Page 48 of White Lies

Chapter Seventeen

Tiger

Once we’re downstairs, Faith sticks our food in the microwave while I unpack the groceries she’s bought, which include milk, eggs, and… “Pancake mix?” I ask, holding up the instant mix. “I don’t get your famous pancakes?”

“I guess I didn’t mention that they’re famous because that’s all I ever make.”

I laugh. “No, you didn’t.” I walk to the pantry and find the proper spot to stick them before turning back to her. “I might have to make you pancakes.”

“You cook?” she asks, setting bottles of water on the island where we plan to eat.

“I picked up a few tricks from one of my many nannies who had a thing for cooking contests.”

She opens the microwave. “The food should be ready,” she says, inspecting it and then removing the container. “We’re good to eat.” She sets our sealed containers on the counter, and I move to the spot directly across from her, both of us claiming our seats before returning to our prior conversation. “As for cooking,” she says. “I don’t. Neither of my parents cooked, and I didn’t have to learn. I grew up at the winery, and there are two chefs on staff. One for the restaurant and another for the staff.” She lifts the lid to her food to display spaghetti and meatballs, and I do the same.

“Looks and smells amazing,” I approve, the scent of sweet-and-spicy tomato sauce almost as good as her amber-and-vanilla scent right about now.

“It is,” she assures me. “An Italian family owns the place. And I’d offer you wine, but I don’t keep it here.”

I arch a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be a wine lover?”

“I like wine,” she says, “but when I’m here, I just want to escape everything to do with the winery.” She picks up her fork and clearly makes a move to change the subject by adding, “I’m starving, and real women eat everything on their plate.”

“Sweetheart,” I say, wrapping pasta around my fork, “you keep up with me on everything else. I’d be disappointed if this was different.” I take a bite.

Faith watches me with intense green eyes. “Well?” she prods.

“Damn good,” I say. “And I’ve eaten my share of pasta in Rome.”

She sighs. “Oh, how I’d love to go to Italy. My parents went a good half-dozen times for ‘wine research,’ as they called it. My father loved those trips. My mother was all his then. I can’t imagine wanting someone so badly that you’d allow yourself to be treated that way. I never understood.”

Which, judging from what I know of her, is why Macom got kicked to the curb after only a year. “There’s a fine line between love and hate,” I assure her. “Lovers become enemies. I see it all the time with my work.”

“But you do corporate law, right?”

“Personal relationships are common disruptors to business. The worst kind because they get emotional and dirty.” I stay focused on her past. “Who stayed with you when your parents were traveling?”

“A friend of my parents who passed away a few years ago. And Kasey, the manager at the winery, has been there for twenty years.”

I study her a moment. “Why, if he’s good at his job, can’t you paint, Faith?”

Her answer comes without hesitation. “Kasey and my father were a team. A few years back, we were just getting by, but they’d built our retail sales to a huge dollar figure the year before my father died. That’s why I was able to buy this house with my inheritance.”

“And your mother inherited well, I assume?”

“He had life insurance and money from the winery, which is why I need into her bank accounts.”

Which Beck tells me are empty, I think.

“When my father passed,” she continues, “my mother insisted she was taking over that role my father held, but it was, as expected, a disaster. My mother angered customers and made rash decisions.”

“You lost business,” I surmise.

“A ton of business.” She stabs a meatball. “That’s when I took over and tried to earn the deals back. But it got worse before it got better. We lost one section of our vineyard to a bad freeze because she declined normal procedures as too costly. Kasey was at his wit’s end, and I convinced him to stay. That freeze,” she says, stabbing another meatball, “makes the forty thousand a month a real accomplishment.”

“Don’t artistic types hate the business end of things?”

“I know this place,” she says. “I bring knowledge and the name to the brand.” She waves that off. “Enough about that. Did you always want to be an attorney?”

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