Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
How the hell had I let him con me into that?
I was still brooding about it when Winnie MacAllister popped into the tasting room. Winnie, who’d been my best friend since kindergarten, had taken over for my mother as guest services manager and event planner at Abelard, and I loved working with her—it almost made up for the fact that I was stuck with Gianni Lupo too.
Right behind Winnie was her older sister Felicity, who’d recently moved back from Chicago. Last night, she and a friend had had dinner at Etoile.
“Morning,” Winnie said brightly.
“Good morning,” I said, smiling at them both. “I didn’t know you were working today, Win.”
“I’m not. I’m just showing Felicity around.” Winnie glanced down at her sweatpants and sneakers, then touched her messy bun. “Can you imagine if your mom saw me at the front desk in this?”
Laughing, I set the final storage case on the bar and unzipped it. “She’s in Paris. Even Mia can’t see sweatpants across an ocean.”
“Doesn’t matter. I feel like she’d sense it in the ether that I was not perfectly put together.”
I snickered. “Yeah, and she’d give you that look I got during my rebellious phase when I tried to sneak out of the house on a school morning in ripped jeans.” I imitated my mother’s voice. “Ellie, you have a closet full of beautiful clothes. Do you have to dress like you just rolled out of bed or put your pants in the blender instead of the dryer?”
“Oh, I remember that phase,” Winnie said with a grin. “It didn’t last long.”
“Nope. Which Mia was quite relieved about. Although she still loves to blame my teenage years for her seven gray hairs and two wrinkles. And probably the worst thing I ever did was get a B on a French test!”
“You got a B on a French test?” Winnie asked in surprise.
“Once.” I shook my head, angry at the memory. “Fucking subjonctif plus-que-parfait.”
Felicity laughed. “Were your parents that strict about your grades?”
“They weren’t strict exactly, they just had high expectations. I felt like I had to be perfect—I mean, I felt like I wanted to be perfect.” I placed two more wineglasses into the box. “I liked the way it felt to bring home good report cards or keep my room perfectly neat or hear my dad say he was proud of me. And I wanted to be just like my mom.”
“Really?” Winnie blinked at me. “I’ve never heard you say that. I always thought she drove you crazy.”
I shrugged. “She drives me crazy because she’s perfect. She’s never made a misstep in her life. It’s like she made a list when she was young—go to college, start business, find soul mate, fall in love, get married, have three children, build dream home, never look a day over thirty—and she just keeps checking all the boxes.”
Felicity laughed. “I’m sure she’d tell the story differently.”
“Maybe, but sometimes I feel like I’ll never live up.” What I didn’t say was that I had my own list too—I’d inherited my mother’s obsession with them—and so far, I’d only checked off one box: graduate college. Next on the list were things like, eliminate chemicals from our farming methods, grow brand awareness for Abelard, increase retail sales, prove to my parents I could run this place when they retired . . . At some point I was hoping to meet the man of my dreams and have a family too, but I wasn’t in a rush. I was only twenty-three, and I figured that could wait until I was closer to thirty.
That’s why it really wasn’t too worrisome I hadn’t been on more than a handful of dates in the last six months, and all of them had ended with me alone on my couch in my pajamas, eating M&M’s off a spoon I’d dipped in peanut butter, and watching reruns of Friends.
“Anyway, how was your dinner last night?” I asked Felicity.
“Oh, it was amazing—thank you so much for getting us in.”
“You’re welcome.” I smiled at her. “I’m happy you enjoyed it.”
“The food was just incredible,” she gushed. “The friend I was with is a pretty influential food blogger and photographer, and she was really impressed.”
“Oh, nice! What’s her name?”
“Her name is Kate, but her blog is called The Side Dish.”
“Oh my gosh! I’ve seen it—she takes gorgeous photos.”
“Doesn’t she?” Felicity laughed. “It’s like food porn. I don’t know how she makes broccoli look sexy, but she does.”
“I didn’t realize she was from around here,” I said.
“She’s not—she lives in Chicago, but I begged her to come up and take some promo photos for me.”
“Lissy is starting her own food blog and catering business,” Winnie said proudly, putting an arm around her sister’s shoulders.
“Really? That’s great!”
“Thanks.” Felicity pushed her glasses up her nose. “I’m still in the early stages of putting a business plan together, but I’m excited.”