Undeniable: A Cloverleigh Farms Standalone

by Melanie Harlow

  He tipped up his drink. “You look great.”

  “Thanks. So do you.” I glanced at his legs. “Decided to wear pants to this occasion, huh?”

  He laughed. “Indeed I did.”

  I looked straight ahead again, wishing my skin didn’t feel quite so warm. It was like he radiated some kind of thermal energy my body was conditioned to respond to. I’d been perfectly cool a moment ago.

  “I take it you’re still angry about what happened at Hughie’s party,” he said.

  I shrugged.

  “Come on, there are bigger crimes in the world than giving someone an orgasm.”

  “Shush!” I glanced around, making sure no one heard. “That wasn’t the reason I got mad, and you know it.”

  “What was the reason again?”

  We moved forward in line. “Your moral repugnance.”

  “Oh, good. I thought it was something serious.”

  I gave him a dirty look. “What are you doing here?”

  “In Chicago or at this event?”

  “Both.”

  “I’m in town visiting a friend. His mom is on the board at the hospital. What about you?”

  “I came with my roommate. She works for the hospital foundation. And my company does their PR.”

  “Ah.” He swirled the honey-colored liquid in his glass. “I’ve reached out a few times over the last year or so. Sent you a few texts.”

  “Oh really? I didn’t get them,” I said. “Maybe you have the wrong number.”

  He smiled, because he knew I was lying.

  A moment later, we reached the front of the line, and Oliver asked me what I’d like.

  “Vodka and soda with a lime, please,” I said to the bartender. I’d be damned if I’d let him order for me.

  The bartender nodded and looked at Oliver. “And for you?”

  “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  While my drink was being poured, I put a dollar in the tip jar and checked my phone. It was only nine, and I was already bored stiff at this event. I wasn’t really a gala sort of person, and while I liked supporting a good cause with my work, standing around in a fancy dress and high heels making small talk with stiff rich people got old fast. My roommate had disappeared an hour ago with a recently divorced surgeon she’d been crushing on, and I had a feeling they’d gotten a room upstairs. But I didn’t want to leave without hearing from her.

  The bartender returned with my cocktail, and Oliver reached for it. “I’ll carry it for you,” he said. “Where are you sitting?”

  “Where’s your date?” I asked, moving away from the bar. “Isn’t she missing you by now?”

  He followed me. “I came with a guy friend, and while he is gay, I’m pretty sure I’m not his type.”

  “Oh.” I looked over toward my table, which I wasn’t particularly excited about returning to. “I was sitting over there, but …”

  “You don’t want to sit?”

  “Not really.” I took my drink from his hand and sipped, making a face. “Ew. This is totally watered-down, and I think he put tonic in it, not soda.”

  “Want me to get another one for you?”

  I sighed and shook my head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Listen. Why don’t we go upstairs to the hotel bar and get a real drink?”

  “I don’t know. I’m kind of tired.” I checked my phone, and sure enough, the message from my roommate said Staying here tonight!!!

  “Come on, Dimples,” Oliver prodded. “I’m buying, and we can catch up. We haven’t seen each other in, what, two years?”

  “Three,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him, because he knew exactly when it was. “Hughie’s party, remember?

  “I remember.” He finished his drink, his eyes dancing over the rim of his glass. “So what do you say? One drink for old times’ sake? I promise I’m not carrying any rubber snakes, nor will I dare you to jump off the roof.”

  “Your promises mean nothing to me, Oliver Pemberton. Because you never keep them.” I frowned at my crappy cocktail. “But I would like a good drink before I go.”

  He laughed, taking the full glass from my hand and setting it alongside his empty one on a nearby service tray. “You got it. Let’s go. One drink, and then I’ll get you an Uber.”

  I sighed. “Fine.”

  We made our way toward the hotel elevators, and I stumbled slightly on the long hem of my dress. Oliver immediately took my arm. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I borrowed this dress, so it’s not a perfect fit. My roommate is taller than I am.”

