Love on the Vine (Taste of Love #1)

Chapter 1

OLIVIA

“ C an you keep a secret, Liv?” Dad asked as he blew through the kitchen door grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Depends on the secret,” I answered, hiding my own smile as I brushed egg wash over the puff pastry of my mushroom Wellington.

Here it was. His favorite holiday tradition—the Christmas Curveball—in which he ambushed a member of our family with a surprise “gift.” Dad’s favorite part of the CC, as he called it, was the element of surprise.

And yet, he always managed to give himself away.

I could tell by the way he was hovering over me now, humming loudly, that he was itching to tell me what he had up his sleeve.

“I have a special guest coming for dinner tonight. An old friend I haven’t seen in . . .” He paused, counting on his fingers and staring at the ceiling like he was running old home movies through his head. “Well, since high school.”

“Oh.” As surprises went this one was right up there with the pair of argyle socks he’d given me in a Tiffany bag last year, and I couldn’t keep the disappointment out of my voice.

So much for my secret hope that this year’s Christmas Curveball would come at the end of the elaborate dinner I had planned.

I’d imagined he’d be so overcome by all the delicious food that he’d insist that I go to culinary school in Paris and forget about law school next fall.

But who was I kidding? He was never going to let go of his dream that I would one day take over the family law firm.

Blue eyes twinkling, he opened the window above the sink and took a beer from the snow on the ledge. Then he leaned back against the countertop, settling a wide, freckled arm over his slightly pudgy belly. This was his “I’m-about-to-tell-you-a-story” position, and I braced myself.

“Jake Vos. He lived next door when we were kids. He was this lanky little dude, always following me around. He was younger than me—skipped a grade or two—so he got picked on something awful. I looked out for him though.” He sighed, impressed by his past benevolence.

“Come to think of it, he could be a pain in the ass. But he did have the best collection of old comics and car magazines.”

I smiled indulgently at this little trip down memory lane and turned back to my puff pastry, carving swirling lines into it with my paring knife. “Fascinating.”

“We ran into each other this afternoon at the gas station of all places. I barely recognized him. Apparently, he’s some big shot in the wine world now. Lives overseas—China, France. I can’t remember where else.” He took off his wool cap and scratched at his dirty blond hair.

“Too bad you didn’t bring him earlier then. He could have chosen a better-quality port for my sauce.” I picked up the bottle of wine on the counter and sniffed. It was giving slightly stale graham crackers . “It’s embarrassing that I know so little about wine.”

“Well, you can pick his brain later.” Dad finished his beer and slid the empty bottle down the countertop. “I can’t wait to surprise your grandma. She always liked that little fucker.”

“Dad!” I laughed, intercepting the bottle and setting it in the recycling crate behind the door.

“What? So did I. He’s good people.” He lowered his voice and peered over my shoulder like he was afraid someone might be crouched in the kitchen cabinets. “Don’t tell Gran though. I want to see if she recognizes him.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Luckily, uninteresting secrets were the easiest to keep. I’d already forgotten about Dad’s disappointing surprise by the time family members started traipsing in the front door, stomping snow from their boots and carrying in the cold.

I tried to anticipate the arrival of my extended family members so they wouldn’t ring the doorbell.

Dad always changed the doorbell seasonally, and this time he’d opted for a tinny, high-pitched version of “Jingle Bell Rock.” The final note ended in a frizzled whine that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

By the time the last family member arrived—late as usual—I was flushed and overheated from running back and forth between the kitchen and the front door.

“Wow, Olivia. You’re still wearing that old thing?

” My cousin Brooke laughed as she handed me her coat and eyed my well-worn Christmas sweater.

The dark blue wool was embroidered with Santa’s reindeers kicking it Rockette-style.

It was, admittedly, a bit snug now; if I raised my arms my midriff was visible.

But it was the first gift I’d gotten from my dad when I’d moved in with him for good a decade ago.

It had made me feel like part of the family, and I’d worn it every year since.

Tonight, I’d paired it with a pair of vintage high-waisted trousers à la Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story . I’ll admit I wasn’t the height of fashion, but I was cozy and comfortable.

“Oh my God. You got bangs?” Brooke continued to appraise me through narrowed eyes, flicking her fingers over my hair.

I had, in a very impulsive moment, decided to cut my hair and regretted it immediately.

