“Yes. I’m going to stand up for myself. And I’m not going to let him charm me this time.”
She grinned. “Good luck.”
With my fingers wrapped around the front door handle, I paused for a breath. Closed my eyes for a second. Reminded myself that on the other side of the door was the same boy I’d known my entire life, and he wasn’t any smarter or savvier or better than me. Just ten times richer, two days older, and five times as confident.
But I knew him. I could handle this.
Yanking the door open, I kept my facial expression neutral, if not cool.
And there he was.
Handsome as ever, the rotten bastard. Thick dark hair, cropped close above the ears and a little longer on top—the same preppy haircut he’d had since he was eight. It was a little tousled, but not messy like he hadn’t brushed it, more like windblown in that I-just-got-off-my-sailboat-and-now-it’s-time-for-a-G&T sort of way.
“Hey, Dimples.” His blue eyes had the nerve to light up at the sight of me, his mouth hooking into that prep school smile.
“Hello.” I was careful to remain expressionless, although his use of the nickname annoyed me.
He put one hand on my upper arm and pressed his lips briefly to the right of mine. “It’s good to see you. Been a while.”
Not long enough, I thought, but I bit my tongue. “It has. Come in.”
I opened the door all the way and pressed back against it. He stepped across the threshold into the house, and I caught a whiff of him—a hint of expensive cologne, a trace of starch, and beneath it all, something boyish and familiar that was uniquely him. It made my nether regions tighten in a manner I did not like one bit.
Resisting the urge to plug my nose, I held my breath and closed the door.
Oliver carried a well-worn canvas bag over his shoulder, （monogrammed OPF, of course）。 I’d half-expected him to show up in khaki shorts and a Vineyard Vines T-shirt—which was his teenage wardrobe—but he wore jeans and a white golf shirt, which showed off his tan and his muscular forearms.
“Oliver!” My mother came hurrying down the stairs and embraced him. They kissed each other’s cheek. “Look at you. So tall and handsome.”
He gave her a winning smile. “Thanks, Aunt Daphne. You look great. Did you cut your hair?”
My mother fluffed her short, piecey bob. “I did. Thank you for noticing. Are you hungry, darling?”
“No thanks, I grabbed something on the way up.”
“How about a drink? Cocktail? Glass of wine?”
“That sounds good.” He looked at me over her shoulder. “Chloe? Will you join us?”
“Sure. I just opened a bottle of rosé. Is that okay, or would you prefer—”
“That’s perfect,” he said as April came into the hall, wine glass in hand. They greeted each other and moved into the living room, while I slipped down the hall to the kitchen. Taking a few deep breaths to steady my nerves, I placed the bottle of rosé and some glasses on the tray along with a small plate of crackers and cheese, and went back into the living room. My father was shaking Oliver’s hand and clapping him on the back.
“Good to see you, son,” he said jovially. My dad had always liked Oliver, and it was easy to see how much he liked having another guy in the house. “How was the drive up?”
“Easy,” Oliver said, taking a seat on one end of the navy blue couch. “Thanks so much for inviting me.”
I set the tray on the coffee table in front of him and poured him a glass. “Mom? Dad? Some wine?”
“None for me, thanks.” My mother sat in one of the striped easy chairs across from the couch, and my father sat in the other one.
“Me neither,” he said.
I poured a little more for myself as April seated herself on the other end of the couch, which left me no choice but to sit between her and Oliver. As I perched ramrod straight on the cushion, I gave her a dirty look and she smiled.
My parents inquired after Oliver’s mom and dad, who spent a little over half the year in Florida and the warmer months at their place in Harbor Springs. They asked about his older brother Hughie’s growing family, and his little sister Charlotte, who was expecting her first baby sometime this summer.
Oliver answered all of their questions politely and sent his family’s best, encouraging us all to join all the Pembertons in Harbor Springs for the Fourth of July on Wednesday. “It’s my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday celebration too. We have plenty of room at the cottage, and my parents said to insist you come.”
I rolled my eyes. They had plenty of room because it wasn’t a cottage, it was a fucking compound, with a seven-bedroom Victorian house, a tennis court, swimming pool, and croquet lawn on the premises.
As he talked, I did my best to ignore him, breathing through my mouth so I didn’t inadvertently catch his scent. Tuning out the deep, warm tones of his voice, which still surprised me to this day after hearing his boyish pipsqueak for almost half our lives. And I tried not to look at his hands, with their long, tanned fingers, which were particularly elegant and skilled. I knew this for a fact and wished I did not. He still wore a wristwatch, and I remembered one time when I’d watched him remove it and set it on a hotel nightstand.
Looking at it, I forgot to breathe.
“Oh, your mother is always on us to get up there for the Fourth,” my mom said with a sigh. “She knows full well that’s impossible until John retires.” Then she gave my dad a pointed look over the rims of her glasses.
My dad held up his palms. “I’m trying, I’m trying. To that end, should we talk a little business, Oliver? I told Chloe about your offer to partner with her.”
I took another small sip of wine and sat up a little taller. Cleared my throat and my head. “Yes, and I’m a little uncertain about the idea.”
“Oh?” Oliver gave me an infuriating smile. “Why is that?”
“Because I don’t trust you.”
“For heaven’s sake, Chloe, mind your manners,” my mother scolded as Oliver burst out laughing.
“It’s okay.” He flashed the prep school smile at my mother. “Chloe has never pulled her punches. I like that.”
“Good,” I said. “Because some things don’t change. Some people don’t change.”
He met my eyes and nodded slightly, and I knew he understood. If nothing else, Oliver and I had an almost extra-sensory ability to communicate.
“Maybe it will help if I explain a little,” he said.
I gave him a fake smile. “Please do.”
He set his glass on the table and looked at my parents. “When I started Brown Eyed Girl Spirits five years ago, the market was much less crowded. And I didn’t have any grand business scheme—just a dream to handcraft something that tasted really fucking good.” He paused. “Excuse my French.”
“Your French is fine here,” April said with a laugh.
Oliver grinned at her. “Thanks. Anyway, I didn’t really know what I was doing, but I knew what I liked and I did my research.”
“And it’s gone well, hasn’t it?” my mother prompted.
“In many ways, yes.” Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. “The gin and vodka were well received, and while distribution is always a challenge for small producers like me, we manage to do decent business on site and we got into some local stores and popular Detroit cocktail bars. But the industry is getting more and more crowded—there are something like eighteen hundred craft distilleries in the U.S. now, and Michigan has more than sixty.”