Despite what she was bound to think, I was doing this for both of us. I knew how badly she wanted a distillery, and I could make it happen—but I would need her help.
How furious was she? Would she even stay to talk to me? Or would she already have stormed out, furious and feeling like we’d ganged up on her?
Rubbing one finger beneath my lower lip, I figured the odds were about even. If she let her temper get the best of her, she’d probably left for home already, possibly after throwing something. If she took a moment to think reasonably about the deal, she’d realize it was in her best interest to stick around. Chloe’s blood ran hot, and she was not my biggest fan at the moment, but she was no fool. And she wasn’t terribly patient, either. If she thought I could get her what she wanted sooner than she could get it on her own, she might be inclined to play nice.
I decided the odds were probably tipped in favor of her staying long enough to greet me, sniff out the situation, and announce her unquestionable displeasure, if not her downright outrage.
But then she’d say yes. She never could resist me.
My grin grew even wider, and I pushed down a little harder on the accelerator, eager to get there.
Damn, I wished I could have seen her face.
4
Chloe
NOW
My first instinct, of course, was to flip the table and storm out.
But did I? No. No.
Because I was not a tempestuous child anymore, but a calm, mature adult. A woman astute enough to recognize an opportunity and entertain its possibilities with an open mind. A woman secure enough in her own self-worth—mostly—to let bygones be bygones, forgive and forget.
Or at least that’s how I wanted to appear.
To that end, after helping my mother with the dishes, I tried out some body language in my parents’ first-floor bathroom, or what we called “the powder room” because it had a tiny adjacent area with a marble topped vanity and three-way mirrors that reached the ceiling.
I stood there for a full ten minutes auditioning different poses and expressions I might employ as Oliver made his pitch. I tried out detached, bemused, discerning, skeptical, cautiously optimistic, polite but pessimistic, and downright outraged. When I was confident with them, I quickly fluffed my hair with my fingers, applied a coat of an old lipstick I’d found in the drawer, which wasn’t really my shade but was better than nothing, and pinched some color into my cheeks. I wished I was wearing something nicer than cut-off denim shorts, but at least I’d traded my white tank for a cute green blouse and my sneakers for sandals.
When I emerged, Frannie was standing in the hallway looking at me quizzically.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You were in there forever.”
“I’m fine.”
She arched a brow. “What’s with the lipstick? You weren’t wearing it before.”
“What? Yes, I was.” I moved past her, feeling heat in my cheeks.
“Is that for Oliver?” she teased, following me into the living room.
“No. It’s for confidence.” I looked around, wondering whether I should be sitting or standing when he came in.
“This really has you worked up, doesn’t it?”
“A little,” I admitted, debating a casual pose over by the fireplace, perhaps holding a glass of wine in my hand. That’s what I needed—a prop. “Hey, are you staying? Let’s open another bottle of wine.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. The kids have a sitter, and we promised to be back before nine.”
“I don’t understand why you don’t just bring them. Mom invites them every time. You guys could come more often if you did.”
“I know.” Frannie sighed. “It’s Mack. He doesn’t want to intrude on Mom and Dad’s family dinner.”
“Did I hear my name?” Mack appeared in the living room doorway, keys in his hand.
“Yes. We want you to stop feeling like a guest in this house already.” I went over to him and smacked his shoulder. “You’re marrying in, you’re family. And so are the kids, so you should bring them to Sunday dinner. Mom and Dad are dying to have kids around. They’d take the pressure off.”
Mack smiled. “Maybe next time.”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mack. Night, Frannie.” I gave my sister a quick hug and Mack another slug on the shoulder before heading to the kitchen, where I pulled another bottle of rosé from the fridge. “Think I can open this?”
April, who was leaning against the counter checking her phone, looked over at me. “Of course. Good idea.”
“Where are Mom and Dad?”
“Dad’s in the den, and I think Mom went upstairs to make sure the guest room was ready for Oliver.”
I uncorked the bottle. “Wish I had a rubber snake to put in the bed.”
She laughed and set her phone aside. “So when was the last time you two spoke?”
I thought about it as I pulled a couple glasses down from the cupboard. “Two and a half years ago. The last time the Pembertons came here for the Christmas party. He brought his fiancée.” I sneered at the word. “Remember her? The ice queen?”
April laughed. “Oh yeah. The blonde with the heels and pearls and designer handbag. She was pretty.”
“Did you think she was pretty? I didn’t.” It was a lie. I’d thought she was beautiful—tall and elegant and refined. Cool and polished. All the things I wasn’t. The sight of them together had infuriated me.
“I wonder what happened with her,” April mused. “They weren’t engaged for very long.”
“She probably came to her senses. Here.” I handed her a glass of rosé. “I’m going to watch out the window for his car.”
She gave me a knowing grin. “Excited to see him?”
“No.” I snorted. “I just don’t want to be ambushed. I want to be prepared.”
“Prepared for what?”
“To stand up for myself! I don’t want Dad and Oliver to think they can just call all the shots. And I feel like now that Dad’s retiring, he’s trying to bring Oliver in to babysit me. Keep me in line.”
“And why would Oliver have an interest in babysitting you?”
I shrugged. “To torture me? Who knows? The guy’s sadistic.”
She rolled her eyes and lifted her glass to her lips. “I agree what he did to you in Chicago was shitty, but I don’t think he’s sadistic. And he must want to work with you. I mean, Oliver Pemberton isn’t short on cash—if he wanted to open a distillery up here, he’d likely just do it.”
“True,” I admitted, standing a little taller. “I hope you’re right. Because I really want this, April. I want to prove to Mom and Dad that I can envision something, do the research, lay the groundwork, and follow through.”
“You can absolutely do it …” Her smile turned wry. “You just have to put up with Oliver Ford Pemberton first.”
Three quick raps on the front door punctuated her statement.
We exchanged a look and took a drink of wine, mirroring each other since I’m a lefty and she’s a righty.
“You ready?” she asked as I set down my glass.