“Get your attorney to make a counteroffer, River.”
“Are you planning on firing me?” he asked, his gaze holding hers.
Why had she agreed to this? Jack wasn’t even here. He’d run off to do God knew what, because he still hadn’t deigned to tell her. “No. Definitely not.”
“What about your brothers?”
“I’m giving them small concessions so I can fight for the things I really want. And I really want you, River,” she said before she could stop herself. She quickly looked away, frustrated by how unnerved she felt. How she hadn’t just meant she needed him for reviving Buchanan. “I need you.” She glanced up at him. “They won’t fire you. You have my word.”
An emotion flashed in his eyes, one she didn’t know how to interpret, but it wasn’t anything joyful.
“Pick your battles,” he finally said, the words soft but also full of disappointment.
She knew what he wasn’t saying. She might be willing to fight for him, but only halfway. “Take it to an attorney,” she said. “Or to Finn. Let him look it over and give you advice.”
He stared at the document for a good five seconds before he rose slightly and grabbed a pen off her desk. He signed both documents with a flourish, then slid them across the desk. “Now that that’s out of the way, we’ve got work to do. We’ve both agreed we should keep Beau Brown, but another popular beer is…”
Georgie tried to focus on what he was saying, but deep inside she was freaking out that he’d signed those papers so easily. She’d sworn that she would fight for him. She only hoped she could live up to it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
He’d made it almost two weeks. That was something, wasn’t it?
Professional Georgie hadn’t so much as cracked. Not that she’d given herself much of an opportunity—a lot of the time they spent together they had some sort of chaperone: Aunt Dottie or Tom or another employee, or Jack on whatever video app she used. Still, he’d catch her looking at him sometimes, a longing in her eyes that made him want to say to hell with it and reach for her, except he couldn’t do that. And not because of some stupid piece of paper. He couldn’t do it because he’d promised her.
Sometimes he wondered what he was doing. It was too hard, being around her constantly and knowing he couldn’t be with her. Especially since he clicked with Professional Georgie just as well as he did with the Georgie that let her hair down. They shared a vision, and he knew that for the rarity it was.
They’d taste-tested a few beers and ciders together one afternoon to narrow down the flavor profile he was trying to achieve with the new brews—the level of hops from bottle A, with the fruit finish from bottle B—and he’d been reminded of that first night. Of the promise he’d felt between them. Of the freedom of not having to worry about things like professionalism and paperwork.
At least they’d decided on the beers they were making, plus he’d gotten in batches of Beau Brown, Lurch White, and Donuts for Dottie. (Beau hadn’t been too creative in the naming department, but it had been part of his charm.) The party planning was going full steam ahead too, both for the Kill the Keg party, which they were calling Bury the Brewery. Somewhat ominous, but the bigger launch party they were already planning for fall would be Buchanan Brewery Rises. Jack had commented that at least it was better than We Cleaned the Piss Pots, Please Come Back. Georgie had, of course, insisted on being involved in every stage of Aunt Dottie’s after-party planning (in the nicest but firmest way possible). Still, he knew his aunt would have surprises up her sleeve. She always did.
The worst part of the last week was not having anyone to talk to about it. Finn would’ve told him he was nuts for signing that contract. Perhaps rightly so. But he still wasn’t talking to Finn. There’d been some check-in texts from the other Big Catch staffers, some invitations for drinks, but he didn’t feel up to it yet. They’d want to talk about the sale, about Finn, and most certainly about Buchanan. He didn’t. Finn had texted him a few times too, saying he urgently needed to talk to him about something, but he’d ignored the messages—in fact, he rarely picked up his phone anymore. Every time he did, there were at least fifteen texts about Jezebel. Plenty of people had seen her, but much to Aunt Dottie’s consternation, they all had a common approach: run and then text River.
Of course, by the time he got to the intersection where they’d seen her feasting on trash or chasing a child into a tree, she’d be long gone. He could have blocked their numbers, but the sadness in his aunt’s eyes whenever she spoke about the cat prevented it.
Aunt Dottie talked to him, of course—she’d insisted on him coming over for dinner three times in the past week, but she always tried to hearten him, to reassure him that the stars were aligned in his favor and the tea she’d tricked him into drinking had left distinct hearts in the leaves at the bottom. Somehow her encouragement made everything harder.
And then there was Maisie—she’d been avoiding him like he had the plague, all while insisting she did. Something he wasn’t so sure he believed given he’d called the shelter a few days ago and Dustin had acted surprised, and then interested, when he’d said Maisie was sick.
“Reallllly,” he’d said, drawing it out, and River could practically hear the wheels turning in his mind.
He wanted to make things right, but he wasn’t sure how if she wouldn’t talk to him. Giving her space hadn’t worked. It was Thursday afternoon, just a couple of days before the big Buchanan closing party on Saturday, and he wanted her to be there. So he’d decided to ambush her at the shelter. Something he could do since it was technically his day off. (Sure, he’d spent the morning in the office, but truth be told, he’d only gone so he could see Georgie.)
He came bearing expensive coffee and the right kind of muffins, and he felt oddly nervous. The last thing he’d meant to do was hurt her, but it seemed like he wasn’t doing anything right lately.
