Olivia was at work. She’d been concerned when Emerson had told her about the massive headache she had, which wasn’t wholly untrue. Emerson felt as though she’d been processed through one of the stills and spat out the other end. When Liv had offered to drive her home, she’d declined.
She let herself into the house, stopped in the kitchen to get a glass of water, and then walked to the office.
It felt as though the fabric of her relationship with Connor had just unraveled, but instead of being able to form a cohesive thought or emotion, she was adrift, unable to latch on to any thread long enough to process it. In any event, she chose action. Sitting wouldn’t answer the questions she had.
Her first thought was to go through the filing cabinets that still hadn’t been sorted. The first drawer she opened was simply household bills. Twelve months of cable, gas, credit card, and bank statements. Her father had been meticulous in some ways and messy in others.
The second drawer contained old correspondence. Personal letters, old Christmas cards, and tchotchkes from weddings, birthdays, and funerals. As she flicked through them, her father began to take on a different shape in her mind. People cared deeply about him, about their mother. There were in memoriam cards from her funeral.
Emerson felt tears rise. She couldn’t deal with the painful trip down memory lane when her heart was already in such turmoil.
Her phone rang, and she dug it out of her purse.
Connor.
With a sickness she felt down to her toes, she sent him to voicemail. When she’d called him from the distillery, she’d been operating on pure anger. But now she needed to pull herself together before talking to him. She couldn’t go from reading how her mother’s loss had affected so many to talking to him. She turned her phone off.
She’d call Connor when she was good and ready.
Emerson worked her way through each drawer, putting the papers that could be shredded into a large cardboard box.
The fifth drawer she opened in the second cabinet promised more relevant information. She found the original floorplans for the distillery. The old building had once been a machine shop. Emerson ran her fingers over the old photographs. It was barely recognizable, except for the roof, and the windows that ran along one wall. Dirt and grime covered ancient machinery, the floor was rough concrete with fine ridges in it to stop slipping, so unlike the smooth grip of the distillery’s floor.
There were folders from the architect, from the builders, from the electricians. Drawings, invoices, letters, copies of emails.
But nothing that pointed to there being any other partner involved in the business. Her father or mother’s name was on everything. There were no suppliers named Finch.
Emerson slammed the drawer shut.
Drawer six was equally a dud. Old employment files with lists of names revealed nobody by the name of Finch. She had no idea why the acquisition document would suggest the distillery had originally been a Finch asset.
Holding on to her father’s desk, she pulled herself up from the floor. A wave of panic swept through her. Were she and Connor really done? The thought left her breathless. She held on to a sliver of hope that all wasn’t lost. That there was some possible, feasible explanation as to why this all had happened.
Her mother’s boxes were still on the desk.
Perhaps there could be something in there that would be of use, since her father had always been clear that they had been equal partners in the distillery.
The first box was a different kind of memory lane. The family christening gown that she and her siblings, along with her mother, and grandmother, had all been baptized in. A little pair of Nike shoes in the tiniest size. Baptism and confirmation cards for all three of her children. Sonogram images which, given the date, were of Olivia.
Every item had been placed in the box with tremendous care. Heirlooms that her mother would no doubt want her and Jake and Liv to pass along to their children.
The second box was papers, much like her father’s filing cabinet drawers.
Many of the letters appeared to be from her mother’s teen years, referencing camps her mother had obviously attended.
At the bottom of the large box was a smaller, brown one. It was unadorned; no writing marred the surface or hinted at what was inside.
Emerson opened it carefully, and inside was a pile of letters. She pulled the first one out of the box.
Dear Rebecca,
You know I’m not a particularly dramatic man, nor am I a natural romantic. But I can’t imagine my world without you in it. I’m begging you to reconsider your decision. I love you with all my heart. Please, call me so we can talk.
D
There was no date on the letter. Just words scribbled in ink. Curious, she opened the next letter.
Dear Rebecca,
I’m sorry I’ve not been around the distillery much the last few days. I need to talk to you, alone.
D
Emerson looked at the envelopes…there was no address on them. Just her mother’s name. Whoever had sent them had either handed them to her or popped them in her mailbox. Perhaps they were from a first love.
How she wished her mom was with her now, so she could ask her how to handle her heart, which felt as though it had been macerated.
She pulled another envelope. When she opened the letter inside, small pieces of paper fluttered to the ground like confetti from within.
Rebecca,
I need to go away. I can’t imagine being here every day and seeing you as I have for the past few months. I can’t sit here and watch you and Paul go on about your lives as if I meant nothing to you. And I hate that you thought so little of me that you felt the need to share this with Paul.
If you had given me time, if you had given me the opportunity, I would have willingly shown you how good we could have been together. The kind of life we could have had. I would have given you the world, because I love you.
How can you say we wouldn’t have been good together? You never gave us a chance. If we had met before you saw Paul, who is to say what might have happened? And how can you be so sure of a man you have known mere months?
