Love in Numbers: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Love Distilled Book 1)

by Scarlett Cole

  They were silent for a moment, eyes fixed on each other.

  “I’d like that, too,” she said at last. “Ready for another?” she said, tilting her head in the direction of the bottles of gin behind the bar.

  Connor nodded discretely and adjusted himself below the bar. The woman was effervescent as tonic and as deep as gin. And there was no place he would rather be—no matter how much it would anger his father—than right here with Emerson.

  “I’d love one.”

  Chapter Five

  Three days after her wonderful evening at the distillery with Connor, Emerson unbuttoned her overcoat, ran her palms along the flare of her dress, and stood straight.

  It was fine. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She wasn’t committing to anything by investigating loan options. Her father had hated the idea of a loan so badly, it felt as though she were going behind his back somehow. And there was the nagging concern that Olivia or Jake may feel the same way. But she needed to know what their options were before she presented the idea to them. After learning more details on repayment costs, she might be able to persuade them.

  She’d resisted the urge to run her presentation by Connor. Lying in bed that morning, she’d concluded that in the absence of her father, she simply wanted someone credible, someone with industry experience, to tell her that it was a solid proposal she planned to share with the bank. She had to consider why she felt she needed someone’s approval other than her own, and why she felt Connor was the right man for the job.

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed the bank doors open.

  She made herself known at the information desk and waited a few moments before she saw the person she was waiting for.

  “Emerson,” said Dawson Allen, the business banking manager and her former high school classmate. “Great to see you. I was so sorry to hear about your dad.”

  “Thank you, Dawson. I’d be lying if I said things hadn’t been rough, but we’re muddling through it.”

  Dawson led Emerson to his office, where he gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. Once they were both seated, he pulled out a notepad.

  “So, how can I help, Emerson?”

  She offered him a copy of the presentation she’d created to make sure she mentioned everything in the pitch. “We’re stuck in a catch-22. We have more orders than we can keep up with, but we don’t have the capacity to fill them. I estimate that we could sell at least a half million more units this year if we had the capacity. But without the wedding venue revenue and all the fallout that came with it, we don’t have the cash to do the kind of expansion we need to. Any renovation needs to be fast and simultaneous to reduce disruption to our supply chain. The venue and the distillery will need flipping at the same time.”

  Dawson looked confused. “You want money to renovate?”

  Emerson nodded. Why did it seem like such an odd question?

  Dawson tapped something on the keyboard and looked carefully at whatever was on the screen.

  “Is something wrong?” Emerson asked.

  When Dawson looked at her, his features were as perplexed as she felt.

  “Your dad was approved for and received a quarter-of-a-million-dollar loan thirteen weeks ago. It was a five-year loan. See the monthly payments here?”

  He turned the screen towards her, and there was the deposit, just as Dawson explained. A deposit and a monthly automatic repayment of just under five thousand dollars a month.

  Her stomach lurched as her eyes flitted over the screen. The distillery name was on the screen, and the account number matched, but there was no way her father was sitting on that kind of money. When she’d taken over immediately after he died, she hadn’t looked that far back in the business accounts. And in the muddle of grief and sudden shift in her responsibilities, she must have missed the loan repayment or mistaken it for a company credit card payment or something.

  Shit. The piles of envelopes in Dad’s office. She’d ignored them, assuming they were simply bank statements, but perhaps they contained information about the loan. It suddenly felt too warm in Dawson’s office. She needed air.

  “Can we look through the transactions to see where that money went?” Emerson asked, because it certainly wasn’t in the account right now.

  Numbers began to blur together, but less than a week after the money had been deposited, cash began to leak from the account. Twenty-five thousand dollars here. Fifty thousand dollars there. Round amounts, no invoice numbers.

  What the hell had her father done?

  “Emerson,” Dawson said. “I hate to say this, but if this money hasn’t been used to upgrade the distillery, the bank would take issue with that.”

  Her chest felt as though it were in a vise. A vise that was being tightened at an aggressive rate. She needed to think on her feet. To come up with something.

  “I wonder if Dad had arranged for the repairs. Those look like contractor deposits, don’t they?” she asked breezily.

  Dawson didn’t look convinced, and she realized he could just check who the money had been sent to.

  “Look, Dawson,” she said, deciding to come clean. “I don’t know what Dad planned. But please, can you give me some time to sort this out? I need to go back to the office and figure out what happened. Are you able to tell me who the money went to? That would help me hugely.”

  “We can, but not from this screen. Leave it to me.”

  “Thank you, Dawson. Look, I’m not asking you for any favors, but if you’re unhappy with what we find out, I hope you give us some time to respond appropriately.”

  Dawson nodded. “I’ll do the best I can. But Emerson, I couldn’t possibly approve another loan without clearing this issue up first.”

  “I understand,” Emerson said, grabbing her purse. “Thank you, Dawson.”

  She rose, her palms damp, and left the office.

  The cool air was a welcome balm to her nervous sweating. What the hell had her father done? Where had all that money gone? She’d seen the amounts but still couldn’t believe her father hadn’t told them about such a large loan. Why had he kept it quiet? None of it made sense.