One of the volunteers he recognized—luckily not Dustin—let him in, and pointed him toward the playroom when he asked for Maisie.
“She’ll be grateful for the coffee,” the volunteer said with a smile. “She’s been pulling long hours with Beatrice all week on the new funding drive.”
Which meant she almost certainly hadn’t been sick, not that he’d really believed her story. Still, it put a pit in his stomach that she’d lied to him. That she’d gone out of her way not to see him. That she’d left him like Georgie, like Finn, like Beau. But he could still make things right with Maisie.
He had to.
He knocked on the door, using the secret knock they’d developed as teens, and instead of answering, she just opened it.
She did look tired. Her hair was still wet, flatter than it would be in a few hours when it finally dried and the curls sprang up, and the circles under her eyes made it look like she hadn’t been sleeping.
But something inside of him eased upon seeing her. The look in her eyes told him she was glad he was here. That she didn’t want him to leave.
“I come bearing gifts,” he said, lifting up the cup and the bag.
She lifted an eyebrow, and before she could say anything, he preempted her with, “And yes, it is the right kind of muffin.”
“Thank God,” she said, taking his offerings. “Otherwise I would have had to send you back, and you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
She ushered him in, and he felt all the relief of being wanted.
Part of him had expected another avalanche of puppies, but the dog in the room was one he hadn’t seen before, a red husky.
“A new kid?” he asked, nodding to the dog, who’d padded over and was sniffing him with interest. Smelling Hops, no doubt.
“Meet Tyrion, the escape artist. Owner was watching too much Game of Thrones, confused huskies for direwolves, and realized they’re a lot of work.”
She shrugged, but he caught the flash of righteous anger in her eyes. It would never sit all right with her that people abandoned their dogs, or their children.
&nbs
p; “Good thing he found you,” he said, and meant it.
He sat down at the table and looked up at her, feeling for all the world like that kid again.
“You were sick?” he asked.
She blew a few stray hairs out of her face and sat opposite him. Took a swig of the coffee that probably burned her tongue. “I felt sick, but maybe I kind of, sort of exaggerated.”
“I know I was harsh last week,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t because of anything you did. It just felt like the world was against me.” He paused, swallowed. “Or at least against me and Georgie.”
She must have heard something in his voice, because her eyes softened even more, the sympathy there a welcome balm.
“And I should have listened a lot better,” she said. She paused, then added, “I guess I’ve just never seen you go this gaga over anyone before. I was worried—I am worried—and I didn’t know what to do. But I’m ready to listen now if you want to talk.”
And he was, and he did. Of course, he didn’t say anything more about his night with Georgie. Maisie knew, sort of, and the details were between him and Georgie. He also didn’t mention the noncompete or the addendum to the handbook. Midway through the telling, Tyrion padded over to the table and sat, his posture regal, to listen too.
“The party’s Saturday,” he finished. “You’ll come, right?”
“Maybe,” she said, popping the last piece of muffin. “It’s been a bit of a nightmare around here. We’re short on funding, again, and we need to put in another big push this weekend. I’ll be there if I can. And by there, I mean at Dottie’s after-party.” She grinned. “I’m no fool. I know where the real fun’s at.”
“Of course,” he said, a return grin tugging at his face. “And if you need any help with the fundraising, just let me know. Maybe we can do some sort of event or drive for you once the brewery reopens. I’ll talk to Georgie about it.”
“Thanks. And while we’re talking about Georgie…” Maisie leaned over, giving Tyrion a pat, and didn’t look at him. “I know it’s hard, but maybe she’s right. It sounds like you work well together, and it would be a shame to mess with that for something as unsure as a relationship. Especially since—”
He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. Especially since I’ve never had a long one. But Maisie, this is different. Georgie’s different.”
“Yeah,” she said, “I can see that. But all you can do is wait. Sometimes that’s all a person can do.” The way she said it almost held a note of bitterness. He was about to ask her if she was okay, but someone knocked on the door.
“Maisie,” the volunteer from earlier called. “One of the foster families is calling. Adonis needs to go to the vet.”
Genuine worry flashed on Maisie’s face. “He has a heart condition,” she explained. “I’ve got to take this, but maybe we can get lunch sometime soon.” She wagged a finger in his face like a schoolmarm. “I still need that computer.”
It had been ruined, along with a lot of other stuff. The house was still a bit of a mess, but Georgie, with her siblings’ approval, had brought in contractors to update it while they fixed the damage. He couldn’t help but wonder if the others did anything beyond order her around and okay her choices.
She’d shown him pictures of the downstairs in one of those rare moments they’d been alone together. Her hand had grazed his as he took her phone, sending a rush of sensation through him, and she’d kept it like that—their hands touching—for longer than needed. Their eyes had met as he handed it back, and she’d opened her mouth to say something—
Only for the video app to ring with a call from Jack.
Jack was great at getting in the way, even from Chicago, although perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair.
“You got it,” he said, giving Tyrion a pat as Maisie led him out of the room.
He headed back to his car, feeling restless, and found himself driving somewhere unexpected. The cemetery. Beau had a nice spot, beneath a large oak tree, and someone—he suspected Aunt Dottie—had left a bouquet of hops.
