by Flynn, Avery
“Come by after work.” Feeling like he’d just made a deal with the sexiest devil there was, Sean jammed his hat lower over the last scar his dad ever gave him and followed the deputy’s path out the door.
Chapter Six
Four hours and sixteen minutes later, Natalie rested her cheek against her desk’s cool laminate and felt her eyelids flutter shut. The chill soaked into her overheated flesh. Her sigh of relief was as heartfelt as that of a sorority girl nuzzling up to the porcelain god during rush week.
She could handle problems of the organizational kind without getting a single hair out of place. But when it came to probable sabotage and the prospect of being at Sean’s house tonight, her insides turned all wibbly–wobbly.
Growing up as the quiet, contained one in the wild bunch known as the Sweets of Salvation, she’d always been snowed under by her family’s brashness and crazy ways. Every time she’d gone with her sisters to bail her parents out of jail for one crazy protest or another against the powers that be, anxiety had tightened her entire body until the darkness threatened to eat away at her vision. All of that culminated in Natalie not being able to leave her college dorm room for two weeks until Dr. Kenning had given her the tools to deal with the overwhelming thing called life. So it made sense that all the goings–on at the brewery had her on edge.
Worry that there would be more mishaps accounted for seventy–nine–point–three percent of the discombobulated mess swirling around her. She attributed a solid twenty–point–seven percent to the man who expressed himself through grunts, clipped sentences, and strong muscles that made her weak in the knees.
“You don’t look so hot, sis.” Miranda’s tone broke down into one part exhaustion and two parts concern.
Natalie snapped into a sitting position and slid her hands across her hair, ensuring every strand was in its proper spot, then patted her flushed cheeks.
“I feel plenty hot.” And bothered. Too much time had passed since she’d had sex and relieved all the stress build up. Way. Too. Damn. Long.
“Will it make you feel better to know that I completed the safety check on the brewery while you were talking to the ever–helpful law enforcement officer?” Miranda asked, rolling her eyes when she mentioned Deputy Epson.
“He’s just doing his job.”
Her sister held up a piece of paper. “You haven’t seen what the sheriff’s office just e–mailed me.”
It had only been a few hours. This didn’t bode well. Natalie fought the urge to let her shoulders slump in defeat. “God, what now?”
“A police report that says, and I quote—” Miranda cracked the piece of paper dramatically “—‘Not suspicious in nature, but most likely due to slipshod maintenance’.”
“Don’t let Clyde hear that, his head would pop right off.” Natalie gave in and sank back into her chair. Well, as much as she could with the extra–firm lumbar support cushion. Was a little let–bygones–be–bygones too much to ask for in Salvation? Apparently so.
Her landline rang and the dread slithered straight down her spine. She really needed to chill out. It wasn’t like the receiver was going to explode a la Mission Impossible as soon as she picked it up.
Hopefully.
She pressed the speaker button. “Sweet Salvation Brewery, Natalie Sweet speaking.”
“Holy shit, what is going on down there?” The familiar voice of the youngest Sweet triplet, Olivia, made Natalie smile despite everything. “Ruby Sue Jepson said all hell’s breaking loose at the brewery.”
“What are you doing talking to Ruby Sue?” Miranda asked, moving closer to the desk so she didn’t have to shout the question.
“Begging for some of her pecan pie.”
“You need comfort food enough to call and try to pry that recipe from the woman who’s sworn to take it to her grave?” Natalie’s hand shot to her pearl necklace, each warm orb a reminder of the advice Dr. Kenning had given her about accepting that there are some things you can change and some you can’t—the ultimate frustration of every control freak in the world. “Forget the brewery, what’s going on in your world?”
“Nice try, sis, but I won’t be distracted.” Olivia laughed. “Fess up. Now.”
Miranda sat down on Natalie’s chair, nudging her sister aside so they each had a butt cheek on the white leather seat. “We’ve had some problems,” Miranda said.