I have torn up the check you sent me. Do you really think this was about the money? I invested that money in the distillery for us. For you and me. Do you think I want it back if I can’t have you? You insult both of us by returning it. Keep it, burn it, pay for your goddamn wedding with it. I don’t want it back.
Paul will never be the man for you. He lacks ambition. He lacks the drive to turn the business into anything other than a petty enterprise. So, keep the money. It will not do anything for Paul, just like he won’t do anything for you.
It was never about the money. It was always about you.
D
So, there had been another investor.
Emerson began to gather the torn pieces of paper together on the desk. Like a good jigsaw puzzle, she looked for the corners, for the straight edges. She gathered anything with writing on it…the bank logo, the lines of the check, her mother’s handwriting.
The light was fading outside the window, and Emerson clicked on the desk lamp. The amount came together quickly: ten thousand dollars. The date came next, mere days before the official opening of the distillery.
Days.
She put her mother’s signature together and the amount written in words.
And finally, the name.
Donovan Finch.
Emerson reached blindly behind her for her father’s chair and slumped into it. For whatever reason, Donovan Finch had been there at the beginning. She had no idea how her father and Donovan knew each other, but they had. And from the check, they had all gone into the distillery together.
She wondered if it were possible to go back to the very first bank records for the business. Ten thousand dollars, while a lot of money, was not enough to renovate an entire building. Even allowing for inflation, it would only be worth a little over twenty-five thousand dollars. Perhaps he’d
wanted a minor share.
Perhaps her father had invited a friend along on his venture.
Emerson pressed against her temples with her fingertips. Her brain was going to explode.
Connor had been right about one thing in that document. His father had been involved. And if that was what was fueling the consideration to acquire the distillery, she had a modicum of sympathy for Donovan.
But to continue a grudge over thirty years was messed up.
Either way, she had it in writing from Donovan that the distillery was to keep the money.
And she had no intention of handing over any part of the distillery in return.
Connor peered one last time through Emerson’s living room window before climbing back into his car.
Two stupid hours he’d spent, trying to do the right thing before he left work, only to find a bigger mess waiting for him outside. Whatever Emerson had seen, whatever she thought she knew, needed discussing. He needed to apologize and come clean. And he needed for her to see things as they were.
That he was madly in love with her.
Whatever had happened in the past was the past.
He’d driven home after his altercation with his father, deciding to check there first. He’d given Emerson his spare key to let herself in before they went out to dinner on Saturday, on the off chance he was out, and she hadn’t returned it. Given his condo was on his way out of town, it made sense to check there first.
He’d debated where to look next. He’d tried her phone a couple more times and messaged.
When she hadn’t gotten back to him, he’d driven over to the distillery. Olivia had told him that Emerson had left for home due to a headache. From the cheery greeting, Emerson hadn’t told Olivia anything about her message to him. And he didn’t want to borrow trouble by asking.
Instead, he’d driven over to her house. And here he was now, like a fucking peeping Tom, peering in through her windows even though her car wasn’t in the driveway and there wasn’t a single light on inside the place.
Although, if she had a headache, perhaps she’d taken a car service home, or perhaps Jake had dropped her off. The lights would be off if she had a headache, right?
He tried her cellphone one more time, not surprised when it went into voicemail again. What if she were really sick? What if she were asleep? Either way, he should be with her, taking care of her, with or without the bomb that had exploded between them.
Wait.
It came to him where she was. He started the car and began the short drive to her father’s house.
Liv said Emerson had “gone home.” She referred to both her own house and her father’s place that way.
Home.
A place he’d never really understood until he’d met Emerson.
As he pulled onto her father’s street, he saw Emerson’s car on the driveway and the lights burning in the house.
Relief flooded through him—at least she was safe and hadn’t driven off the road or any of the other horrible things he’d imagined.
Connor parked the car and jogged up to the steps, knocking twice before he opened the door and stepped inside.
“Em?” he shouted. “It’s Connor. Where are you?”
There was a moment before Emerson stepped out of her father’s office. Her eyes looked puffy. She’d been crying.
“Are you okay?” He took a step towards her, to pull her into his arms, but she put her hands up to stop him.
“We need to talk,” she said bluntly before turning to walk into the kitchen.
He heard the faucet, and when he followed her, he saw her sipping a glass of water. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your call straight away,” he said. “I can explain later, but I want to know what you saw.”
Emerson placed her glass on the counter and reached into her purse. She pulled out a document, and he immediately realized what she had in her hand.
Fuck.
Not only was it the proposal document, it was his copy of the document. With his writing on the cover.
Cameron had done this. He was going to fucking hang him out to dry when he was done. He’d see to it that no one would hire him. It was still killing Connor that he didn’t know how Cameron knew.
Then he looked up and, seeing the hurt in Emerson’s eyes, made a promise to himself. When this was over, Cameron would be ruined.
