glossy textures. Cabinets in a pale ash color, white marble counters veined with silver, mirrored subway tile backsplash, gleaming chrome hardware. It smelled delicious too, like roasting beef tenderloin and fresh thyme, which would be the main course.

“Can I help you with anything?” I asked.

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind placing these in the warming oven, that would be great. The guests should arrive shortly, and I just need a few minutes upstairs to finish getting ready. Hadley was supposed to help me in here, but she’s probably tearing her room apart looking for something that doesn’t look like she found it in the rag bin at a thrift shop.”

“Of course,” I said, unbuttoning my cuffs and rolling up the sleeves of my blouse.

“And usually Malcolm is on hand to show everyone in and make cocktails, but since the big galoot didn’t fly home yesterday like I told him to, I have to do everything on my own—cook, host, serve.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what he was thinking trying to get out of Denver today.”

“Gianni and I would be glad to serve.”

“Would you?” She gave me a relieved smile. “That would make my evening so much more enjoyable.”

“Absolutely. You don’t want to be getting up and down all night. Gianni and I can take care of everything. We’re used to working as a team.”

“I’m just so ecstatic he’s here,” she gushed, untying her apron. “Usually we just talk about food and wine at these things, and the conversation can feel stale. But tonight we’ll have something more fun to talk about! He’s even better looking in person than he is on TV, don’t you think?”

The smile was frozen on my face, but my hopes were melting. “Sure.”

“And that was so sweet of him to bring something. I’m dying to taste his dumplings.” She laughed and whispered scandalously, “I bet they’re as delicious as he is.”

I ignored that. “Um, other than the dumplings, are there any changes to the menu?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s exactly as I emailed you. After the soup and dumplings will be the beet salad, then the tenderloin and vegetables, then the cheese—you did receive the list of cheeses I’ll serve?”

“Yes. I think the wine I brought to serve with them will really complement the?—”

“There you are!” Fiona squealed as Gianni entered the mudroom through the back door and stomped snow from his boots. “Are you frozen solid?”

“Nah.” He brushed snow off his coat. “It wasn’t bad.”

“I was just saying to Kelly how excited I am that you came tonight.” She sent him a dazzling smile.

“Ellie,” he corrected.

She looked perplexed for a moment, then laughed and glanced in my direction. “Ellie. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” I said through my teeth.

“I’ll just excuse myself to finish getting ready. Use anything you need, and if someone comes to the door, please let them in and direct them to the living room.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll also offer them an aperitif. I brought a?—”

“Thank you, see you in a moment!” she called, sailing out of the kitchen with one final smile at Gianni.

When we were alone, he looked over at me. “Is that smoke coming out of your ears?”

“Yes,” I said. “I can’t even finish a sentence around her unless it’s about you.”

“Don’t worry.” He hung up his coat next to mine in the mudroom, took off his boots, and dug around in his duffel bag for his dress shoes. “You’re going to knock her socks off tonight.”

“I think she’d prefer you to take her socks off,” I muttered, sliding the tray with the soup mugs on it into the warming oven. “By the way, I told her we’d serve tonight.”

“Fine with me.” Gianni tied his shoes and came into the kitchen, rolling up the cuffs of his dress shirt. “I need a sauce pan to make the sake butter. Think you can find one?”

Distracted momentarily by the appearance of his wrists—he wore a watch on the left one with a large round face and black strap—I didn’t answer the question.

“Ell?” He snapped his fingers in front of my face. “You with me?”

“Sorry—yeah.” I located a pan for him while he unpacked the cooler bag. As he worked on the sauce, I put the dumplings on a tray and stuck them in the warming oven. I was pulling out the platter Gianni had brought to serve them on when the doorbell rang.

“You go,” he said, taking the platter from me. “I can handle things in here.”

“Okay.” I hurried to the front door and pulled it open. A huge gust of wind brought snow swirling into the house, and the two couples on the front porch laughed along with me.

“Please come in,” I said, stepping aside. “Fiona will be down in a minute. I’m Ellie Fournier, from Abelard Vineyards.”

“I was going to say, Fiona, you look amazing,” joked one of the men as they removed scarves and gloves, unbuttoned their coats.

Laughing politely, I glanced around and noticed a closet behind me. “Can I take your coats?”

“You must be Lucas and Mia Fournier’s daughter,” said one of the women as her husband helped her out of a long fur coat. She looked a little older than Fiona, maybe more like my parents’ age.

“Yes,” I said.

The woman smiled. “You look just like your mom. Tell your parents the Kriegs say hello. We own a restaurant in Harbor Springs. We haven’t been to Etoile yet, but we have a reservation next month—can’t wait.”

“The chef is actually here with me tonight,” I said, taking the fur coat and hanging it in the closet.

“Gianni Lupo?” said the other woman, whose husband was helping her from a camel-colored wool duster I wished I could steal. “As in ‘too hot to handle?’”

I set my teeth. “Yes.”

The two women exchanged excited glances. “To cook?”

“No—well, he made one dish, but Fiona made the meal.” I hung up the duster. “He’s really only here because he didn’t want me to make the drive up alone in this weather, but I roped him into helping me out.”

“Is Fiona just beside herself?” asked Mrs. Krieg with a laugh. “She used to tease me for watching all those silly reality cooking shows, and then she started watching Lick My Plate . She adores him.”