“You call five people going to the hospital ‘some problems’?” Olivia’s voice crackled through the speakerphone.
“It was only two,” Natalie responded. “And that was two too many even if the paramedics said the wounds were minor.”
“What happened?”
Natalie glanced at Miranda, who gave her a go–ahead shrug. “One of the guys was cleaning up the fermentation leak and connected a hose to the carbon dioxide valve instead of the water valve. The end result was two guys down after getting hit in the head with the hose.”
“Why do I have the feeling there’s more to this?” Olivia asked.
“Because there is.” Natalie surprised herself with the harsh certainty in her voice. “The valves were mislabeled.”
“Sloppy work?”
Miranda shook her head, as if Olivia could see her over the phone line. “We don’t think so.”
“Keep going,” Olivia drawled.
Natalie unfurled her pointer finger. “We’ve had deliveries get canceled when they shouldn’t be.” Her middle finger went up. “The fermentation tank leaked because someone tightened the bolt too much or whacked it.” A third upraised finger joined the other two. “Then the hose accident that sent Billy and Mike to the hospital.”
“So who’s got a hard–on for the Sweet Salvation Brewery’s failure?” Olivia asked.
“Not as many people as when Miranda first got here,” Natalie quipped. “But they’re still out there.”
“I wish I was there to help.” Something more than sisterly solidarity leant a bitterness to Olivia’s wistful tone.
Twins weren’t the only ones with that whole otherworldly–connection thing, and Natalie’s triplet alert was letting off a low–level vibration in the back of her head. Flighty and dramatic since birth, Olivia was the wild child of the three. The true Sweet who had never given a damn about what others thought—at least that was the image she projected. Still, something was off, Natalie was sure of it.
Wishing she was better at the touchy–feely stuff, she tried to figure out what to say to get Olivia to open up, but before she could, Miranda leaned in close to the phone’s speaker.
“You know we love you,” her sister said. “But there’s not much more that can be done than what we’re already doing.”
“Still…”
“Forget it, Olive Breath,” Miranda said, smiling as she used their baby sister’s most–hated nickname. “You just started a new job that doesn’t involve swimsuits in January while wearing feet–destroying stilettos. We’ll see you in two months for your vacation.”
Olivia giggled, the familiar sound silencing the warning bells in Natalie’s head. “Man, some days I wish I was still modeling. Taking off to come see you two whenever I wanted was so much easier.”
“Two words to reinforce your decision to retire from the runway: pecan pie.” Natalie’s stomach rumbled as soon as she spoke the words.
“Excellent point,” Olivia said in mock seriousness. “And now I’m hungry again. I don’t suppose I could get either of you to overnight me a pie from The Kitchen Sink.”
“Forget it.” The realization that she’d skipped lunch made Natalie’s stomach fold in on itself in agony. “If I make it down to the diner today, I’m eating all the pecan pie Ruby Sue has myself.”
“So much for sisterly love.”
She rubbed her abdomen. “Exactly.”
“So Natalie,” Olivia said. “If the cops are a no–go, have you figured out a plan yet, or are you wearing the pearls down to nothing?”
Natalie clasped her hands in her lap and raised her chin.
“I’m going to figure out who did it.”
“That’s it? No flowchart? No sixty–six point plan?” Olivia teased.
“I’m not without street smarts,” Natalie shot back. The silence from her sisters that followed her pronouncement spoke volumes. “Anyway, Sean is helping.”
A plotting gleam lit Miranda’s eyes. “The, and I quote, ‘monosyllabic Neanderthal’, end quote, who is the most annoying man in the world?”
“Oh, I like him already,” Olivia said. “Tell me more.” Natalie could just imagine Olivia’s face taking on a devious shine at the mention of a boy. Some things never changed. “Is he cute?”
She locked her hands together so tightly that she nearly lost circulation in her right hand. “That’s not important.”
“Damn, I practically see the blush over the phone line,” Olivia teased. “He’s that hot, huh?”
“Oh shut up.” Natalie flipped the bird at the phone.