  She needed to get back to the distillery, to start going through the office, her dad’s laptop, the invoices, through anything that might help her find the money. But if she went back right now, Jake would see straight through her, and she didn’t want to worry him yet.

  She ran her fingers through her hair, then straightened the skirt of her dress. How was she going to explain this to Jake and Olivia? Especially Olivia. Emerson had hoped that by fixing up the venue and getting as many weddings as possible back on track, they could permanently erase some of the damage the hostility toward the distillery had caused. And if it died down, it would be safer for Olivia to be back at work.

  An hour ago, she thought she had a plan. A plan to save the distillery with a loan. Now she had no loan. Worse, she had no possibility of a loan. And the distillery was a quarter of a million more in debt than she’d known about. The renovations now seemed even further away.

  Her best intentions to understand what loan options were available had put the distillery at even more risk. Best case, they had to meet the monthly repayments, but worst case, the bank would foreclose on the loan, and they’d have to find a way to pay it back. They’d go bankrupt trying to fund such a huge sum.

  Perhaps the only option would be to sell, and even then, the distillery would be devalued because of the pending loan repayment.

  The nausea came again in a giant wave.

  Perhaps she should call their bookkeeper. Shit, he was in Machu fucking Picchu. She could go through the books online thanks to the software package the bookkeeper used, see if there were any notations there as to what the checks were for.

  On autopilot, she walked to her car and got inside. She rolled the windows down, the only thing she could do to ease the trapped feeling constricting her chest like iron around a barrel. The drive took her half an hour, longer than usual due to traffic, an
d she had only fleeting memories of the thirty minutes when she parked in front of her home and stepped into the house at five o’clock.

  With what was left of her energy, she collapsed on the couch. Her head had started to pound, but the painkillers were in the kitchen, which was a step too far away.

  Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply, letting the scent of the lavender from the planter on the side table soothe her, the peace and quiet drift over her. The throbbing started to subside, a blessed relief. Emerson pulled on the throw from the back of the sofa and snuggled beneath it.

  It was wrong to act like an ostrich, to bury her head in the sand. But for a moment she needed to feel scared, to feel uncertain of what to do next. Certainly, there was a risk she would fall asleep and wake up at some ungodly hour with her hair stuck to the side of her face, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

  When she finally opened her eyes, it took Emerson a moment to figure out where she was. Wrapped in the crocheted blankets like a mummy, she fought to get her arms free and push the blanket from her head.

  Her head.

  Oh, halle-fucking-lujia. The pounding had gone, leaving her with a dry mouth and a rumbling stomach.

  Once free of the blanket, she stood, wobbling a little at first, as her body fought the decision to move, and then went to grab her phone from her purse.

  7:45 p.m.

  No wonder she felt as groggy as all heck.

  With squinting eyes, she scrolled through her notifications as she wandered to the kitchen. While a part of her wanted to just stumble to bed, now that she was awake, she became aware of just how hungry she was.

  Brazil nuts, that’s what she could—

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  A message from Connor.

  Hey. I’m at the restaurant. We said 7:30, right? Is everything okay?

  Shit. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair was everything she’d expected it to be. Slightly sweaty and stuck to the side of her head. It would take ages to get herself cleaned up, and then the drive.

  She couldn’t face it. Even for Connor.

  I’m really sorry, but I’m not going to make it. Can we rain check?

  Dots bounced on her screen, then stopped.

  Her phone rang.

  Connor.

  For a moment, she debated letting it go to voicemail, but he knew she had her phone with her, so she answered.

  “Hey, Connor.”

  “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” he asked immediately.

  He could tell. Why hadn’t she thought of a response before she’d answered? She should have let the damn call go to voicemail. “I’m fine, I just…you know, work. And things came up and—”

  “Where are you? Still at the distillery?” His voice was a mix of stern and concern. It warmed her otherwise chilled heart.

  “No. I’m at home. I got some news I wasn’t expecting. It was…”

  “I’m on my way.”

  There had been a waver to her voice. An uncertainty that didn’t belong there and had him worried. He was secure enough in the way they had left things on Tuesday and the messages in between that she wasn’t trying to blow him off.

  And he wanted to fix whatever was wrong as a result.

  She’d given him her address when he’d insisted on getting a ride for her when they’d left the distillery on Tuesday. He’d decided to walk home, partly because it had been a lovely evening and he’d spent most of the day inside, and partly because liquor and pizza wasn’t really a part of his fitness plan, certainly not on a Tuesday.

  But he’d loved every minute of it.

  He left his seat at the bar of the restaurant and wandered into the kitchens.

  “Finch. What do you want? I’m working. Thought you were front of house tonight with some bird.”

  Connor watched Charles check off an order against the dishes waiting to be served and laughed at the gruff anglophile tones and turn of phrase of one of his closest friends.

  “Delighted to chat with you, Charles. I need a favor.”

  “I said finely diced, not fucking macerated,” Charles yelled at a junior chef opposite. “Sorry, I seem to be surrounded by idiots. What do you need?”