Even more so now that my glamorous cousin, who had never forgiven me for showing up on my dad’s doorstep and ending her reign as the only girl in a family, was clearly delighted by the result.

“I’m growing them out.” I peeked at my reflection in the mirror and pushed the bangs to the side. The rest of my long, dark hair had been gathered into a high bun, now teetering precariously on the top of my head.

Brooke strutted into the living room, stilettos clicking.

She was tall and flaxen-haired with a centerfold body.

She knew she was gorgeous and so did every man she encountered.

This evening, she wore a short skirt with a low-cut top as if she had gotten word that a hot single guest was coming over. Boy, was she going to be disappointed.

I snickered to myself and escaped to the family room where my twin brothers sat like zombie bookends on either side of the beige sofa, eyes riveted to the video game on their phones, their bright copper hair mussed from the snowball fight they’d had earlier.

Plucking my magazine from the coffee table, I threw myself down between them and snuggled into the cushions, yawning.

I’d been up cooking since seven a.m., so I was exhausted, but in a good way since feeding people was what I loved.

I was so rarely home these days that cooking for my family was a special treat.

No sooner had I opened the latest issue of Bon Appetit than the shrill strains of “Jingle Bell Rock” once again filled the air. The twins groaned.

“Can you get the door, Liv?” Dad shouted from the kitchen where he was wrestling with his roast. Sighing, I sat up, tossed my magazine onto the pile of Dad’s Sport Fishing magazines, and threw a dark look at Tim and Noah.

“Don’t mind me, just passing through,” I said, deliberately stepping on their sock-covered feet as I climbed over their gangly adolescent limbs. They’d already mastered the art of manspreading, and they weren’t even men yet.

“Hey! Watch it,” Tim whined without taking his eyes off the screen.

The doorbell rang again. I shuffled down the hallway just as the last strains of the chorus died away on a weird electronic death note.

“Okay, okay. Hold your horses,” I mumbled, tugging the door open to greet our mystery guest and getting ready to plaster a big grin on my face.

But when I opened the door, I froze, my mouth half open.

Instead of the Mark Zuckerberg doppelg?nger I’d been expecting, there was a living, breathing Hugo Boss ad on my front porch.

My gaze wandered over his thick, tousled brown hair, sexy scruff, and intense dark eyes, before traveling slowly down to broad shoulders encased in a black cashmere coat.

And I didn’t stop there; I continued ogling him all the way down his long legs to his perfect black leather boots.

Also very long, I couldn’t help but notice.

I was so dumbstruck that I just stood there staring at him until he cleared his throat and said in a whiskey-warm voice, “Hi, uh . . . Kirsten?”

Hearing him call me by my stepmom’s name shocked me out of my stupor. “Oh, God, no! No, no. She’s my . . . I’m . . . I’m . . .”

Completely incapable of remembering my own name, apparently.

“Liv! Liv!” Dad’s voice echoed down the hallway.

“You’re Liv?” suggested the beautiful stranger, his firm mouth quirking up on one side, a slight indentation in his right cheek suggesting a dimple under that scruff.

“Olivia, yes,” I answered just as Dad pushed me aside.

“Why are you making him wait outside, Liv? Jake, my man. Get over here.” Dad pulled his friend into a bear hug. Jake, a little less enthusiastically, patted Dad on the back.

I was immediately struck by how different they looked. How were they the same age?

I always forgot how young my dad was because he was the quintessential Midwestern father with his never-ending supply of corny jokes, fleece hoodies, and peppermint-stuffed pockets.

I was the big mistake he’d made his senior year of high school, when according to my mom, he’d really been something to look at.

A varsity baseball star with dreams of making it to the big leagues.

Instead, an injured right shoulder in his freshman year at Notre Dame had put an end to his ambitions to turn pro.

He’d joined my grandfather’s law practice, gotten married, discovered he had a daughter (me, surprise!), and then produced rambunctious twin boys.

Maybe if he hadn’t been shackled with so much responsibility at such a young age, he’d be making my friends drool over him.

Or maybe not .

Standing there in his silly Christmas sweater and jeans, with his thinning blond hair and ruddy cheeks, Dad was quite the contrast to Jake, who’d removed his coat, revealing a lean, muscular body in a black wool sweater and trousers that could have been custom tailored in Milan. I couldn’t stop staring at him.