He felt a little uncomfortable being there, like it was maybe stupid of him to try talking to a dead man, communing with one. A quick glance told him no one was around, and he sat at the base of the grave and looked up at the sky, as if to see Beau’s view from down below.
“I think I love her, Beau,” he whispered, worried even now that someone might hear him. “I haven’t told anyone else, not even Aunt Dottie, although she probably knows. I know it’s too early to think that way, but I can’t help it. You’d understand. You must have seen what I see, because there’s something about Georgie that just sparkles.”
He swallowed thickly. “We’re trying to do right by you,” he said. “I think you’d be proud of the direction we’re taking with the brewery, and these parties on Saturday? They’ll be a celebration of everything you did. Of who you were.” A grin split his face. “Right down to that statue you must have modeled for.”
He fidgeted a little, fighting the sudden hotness behind his eyes. “I didn’t know it was going to be this hard. I feel a little lost again, Beau, and I’m not sure what to do. I’m worried if I do anything, I’ll push her away.”
He sat there for several minutes, feeling the sun on the back of his neck. It started to feel a little stupid, waiting here, as if he thought he’d get an answer if he stayed long enough, when someone cleared their throat behind him, and he turned and saw Georgie.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Georgie’s breath caught when she saw River sitting in front of Beau’s grave, warmth spreading through her at the sight of him, just like it did every time she’d seen him since…when? Their night together? No, it had been longer than that. Since the first night at Beau’s.
Why had she gone and hired him? If she’d found another brewer, she could still be sleeping with him…yet she knew that wasn’t completely true. She probably would have closed the door on him forever after that night, because what she felt for him scared the crap out of her.
For the first time in her life, Georgie had found a man she was sure she could love, and the only acceptable course of action was to run. The way she’d been thinking about him—what he was doing, what he was thinking—was almost…not obsessive, exactly, but it was the kind of fixed attention she’d never given to another person. By design. She was haunted by the pain on her mother’s face every time Prescott Buchanan had ignored her or demeaned her, even if Georgie hadn’t understood it when she was younger…
Georgie had spent the last few years reevaluating her parents’ marriage, and she’d come to the realization that her mother had known about Prescott’s indiscretions. His affair—or maybe affairs. Their relationship had always been so mercurial—days of silent treatment, followed by a shower of gifts and attention. A yin and yang of happiness and despair. It was a sharp reminder that the people you thought you could love and trust always let you down. Her father had let down her mother. Her father and brothers had let her down. Her mother had broken her heart when she’d died.
But then, Georgie was sure she’d let down Adalia too.
Something was going on with her sister. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she knew it with certainty. Dottie would probably have told her it sprung from her womanly intuition. She kept trying to reach out, but Adalia persisted in brushing off her concerned texts, saying everything was fine, she was just busy getting ready for her show. But this morning, Georgie had video-called her to update her about the upcoming parties and ask if she was interested in helping with designs for merch, labels, and a new logo. Adalia had answered, her eyes red as though she’d been crying. When Georgie asked her what was wrong, her sister had shrugged off her concern and offered some excuse about her allergies giving her grief.
“But you don’t have seasonal allergies,” Georgie said.
“I’m fine,” Adalia said in a tone that made it clear she didn’t want to discuss it.
“Can you come to the closing parties?” Ge
orgie asked. “Jack’s still being cagey about whether or not he’ll be there, and we both know Lee won’t lower himself to come.” Which was probably for the best. If he came, Victoria would come too, and she’d be attached to him like Velcro. She hated to admit she’d rather he not come.
Adalia had looked away. “I don’t know…”
“Buchanan Brewery can pay for your trip,” Georgie had added a little too quickly, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to see her sister. Seeing Adalia would help remind her there were other things to focus on besides a man. Like rebuilding her relationship with her sister, something she’d always wanted and, to her shame, hadn’t found the time for. “The business can buy your plane tickets and you can stay at the house with me. I’m moving back in tomorrow.”
“I still can’t believe the house caught on fire.”
“Yeah, neither can I.” She’d told the others about the fire, but she’d described it (only somewhat accurately) as an electrical problem, the kind of thing that would happen in any old house. Equally, while Adalia and Lee knew the brewery would be closing for a couple of months so they could update the facility and brew new beers, they didn’t know about the whole pee pots incident. She and Jack had agreed they were on a need-to-know basis given they’d chosen to be silent partners. And since they’d figured out how to make the most of the unanticipated delay, there was no real need for them to know.
As far as the house went, everything in the living room had been destroyed, but thankfully the damage had been localized. Georgie would be moving into a house that had an empty first floor other than a kitchen and dining room table and chairs, but that didn’t matter. All she needed was a bed. She could buy more furniture after the closing parties were out of the way.
“Has that crazy cat turned up yet?”
“Not yet.” Yet another reason to move back in ASAP. Jezebel was still missing, and Georgie suspected she’d be more liable to come home if someone was living there and putting out food regularly. Thinking of Jezebel made her think about River, which wasn’t saying much. Everything made her think about River. “Can you please come? I really need you, Addy.”
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