  “Who isn’t?”

  I glared at him but let him keep my arm in his grasp. I didn’t necessarily like him touching me—my body always reacted to his touch—but I didn’t want to face-plant, either.

  Side by side, we rode the elevator in silence, and when the doors opened, Oliver led me through them. A woman waiting to board the elevator smiled at us. “What a beautiful couple,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Oliver replied.

  “But we’re not a couple,” I added, taking my arm back. I lifted up the hem of my dress as we walked across the lobby to the bar.

  It was crowded, and I didn’t see anywhere to sit except for a few tables with Reserved signs on them. “Should we go somewhere else?” I asked.

  “No. Give me one minute.” Oliver went over to the host, took some cash from his wallet and slipped it to him. A moment later, he was back.

  “We can sit anywhere we’d like,” he said confidently.

  I was annoyed and relieved at the same time. My feet were killing me. “How about over there?” I pointed to a small corner booth with a round table.

  “Perfect.” He took my arm again and guided me toward the spot.

  We slid into the booth, and I immediately took off my shoes. A waiter came over and asked what we’d like, and Oliver looked at me. “What sounds good? Vodka?”

  “What are you having?”

  “Probably scotch.”

  “I’ll do that too.”

  He discussed the selection with the server and made his choice. When we were alone again, he leaned back and put his arm along the back of the seat, just above my shoulders.

  I glanced at it, then at him. “Really?”

  “Is it bothering you?”

  Grumbling, I shifted on the plush bench seat. “It’s fine. As long as you understand things are not getting romantic between us tonight.”

  “When have things ever been romantic between us?”

  “You know what I mean. Nothing is going to happen. I’m having one drink, and I’m going home.”

  Our eyes locked, and a slow smile crept onto his lips. “Okay.”

  Needless to say, something happened.

  I’m not even sure how.

  One drink turned into two. Then three. We caught up. Laughed about old times. Asked about family. We shared stories, looked at pictures on each other’s phones, discussed the scotch.

  When our glasses were empty, Oliver paid the bill and we walked out to the elevators. I was pleasantly tipsy by then, but I still caught him hitting the up arrow.

  “Hey,” I said. “I have to get my coat. The ballroom is on the lower level.”

  “I know.” The doors opened, and he stepped inside. The car was empty. “But my room is upstairs.”

  I didn’t move. He held his finger on the button, keeping the doors open, and met my eyes. The look on his face dared me to get on. Go up to his room. Get naked.

  I wished he didn’t look so fucking good in that suit.

  “One,” he said.

  I held my ground, but felt it cracking under my feet.

  “Two.”

  I clenched my stomach muscles, remembering how big he was, how he used his mouth, how quickly he made me come.

  “Three.” He took his hand off the button. “Goodnight, Chloe.”

  The doors began to close.

  My hand shot out.

  The doors opened again and I stepped through them, breathing
hard. “You’re fucking impossible,” I told him.

  “And you’re fucking predictable.” He lowered his voice. “But I’ve been waiting for this a long time.”

  The doors closed behind me, and we went at each other like wolves.

  Fueled by pent-up lust and scotch, we stumbled into Oliver’s room and tore at each other’s clothes. It was hot and rough and a little bit violent, as if we were furious we hadn’t been able to keep our hands to ourselves and wanted to take it out on one another’s bodies. We pushed and pulled and growled and grasped. We called each other names and cursed viciously. We knocked over a lamp and ripped Oliver’s shirt.

  When we finally exploded together, Oliver had me up against the door, and if our yelling didn’t wake the entire floor, then the pounding must have. I’d have bruises for days.

  Afterward, we collapsed on the bed, naked and sweaty and exhausted.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “I can’t believe we did that.”

  “I know. Me either.”

  “I think I pulled a muscle.”

  “I think you bit me. Am I bleeding?”