“Em,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I can explain. Shit, that sounds so lame. Please, let’s go sit down, and I’ll tell you everything.”
“You can tell your father he’s never going to get his hands on my distillery,” Emerson said, her voice laced with anger.
“I already did. That’s what I was doing when you called me. It’s the reason I couldn’t answer the phone. Please, this will all make so much more sense when you know all the details, I promise.”
Emerson eyed him cautiously. “Fine. You have ten minutes.”
Ten minutes he could work with. His negotiation skills had never let him down. Surely, they wouldn’t fail him now. He reached out to take her hand, but she brushed by him as she made her way to the living room. As he followed her, he admired her response, even more so when she sat on the chair, rather than the sofa.
“Yes, my father wants to buy the distillery, but his interest in acquiring it is a recent thing. This all goes back a really long time, and for reasons I’ve never been able to find even a modicum of evidence for, he believes Dyer’s was his and was taken away from him. He’s always thought your father took everything that was important away from him. I’ve grown up on stories about how your father screwed him over.”
Emerson leaned forward in her chair. For a moment, she looked as though she were about to say something. Instead, she sighed and leaned back again.
He ran his palms down his jeans. For some reason, he felt as though he were about to give the pitch of his life. The consequences of not sealing this deal with Emerson were greater than he could allow himself to consider. “Anyway, literally the week we met on the plane, I’d been pushing my father to acquire distilleries. The industry is changing to artisanal, to quote you, ‘quality over quantity.’ I felt it would be best for our business if we vertically integrated to own and develop some artisanal distillers of our own.”
“Was Dyer’s in contention then?” Emerson asked.
Connor ran his hand along his jaw. “Here’s the thing…it was, because of me. I wanted it. You make great products and need investment. But I knew there was no point in pushing it because Dad would never agree to it. He said he didn’t want to put another penny in Paul Dyer’s pocket.”
Emerson squinted slightly, something she did when she was thinking, he’d noticed. “So, when did we end up as the main target? After you got to know me? When you’d found out about what was going on with the loan, you thought we’d be willing to sell out at some rock-bottom price?”
“No,” he said, quickly. “Look, I know this looks bad, but that isn’t it at all. Not on my end, anyway. I got on that plane, and there you were. And you were so right. I was being obnoxious. I didn’t know who you were until the flight attendant mentioned your name. My head was in my ass, and you saw that. I was intrigued, Em. By this woman who ran the company that seemed to have so much sway over my father.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” she said with a huff.
“Touché. But then I got to sit next to you that night. And I got to learn more about you. More than that, I liked you. This woman who should, by all accounts, be my mortal enemy. And yes, to be transparent, I was still on the fence as to whether acquiring you would be a good move. I left the ballroom because my father was furious that you’d won a medal.”
Emerson tapped her fingers on the chair. “So, how does he go from not wanting to hear anything about Dyer’s to us appearing in this?” she said, waving the document at him.
Connor took a deep breath. If he were honest with Emerson, she could use the information to cause trouble at the bank. But if he weren’t, then she’d nev
er have reason to trust him ever again. “It was a couple of days after you’d first stayed over at my place. I thought I could talk him out of it. Look. Look at the numbers, Em. They are all lowballed. I thought I could distract him. Smoke and mirrors. Make other candidates look better. But then a week later, he wouldn’t let it go because someone at the bank told my uncle that they were about to call in the loan.”
Emerson stood. “Isn’t that illegal? What the hell, Connor. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Connor rubbed his face with both hands. “I’ve screwed up plenty in this. I thought I could figure this out, make it go away. You had so much to worry about already. I didn’t want to burden you.”
“Burden me? Connor…I…I had a right to know.”
Connor stood and walked in front of her. “I see that. But you were better than all of us. You’ve found a way out of the mess started by the storm. You’ve figured out a plan to solve it without any external investors. You aren’t at risk from my father.”
“Is that why I haven’t met them? Your family?” Her voice was quiet, the anger replaced with hurt.
“Fuck, Emerson. The easy answer is yes, but it’s much more than that. My father had promised to retire, the company was meant to be mine. But my uncle convinced him to stay on for another five years, and that left me in the wings again.”
Emerson stepped away. “So, starting a relationship with me was to spite him?”
“No.” His chest started tightening. The conversation was getting away from him, and he needed to find his footing. “Em. No. Was getting to know you fueled by a curiosity I’ve had since I was old enough to recognize the name Dyer? Sure…but, damn… You were the reason I fell in love with you.”
“Don’t say that right now,” Em said, wrapping her arms across her chest.
“But it’s the truth. Don’t you think it would have been a whole lot easier if I hadn’t fallen in love with you? After that announcement that my father wasn’t going to retire…I’ve been adrift. The only solid part of my life since his big announcement is you and what we were building.”
Love in Numbers: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Love Distilled Book 1) Page 21