Page 30 of I Think Olive You

Between her father lying about being sick, borrowing money, and Umberto lying about his intentions, it’s no wonder Giuliana is trying to keep herself aloof.

“I was able to get a loan by using part of the grove as collateral. At least the bank won’t try to salt my land or plant spies.”

“He tried to salt the land?” My outrage bursts through my lips.

“When I broke it off and made it clear I wouldn’t let anyone, under any circumstances, dictate how I run the grove… especially not a small-dicked coward who exploited my father during his illness and crawled into my bed to control me.”

White-knuckled, the leather of the steering wheel creaks under her grip. Still, despite being upset she’s got it reigned in enough that she’s only going slightly over the speed limit.

“One of the workers who stayed found him drilling holes into the roots of a few trees and pouring a heavy salt solution into them. The salt stress would have taken a while but it’d ruin the harvest and kill the trees within a few weeks. He ran off and by the time the police came he was long gone. Unfortunately, it was too dark to guarantee he was the culprit and with no physical evidence tying him to the attempted sabotage, the police couldn’t do anything.”

And here you are to sabotage her. No better than Umberto.

Fuck off. It’s not the same. It’s not personal. I’m not trying to hurt her.

Seems pretty personal when you’re drooling over her half the time.

“What was he doing at the grove the day I arrived?” I shove my inner asshole to the back of my mind.

“He was upset I was able to pay him back and came to enquire how I’d done it. Instead of answering, I vowed that the next time he sets foot on my land, I’ll be calling the police to have him arrested. Umberto must have believed me enough to send Cameron instead.”

No wonder the asshole shoulder checked me. If I’d known what I know now I would have given him hell for it. “Did he know about the ideas you have for the grove? You said something about a business plan.”

“Just the volunteer portion. Initially it was supposed to happen in a few years and be my way for women and underprivileged people to learn about the industry. When he left with those men loyal to him, I sped up the timeline. He doesn’t know about my ideas for a scholarship program, which is my ultimate goal.”

Giuliana’s lips fold into an unhappy line—her eyes shadowed by Umberto’s betrayal.

Unable to resist, I rest my hand on top of her tight-fisted grip on the steering wheel so she loosens her hold into something less aggressive. It’s whisper soft, the touch so light it tickles my palm.

“Fuck him. I’m here to help. Besides, you’ve got steel in that spine of yours. No man who stands against you will prosper.”

Not even you?

“Are you paraphrasing the bible?”

Shit. Am I? I co-opt so many phrases it’s hard to keep track of their origin.

“Possibly. Hard to know since I’m not religious. It’s either the bible or Shakespeare. My point stands.” And my touch remains.

“Matteo.”

I raise my hands in mock surrender, mourning the loss of contact. Giuliana gives me a small smile before shaking her head at me.

“I’m going to do what it takes to make you feel better but I’ll try to be on my best behavior. At least for the rest of this mill visit.”

Whether she knows I’m lying or not she doesn’t say anything. The quiet stretches between us for the rest of the drive—comfortable, like a wood floor warmed by the sun.

The tires rumble down a driveway of hard-packed earth, bookended by a smattering of buildings. The bulk of the operation functions out of the biggest building and we unbuckle and exit as soon as the wheels have stopped turning.

As we walk up to the building—half stone, half industrial metal—it strikes me how old this mill is. The date on the plaque by the door starts with “17” and it’s mind blowing something like this has been in one family for so long. Giuliana greets Arturo with cheek kisses, the old man’s face folding into soft lines—testament to a lifetime of worries and joy.

I trail them as they catch up in Italian. Arturo looks back to examine me a few times before he launches into his speech and Giuliana translates as we pass at different parts of the mill.

“Arturo uses the cold-pressed method which produces what you call ‘virgin olive oil.’ The juice is extracted without using heat or chemicals in order to keep the purity of the product and retain more flavor.”

Stacked crates line one wall, and a long square arm reaches up from the ground to the top of a large bowl. We’re surrounded by stone walls, concrete floors, and at the center of it all is heavy machinery. Through it all the air smells like earth and salt. It’s too early in the season for the mill to be operating, but I can imagine the groan of machinery and the din of voices filling the space.

“Because we are so close, our olives are delivered and pressed within a day of the harvest, another requirement for the ‘extra virgin’ label. Olives are carried up this conveyor belt. Leaves and other debris gathered up during the harvest process are discarded. Once most of it has been separated it goes into the actual mill.”

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