“Stop stirring up trouble.” Miranda stood up and walked to the door.
“Very funny.” Natalie toyed with her pearls. As if she could get any more stirred up than she already was. She straightened an already neat stack of folders on her desk.
Olivia let loose with a wolf whistle. “That all sounds like code for office nookie.”
Natalie’s hand slipped and she knocked one of the folders to the floor. The contents spilled out like a waterfall.
“No!” She rolled out her chair too fast and one wheel went off her plastic mat, lodging the chair in place. “We are simply meeting at his house.”
“That location is definitely more private,” Miranda said, amusement turning up her mouth.
Natalie shoved against her desk with more force than necessary, freeing her chair and rolling herself halfway across the office in the process. “We’re just talking business.”
“At his house,” Olivia teased.
“Yes.” Natalie got up from her chair and walked over to where the folder had fallen.
“At his house?” Miranda asked.
God, they were like the Greek chorus standing just offstage with no purpose other than to bust her chops and remind her of where her own thoughts had been drifting ever since Sean had proposed meeting.
“Yes.” She swept the papers back into the folder, not even bothering to ensure they were properly arranged, and shoved it back onto her desk.
“At his house.” This time her sisters said it together, as in sync as if they stood shoulder to shoulder instead of on opposite coasts.
Natalie inhaled a deep breath. “Repeating the location won’t change the fact that that it’s only a business meeting.” She yanked open her middle drawer and pulled a Tums bottle from her alphabetically arranged first–aid supplies.
“Uh–huh.” Miranda nodded her head in mock seriousness. “A, ahem, business meeting with the hot brewmaster at his house, after hours, alone. Yep, that totally sounds on the up and up. Maybe I should call Ruby Sue and see what she thinks?”
Natalie almost dropped the bottle of Tums as she was shaking out the prescribed two tablets into her palm. The town of Salvation loved nothing more than to flap their gums about the Sweet family. It had been that way since the dawn of time, but she’d never been at the center of it. She’d been too quiet and boring for that.
“We’re just giving you shit.” Miranda hurried over, wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with us.”
“It’s not a secret.” Natalie relaxed against her sister. “It’s just a business meeting.”
She ignored the fizzy feeling in her stomach and the extra lightness in her lungs because it was just a business meeting. She popped the Tums in her mouth.
Really. That’s all it was.
With Hailey, Natalie had finally found a kindred soul in the world of organization. Flicking her fingers across the color–coded and alphabetized personnel files in the brewery office manager’s vanilla–scented front office, the staccato beating of her heart had smoothed out to a steady rhythm. Her vision lost the blurry haze around the edges and her shoulders inched their way down from her earlobes.
This morning’s events had been a close call in more ways than one.
The files she’d pulled shook in her hands.
“Here, let me take those before you send everything flying.” Hailey swept the files from Natalie’s grasp and set them down on her desk. “Now you’ve got files for everyone who’s been fired—that’s the red tab—or quit—that’s the blue tab—in the last year.”
Pulling herself back to the present, Natalie ran through her mental checklist. “What about anyone who’s been written up or suspended?”
“Green tab.” Hailey pulled open a filing cabinet drawer without even having to look first. “Only one of those.” She grabbed a thick folder and handed it to Natalie.
Someone had written the name at the top of the file in precise block letters: Sean O’Dell.
Natalie blinked rapidly in surprise. She looked up at Hailey’s determinedly blank face. “Really?”
“Oh yeah.” Hailey snorted jeeringly. “He and the last brewmaster had their moments.”
Carl Brennan, the old brewmaster, was a real piece of work. He’d been so pissed off when Uncle Julian left the brewery to her and her sisters that he’d tried to run Miranda off the road after she’d fired him. The fact that Natalie hadn’t thought of him already as being the possible cause for the breweries troubles just went to show how out of her element she was. “Is he still in jail or has he made bail?”
Hailey nodded. “Yep, the judge wasn’t messing around when she set his bail and his family doesn’t have that kind of money.”