  “Remember that salad you make…the one with the beef and crispy noodles and peanuts and shit?” Connor asked.

  Charles pointed his knife in the direction of the macerating chef. “Make up the batch of the mango ponzu dressing if you’ve got nothing better to do…Yeah, what of it?”

  “I need two servings of it tonight to go.”

  “Your date bailed?” Charles said with a laugh. “Never known you to have that problem before.”

  “No, she didn’t. Work came up,” he said, thinking on the fly. “I’m going to drive it over to her so she at least gets to eat.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re asking me to make a meal for a woman because…”

  “Because she’s balancing a bunch of shit and didn’t have time to eat. So, don’t be a dick, and don’t ask any more questions,” Connor said with a hint of humor.

  “Don’t need to,” replied Charlie. “You just told me everything I need to know. Let me make it in peace. I’ll have someone bring it out.”

  “Poker night again soon?” Connor asked.

  “Sounds good to me. Now fuck off.”

  Half an hour later, after doing speeds that would have landed him with some serious tickets, he pulled up outside Emerson’s house. It was a pretty timber-and-stone-fronted single story on a decent-sized lot. There were several apexes to the roof and a large bay window to what he assumed was the living room. The living room appeared to be lit by the flickering light of candles.

  He knocked on the door and looked to the sky while he waited. Dark clouds skittered across the moon. When Emerson answered, he was glad he’d made the trip. She was dressed in navy sweatpants and a gray T-shirt that had the faded look of a top well-worn. It was impossible to miss the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra, but he forced the thought to the back of his mind. Her damp hair was up in a messy bun.

  “I brought us dinner,” he said, lifting the bag.

  A sad smile graced her lips for a moment. “I’m not really good company.”

  Connor knew she was giving him an out, and he’d be the first to admit that in the past he might have taken it. Comfort and care were not his specialties. But this was Emerson, and he really wanted to be there for her. “You don’t have to be good company. I brought food. We can eat in front of the television. Or read. Or nap on the sofa. Or we can talk if you want to tell me what is going on.”

  Emerson sighed and let him pass. He pressed a kiss to her cheek as he walked by.

  From the wide cream hallway crammed with plants, he could see the kitchen. The cabinets were old and in need of updating, but Emerson had decorated it with old farmhouse-style tin jugs and red-and-white polka dot fabrics. The cast iron oven looked brand new. He placed the food and bottle of wine he’d added to the order on the kitchen island.

  “Thank you,” Emerson said quietly as she walked into his arms. Her body pressed up against his, her head pressed into his shoulder. It felt right…it felt perfect. She sighed, and he felt her body relax, as if a coiled spring had been released.

  He ran one of his hands along her back and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

  Silence filled the room.

  Emerson’s hands gripped his shirt.

  Neither of them moved. Connor felt more grounded, more present, than any of his daily meditations made him feel. He was aware of her body pressed against his in comfort, rather than anything sexual.

  Finally, Emerson lifted her head. “I’m glad you came, Connor.”

  The softness around her eyes told him she was telling the truth. The tension he’d seen in them when he’d arrived had concerned him.

  “I meant what I said. We can eat, we can chat, we can nap. Whatever you want.”

  Emerson bit her lip. “Is there anything else on offer?” she aske
d, her voice softer, huskier than normal.

  His dick got with the plan before his brain kicked into gear. He placed his hand on her cheek, his thumb caressing her smooth skin.

  Hell, yes, she could have whatever she needed from him, and as her hand slid just an inch beneath the waist of his jeans, her meaning became crystal clear.

  “Emerson, I meant what I said. We can do whatever you want. I came here because I was concerned about you. And if us taking it a step further is what you need from me, I’m here for that. But I don’t want you to think I came here for sex.”

  Expectation glittered in her eyes. “I know. And I didn’t think it was what I wanted, either. But you. Coming here, caring about me, caring about how I am. Even the feel of you against me, right now, does something to me.”

  He lined her body up against his before spinning them around so her back was against the island. Slowly, he ground his dick against her as he pressed his lips to hers for a moment that was too intoxicating. “You do something to me too,” he growled. “But before I continue, I need you to understand two things. The first is I don’t need to know what happened today before we do this, but I expect you to talk to me after. And the second is I’m not doing this if you tell me that I’m just a distraction, even though my cock will not forgive me tonight. Our first time together needs to mean more to you, to us, than that.”

  The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Fuck. Where had this responsible grown-ass man come from? Why did he suddenly have to be the knight in shining fucking armor when he had a willing woman…no, a willing Emerson…ready to ride his dick into the sunset?

  Emerson reached for the buttons on his shirt, her eyes on his. Slowly, she opened every one and tugged the edge of his shirt from his jeans. “I promise to talk with you if you stay. And you are a distraction. How could you not be, Connor? Just your presence is a distraction.”

  She ran her fingertips over the ridges of his abs, and he tightened them in automatic response. He daren’t watch her hands’ trajectory, knowing it would threaten his control and good intentions.