“That’s it?”
“Yes. Mostly.” I picked up my coffee and looked out the window.
“Winifred.” Ellie set her cup down and leaned onto the table with her elbows. “What happened between sharing the cupcake and saying goodnight?”
“It wasn’t a big deal,” I said quickly.
“What wasn’t?”
“He apologized right away.”
“Apologized for what?”
I held my breath for a second, then gave in. “For the kiss.”
Ellie’s jaw dropped. “There was a kiss?”
“There was one kiss.”
“And?” she demanded impatiently. “How was it?”
“So hot,” I said, fanning my face. “Like, really hot.”
Leaning back in her chair, she grinned slowly.
“What’s that smile?”
“It’s a victory smile, because I’m going to win the bet,” she said, her tone smug. “You made out with a hot dude, and you’ve got that look in your eye.”
“What look?”
“The look that says I can’t stay long, I have to go pick out a china pattern.”
“I do not have that look,” I argued, trying to arrange my face in a more casual expression. “He didn’t propose. He just kissed me. I’m perfectly capable of kissing a man without wanting to marry him.”
“Since when?”
I glared at her. “Anyway, it won’t happen again.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he apologized right afterward and left. Obviously he didn’t mean to do it.”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t kiss someone by accident, Win. It’s not like stepping on their foot.”
“Whatever.” I waved a hand in the air, like a magic wand—like poof, he was out of my head. “It would never work anyway. He’s too old for me, he’s newly divorced, and I’m not really interested in dating someone with a lot of baggage. We’re just going to be friends.”
“If you say so.” Ellie picked up her cup again.
“I do,” I said emphatically. “And that’s that.”
After we finished our coffee and scones, Ellie and I took off on our power walk, a three-mile loop we’d been doing pretty much every Sunday morning all summer. As we huffed and puffed under the hot sun, we brainstormed different ideas for projects we could work on together.
“I love the idea of a joint wine tasting,” Ellie said. “Abelard and Cloverleigh make different enough wines that it could be really interesting.”
“Do you think a series or a one-time event would be better?”
She thought for a moment. “If we can get it on the calendar, why don’t we try a one-time event later this fall? If it goes well, we could make it a series next summer during the high season.”
“Good idea.” We looked both ways and crossed a side street. “Where should we do the first one? Abelard or Cloverleigh Farms?”
She shrugged. “Either place would work. It’s too bad our new restaurant won’t be open for another couple months. That would be the perfect space—intimate and cozy, amazing view of the vineyard.”
“What’s the holdup?”
“You name it. Materials, labor, contractor delays. Even my dad has lost his temper a couple times about it, and you know how laid-back he usually is. Originally it was supposed to open in October. Now they’re saying it might not be ready until after the holidays, and the chef my dad wanted couldn’t wait. He took a job somewhere else.”
“That stinks.”
“They’re interviewing chefs again, but they’re not finding anyone who’s right.”
“I could ask my sister Felicity if she’s interested,” I said. Felicity, who lived in Chicago, had gone to culinary school and was now a food scientist.
“Do it. My parents keep mentioning Gianni Lupo and I would rather eat dirt than work with him.”
I laughed. Growing up around here, the Lupo brothers were legendary. There were three of them, and they were all loud, reckless, and rowdy, constantly in trouble at school for breaking rules or getting in fights—often with each other—and one of them was usually in a cast or sling from some dare they couldn’t resist or stupid thing they’d done to show off. They weren’t mean, except to each other and other boys just like them, but when they weren’t tearing each other apart or pulling pranks at school, they loved teasing girls.