Natalie’s stomach sank. So much for her number one suspect. “Family?”
“Yep, his wife, Joni, is a stylist down at Pig Tails Salon.”
A pissed–off spouse who had knowledge of the brewery’s workings? That sounded like a possible suspect to her. “Did Joni ever work at the brewery?”
“Nah, she came to visit every once in a while, but she’s a teetotaler.” Hailey’s narrow shoulders shuddered. “How she manages that, I have no idea. If I was married to that man, I’d be using whiskey instead of milk in my cornflakes every morning.”
“Thanks, Hailey.” Natalie gathered her stack of personnel files and headed out the door.
An hour later, her vision blurry from going through so many files in her office, she glanced up at the clock. Five–fifteen. At this time of year, dusk was giving up its foothold on the horizon to full dark, and judging by the lack of chatter filtering in through her open door, most of the crew had left already.
Miranda had hit the road with her fiancée, Logan, a half hour ago to go check out wedding reception venues. They’d picked April Fool’s Day for their wedding date—a testament to the Sweet family’s reputation in Salvation.
Normally, Natalie was pulling out of the parking lot by 5:05, but Sean’s file alone had taken her a half–hour to read through. Unlike the others, that file was a mess. Hiring documents were out of order and half filled out. The W–2 was missing. There wasn’t much in it at all if she didn’t count the many warnings written by Carl with the word “overturned” in her Uncle Julian’s cramped scrawl at the top of the page.
Glancing down at Sean’s contact sheet, she memorized his address and then closed the manila folder, the sound amplified by the silence around her. Her pulse revved inside her like a race car waiting for the green light. Of course she wasn’t alone. Hailey didn’t usually leave until after six. Same with Clyde, who was determined to fix the fermentation tank tonight. Still, she knew Sean was gone, and despite the fact that she shouldn’t feel better when he was around—she did. Somehow he’d moved into a spot that she hadn’t realized was empty and filled it perfectly.
With deliberate care, she ran her fingers across the pearl necklace’s smooth orbs, closed her eyes and breathed in a calming breath.
After three ten–second inhales and e
xhales, she opened her eyes.
Ignoring the apprehension buzzing quietly in her mind, she opened the desk’s bottom drawer and retrieved her purse. Crossing to the door, she made an extra effort to maintain her normal pace, and not one footstep faster.
She wouldn’t fall prey to old habits. The amped–up breathing. The jittering that shook her inside and out. The tightness in her chest, squeezing her heart nearly in two. It had been too long, and she’d been doing so well.
Stop acting so silly.
Everything’s fine.
However, as she strode down the hall, keeping a tight grip on her purse’s shoulder strap, the anxiety remained. It was weak and muffled, like a bee trapped under a glass dome, but still it fluttered in the pit of her stomach. It was only a quick five–minute drive to Sean’s house. All she had to do was get there.
Chapter Seven
The smell of burnt popcorn overwhelmed every cubic inch of air in Sean’s kitchen and living room. While his converted firehouse home was drafty enough that a continuous breeze swept across the exposed brick walls and over the hardwood floors, it was no match for the stench.
“Great,” he muttered to himself as he threw open the window over the sink.
The night’s chill rushed in, freezing the hairs inside his nose, and he shoved the window closed again. As soon as he did, the stink hit him square in the face. He was weighing the benefits of freezing versus being a mouth–breather when the doorbell dinged.
He whipped around and stared at the front door. She probably never burned popcorn. Hell, she probably hand–popped her own organic kernels in something vintage for the prescribed five–point–two minutes.
Diiiiiiiiiing!
Longer this time. As though she knew he was inside trying to stuff the last pair of dirty Jockey shorts under the bed. In reality, he’d rolled all the clothes from his floor into a ball and crammed them into the dryer fifteen minutes ago. God, he was pathetic. It was as if his life had turned into a chick flick and he was the permanently friend–zoned, no–nuts whiner character.