  I laughed. “No, but I hope you’re not seeing anyone. If you are, she’s going to wonder about all those scratches on your back.”

  “I’m not seeing anyone.” He paused. “Are you?”

  “No.”

  Neither of us moved for several minutes. When I caught myself falling asleep, I sat up. “I should go.”

  “Why? Just stay here.”

  I looked down at him. “You want me to stay?”

  “Yeah.” He opened his eyes. In the low light, they almost looked black instead of blue. “Spend the night with me.”

  I waited for it—the dirty joke, the excuse, the subtle dig—the reason he’d toss out for asking me to stay. It couldn’t just be that he wanted me here.

  But he didn’t say anything more. He just reached out and covered my hand with his.

  I looked at our hands for a moment, and a thousand memories came rushing back. Some good, some bad, but all us. I felt close to him, and I didn’t want to leave. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

  “Good.” He took off his watch and put it on the nightstand.

  “What should we do today?” Oliver traced the letters of my tattoo with his finger. “Museum? Aquarium? Stroll down Michigan Avenue?”

  I was on my stomach, arms folded beneath my pillow. “What day is it?”

  He laughed. “Saturday. Do you have to be somewhere?”

  I tried to think, but my brain, like my body, was complete mush. We’d spent the entire night alternating between mind-blowing sex and short, heavy naps. Neither of us had gotten enough sleep. “I can’t remember.”

  “You don’t work on Saturdays, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Spend the day with me.”

  “I have no clothes.”

  “Even better.” He looked at the window. “It’s raining anyway. We’ll just stay in bed.”

  Smiling, I looked at his tousled hair and stubbled jaw. “How long are you in Chicago?”

  “For the weekend.”

  “Do you have plans?”

  “Yes. Fucking you ten different ways. Giving you lots of orgasms. Making you scream my name some more.” He leaned down and kissed my shoulder. “Doesn’t that sound fun?”

  Of course it did. But I wasn’t sure my body could take another day of it.

  “I don’t know, Oliver. I’m kind of sore.” I tried to stretch and winced at the pain in my back muscles.

  “I have been pretty rough on you, haven’t I?” He sounded proud.

  “Yes.” I flipped onto my side and threw an arm and a leg over him. “But I like it.”

  He pinched my ass hard. “That’s my girl.”

  During the next two days, Oliver only left the room twice—once to run down to the ballroom and get my coat and then to the lobby store to pick up a toothbrush for me, and the second time to buy more condoms.

  I never left once all weekend.

  We ate ridiculously expensive room service meals, drank a pricey bottle of bourbon, rehashed childhood memories, argued incessantly about everything under the sun, and had so much sex I didn’t think I’d be able to walk out of there.

  And somewhere in between all the eating and drinking and laughing and orgasms, the idea for Brown Eyed Girl was born.

  “I just don’t know what I want to do with my life,” he’d said, taking another five-dollar mozzarella stick from the basket. “Now that I’m done with grad school, my parents want me to come home and work for Pemberton, but I don’t want a desk job. I’m scared if I take it, they’ll turn me into someone I have no interest in becoming. I’ll wake up one day and discover I hate my life but it’ll be too late to do anything about it. I’ll have a boring job, an ex-wife who can’t stand me, and two kids who blame me for fucking up their lives. Even the dog will hate me.”

  I giggled. “So don’t take that job. Change course. Do something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. What do you love?”

  He thought for a second. “Sex, sailboats, and whiskey.”

  “Well, I’m not sure how to make a living with the first two, but want to hear about an idea I’ve been kicking around that involves whiskey?”

  “Yes.” Stretching out on his side on the bed, wearing only a pair of jeans, he propped his head on his hands.

  “I’m moving back to Cloverleigh this fall to take over the marketing and PR, as well as manage the tasting rooms at the winery. And I’ve been thinking about starting a small batch distillery.”