“She’s, um, excited. Yes.” I hung up the men’s coats. “She asked me to show you into the living room.”

“Oh, we know our way.” The duster woman patted my shoulder. “No need to fuss over us, we’re here all the time.”

“Can I offer anyone a drink? I have with me a spiced cherry aperitif Abelard just started making with fruit locally sourced from Cloverleigh Farms that’s delicious on its own, over ice, or in a spritz.”

Everyone said they’d like to try it over ice, and I perked up. But as soon as the first two couples wandered into the living room, the doorbell rang again, and I greeted three more people—a gay couple and a woman, the three of whom had driven up from Charlevoix together.

I introduced myself, and it turned out that the couple had stayed at Abelard in the past and loved the wines. The woman said she’d never tasted them but had heard great things and was very excited about the tasting. My spirits lifted even more. While I hung up their coats, they set their overnight bags at the foot of a huge staircase.

“Whew—that drive was a nail-biter,” remarked the man in the dapper bow tie. “I’m glad Fiona insisted we come for the night.”

“Me too,” said the other guy, who wore thick tortoise-framed eyeglasses. “The roads are already awful.” He gave me a sympathetic look. “Are you driving back to Abelard tonight?”

“Yes, but I’ll be fine. I have someone with me, so I won’t be on the road alone,” I said, deliberately leaving out Gianni’s name, just in case they were Lick My Plate fanatics too. “Can I interest you in an aperitif?”

They all said yes, so I hustled back to the kitchen, where Gianni was whisking butter into the sake. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“Good. Great.” Grabbing the spiced cherry aperitif from the fridge, where I’d placed it to stay chilled, I lined up seven glasses on the marble island, filled them with ice, and poured.

Gianni, who’d taken the dumplings from the oven, dipped one in the sauce, sprinkled it with a little homemade ponzu, and took a bite. “Fuck, yes,” he said slowly. “Come taste one of these.”

“I can’t right now. I’m sure they’re good.” I ducked into the butler’s pantry and grabbed a silver tray from the glass cabinet—hopefully Fiona wouldn’t mind if I used it to serve the drinks. Back in the kitchen, I placed the glasses on the tray and picked it up.

“Wait a minute. Just taste this.” Gianni came toward me with the other half of his dumpling, and when I opened my mouth to protest, he stuck it in there. Of course, he also slipped his thumb in too, and before I could stop myself, my lips closed around it. He paused with his thumb in my mouth for just a second, his eyes locked on mine, then slowly pulled it out, my tongue stroking its tip.

Another electric pulse went through me, just like in the car.

“You’re not supposed to eat my finger,” he said.

I chewed and swallowed the bite he’d fed me, trying to act cool. “Then you shouldn’t stick your finger in my mouth.”

“Well? What do you think?”

“Delicious. Which you already know.”

He gave me his cockiest grin. “But what about the dumpling?”

“Get out of my way before I throw every drink on this tray at you.”

Laughing, he stepped aside. “Can I help you?”

“No. Just stay in here until I tell you it’s okay to come out.”

I made my way back to the living room on trembling legs. What on earth was my problem tonight? First, I had that stupid fantasy in the car—and got caught moaning while I stared at his crotch—and then I sucked his thumb in the kitchen!

Even worse, it was probably the most erotic thing to happen to me in a year.

I managed a smile and a steady hand as I served the drinks, answered the door once more, hung up another coat, and turned to see Fiona coming down the stairs in a new outfit. She’d traded her pants and blouse for a cocktail dress and heels that seemed a bit much for a Monday night dinner party at home—and was much fancier than anything her guests were wearing—but maybe that was how she always dressed. Right behind her was Hadley, who’d swapped her hoodie, skirt, and socks for a fitted black crop top with long sleeves, baggy high-waisted jeans, and white sneakers. Her dark blond hair was long and wavy, and her eye makeup looked more professional than anything I could have done.

Fiona went into the living room to see her guests, but Hadley made a beeline for the kitchen. When I got there, she was sitting at the counter, her chin propped in her hand, watching Gianni arrange the dumplings on a platter. It was easy to imagine the cartoon hearts popping out of her eyes.

“You’re, like, so amazing,” she gushed. “And your following is so huge. I’ve been telling my mom she needs to put you on the cover of Tastemaker for months.”

I sighed.

This was going to be a long night.

But just then, Gianni looked over at me and smiled—not his usual arrogant grin. The curve of his mouth was somehow kinder and more private, like he could read my mind and he was on my side.

Something rattled in my chest, shaking loose a warmth that radiated throughout my limbs and sloshed back to pool at my center. I looked away quickly, hurrying to pour another drink.

Gianni isn’t just a chef, he’s an actor , I reminded myself. He was popular on the show for the same reason he’s popular in real life. He can read a room and knows exactly what to say and do to make a person feel special. Taken care of. The center of his attention.

But it wasn’t real.

I’d seen him play the game with plenty of girls in high school, one right after the next, all dying to be the one he wanted—and left heartbroken when he lost interest and moved on. He never stayed with anyone.

He wasn’t cruel, but all he’d cared about was having fun.

And no matter how much I thought about him in private, I vowed back then I was never going to be one of those girls—fooled by those eyes and that smile and the promise of a good time.

It was a vow I intended to keep.