Page 29 of Love on the Vine
“I’ll wait for you here,” Jake said. I nodded and rushed through the station and out onto the quay just as the train from Marseille pulled in. I searched the crowd for Callie and spotted her almost immediately.
At five-foot-ten Callie stood out in a crowd. Not only that, but with long golden hair and her signature red lips, she always looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine. Today, she wore a black formfitting dress that hugged her gorgeous curves. Her kitten-heeled sandals clicked as she made her way toward me, arms open wide. I jumped into them like I always did.
“Chicken!” She squealed with delight. I laughed at her nickname for me. I called her “fearless” because she was always so much bolder than I was and went after what she wanted, whereas I was constantly second-guessing myself. She’d started calling me “chicken” to encourage me when I was besieged with self-doubt.
“How was the trip?” I asked, hoisting her leather bag over my shoulder. As we made our way out to the front of the station, I couldn’t help but notice the interested looks she got from men and women alike.
“Exhausting! I was sitting next to this guy who would not shut up until he decided to eat an entire roast chicken for lunch with his bare hands.” She shivered. “All that grease! I would’ve moved, but the train was full. I ended up standing in the back near the door for the last hour.”
Out front, Jake was right where I’d left him. But as soon as he saw us, he stood and started toward us. “Now I see why youbroke your vibrator,” Callie whispered, and I elbowed her in the ribs.
“Callie, this is Jake,” I said unnecessarily with a nervous grin, praying she wouldn’t embarrass me.
“Nice to meet you, Callie.”
She mouthed “wow” over his shoulder as he gave her two quick cheek kisses. “I told you,” I mouthed back.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Jake,” Callie purred. “Olivia hasn’t stopped talking about you since she got here.” I shot her a warning look.
“Really?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t exaggerate, Cal,” I said with false cheerfulness.
“Would you like to have a drink before we hit the road?” Jake nodded toward the café across the street. “You must be exhausted after your trip.”
“I would love a drink!” Callie winked at me, and I stiffened. I had failed to consider how having her here for the weekend would give her ample opportunity to play cupid. And I was right. No sooner had we sat down at a round table on the terrace, than Callie started interrogating Jake. “So, Jake, tell me about yourself. Olivia says she so rarely sees you that she was beginning to think you work for the CIA.”
I glared at her, but Jake played along, smiling crookedly. “I guess my cover’s been blown.”
The waiter brought our drinks—Aperol spritzes for Callie and me and a Perrier for Jake. “You’re American, right? I don’t know why I was expecting you to have an accent.”
“Yeah, American. My mom is from the Netherlands. She lives there now, not far from Amsterdam.”
“Oh, that’s nice. You must see her often. Being away from family is the hardest thing about living abroad.” Jake’s mouth flattened into a tight line. He didn’t like talking about hisparents, which I understood since I was equally determined to avoid conversations about my mom.
“Olivia tells me you’re at the Plaza Athénée.” Jake quickly changed the subject, launching Callie into a series of stories about her job at one of the top hotels in Paris. This naturally led to her telling Jake how she’d convinced me to apply to Ferrandi, which in turn led into funny anecdotes from when we lived together.
By the time we got back to the car and started on the drive home, the conversation had drifted to our book club. Afraid Callie might use it as an excuse to bring up my love life—or lack thereof—I decided to interrupt. “Callie, you said you had some news?”
She rubbed her hands together. “You’ll never believe who contacted me for a possible gig next year in London.”
“I don’t know . . . Gordon Ramsay?”
“Liv . . .” She frowned over her sunglasses at me. “You’re geographically correct. It is someone from the British Isles.”
“Don’t tell me it’s the self-proclaimed rock star of new British cuisine,” I grumbled.
“Gaz Greystone,” said Jake as if reading my mind. Callie and I both gaped at him. “What? You said hotshot Brit. He was the first person who came to mind. Am I right?”
“Wow, Jake, if we ever play charades, I want you on my team.” Callie laughed, looking over at me expectantly. “Well, what do you think?”
Not that asshole again, I thought but bit my tongue. Callie and Gaz had an on-again-off-again relationship—if you could even call it that. He’d left her self-esteem in tatters just a few months ago when, after spending a weekend with Callie, he’d gone back to London and been photographed with a famous actress on his arm. He was constantly making her empty promises and she kept falling for them.
“That’s great,” I lied.
“Just don’t cross his father,” Jake warned.
“Do you know Mr. Greystone?” I asked, intrigued. I knew Jake had influential acquaintances in the industry but hadn’t realized how high up the ladder they were. Gaz’s father was a billionaire hotel mogul known for his ruthlessness.