  “That’s so crazy. I’ve thought about that too,” he said excitedly. “Ever since I took that trip to Scotland, it’s been in my head.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” He shook his head. “It’s like we share brain waves or something.”

  I grinned. “We might.”

  “So when will you do it?”

  “I’m not sure. Not right away—I’ve got more research to do, and I need to make sure I have the financial resources, but I’m excited about it.”

  “I’ve got financial resources. Let’s do it together.”

  “What?” I stared at him.

  “I just turned twenty-five and inherited a chunk of my trust. Let’s do it together.” He thought for a second. “But maybe we should locate it somewhere other than the farm. Cloverleigh gets a lot of wine people and families, but we’d want a different demographic—younger and hipper.”

  “You’re thinking here? Chicago?”

  “Not necessarily. What about Detroit? There are some distilleries doing well there already. We’d have to think of a way to stand out, but I bet we could do it.”

  I sat up. “Oliver, are you serious? You’d go into business with me?”

  “Of course I would.” He grinned at me. “Let’s do it.”

  We stayed up half the night taking notes and researching things online and sketching ideas on hotel stationary. We figured we’d start with something simpler to make, like a vodka or gin, and then work our way into whiskey, which was more difficult and took more time. As the hours passed, we got more and more excited, convinced this was the best fucking idea in the world, we were geniuses, and everyone was going to say they knew us when. We might have been half drunk, or half crazy—probably both—but at that moment, the entire world belonged to us.

  “Would you move to Detroit?” he asked, leaning back against the pillows, stretching his legs out in front of him. He wore only a pair of hunter green boxer briefs, and his bare chest bore faint red scratch marks.

  “Fuck yes, I would.” I sat cross-legged next to him in one of his T-shirts, our pile of notes between us. “I’ll start looking for PR jobs there right away, since our business won’t turn a profit for a while.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure you have enough money so you don’t have to work another job. The marketing is going to be critical for us. There’s a lot of competition.”

/>   I stared at Oliver. “You’re going to pay me a salary? Out of your trust?

  “It’s an investment. And you’re worth it.” He reached for me, pulling me onto his lap so that I straddled him. “I think you should quit your job on Monday and move up to Detroit.”

  I laughed. “You’re insane!”

  “Probably.”

  “I don’t even have a place to live in Detroit.”

  “So stay with me until you find a place.” He tucked my hair behind my ears. “Or as long as you want to.”

  “Oliver,” I whispered, my heart beating madly. “What is this?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that I don’t want it to end tomorrow when you walk out of here.”

  “I don’t either.”

  We stared at each other for a moment, then he grabbed my head and crushed his lips to mine. “I know what we should call our company.”

  “What?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Brown Eyed Girl.”

  “Like the song?”

  “Like you.”

  The room was spinning, and I wasn’t sure which way was up.

  Within minutes, his underwear and my T-shirt were on the floor and he was sliding inside me again. It felt different this time. Less playful. More intense. We weren’t fucking just for fun or because we were bored or because it felt good—we were doing it because we felt something for each other.

  And when we said goodbye late Sunday night, we kissed deep and long and said we’d see each other soon.

  The next morning, I gave my notice at work.

  Two days later, I told my roommate I was moving out by the end of the month.

  Three days later, I told my parents I wouldn’t be moving home to work at Cloverleigh.

  I thought it was a little strange that I hadn’t heard from Oliver, but I never would have guessed why.

  He was already gone.

  17

  Oliver

  THEN

  Alison was seriously getting on my nerves.

  “My shoes are going to be ruined.”

  “It’s snowing, Alison. What do you want me to do? I can’t get you any closer to the door than valet.”

  She huffed, but remained silent as I pulled forward. We were attending the Cloverleigh Christmas party at the request of my parents. Hughie and Lisa were here too, showing off their brand new baby. I really hadn’t wanted to come, but my mother had guilt-tripped me. My mood was anything but festive.