by Liz Crowe
Without even glancing her way, he held out the two bottles and she grabbed them, found cups behind the counter and popped the caps off the beer. Trying to remain angry but letting a small bud of admiration blossom, she poured and handed them both first the IPA then the wheat ale. This was where Victor would nail him, she was certain. Both of these beers were solid but nondescript, and this guy loved his “out there” beers—giant Imperials and heavy stouts alternating with weird, sour Belgians. These two would never make his cut and would never see shelf space in this store. Resuming her position where she could keep an eye on Dustin’s ass, she waited for the inevitable.
“Wow!” said Victor.
She shook her head, trying to clear the hazy fuzz of horniness that had crept over her.
“Dustin, I had no idea!” Victor clapped the man on the back, while Dustin turned and shot her a look so full of “told you so” she nearly choked on her own tongue. “Helena, you’ve been holding out on me, you naughty girl.” He downed the sample and held out his cup so she could take it. She bit back the urge to remind him the last time she’d brought this beer in he’d declared it swill for the masses. The buyer was always right. She gave him a weak smile and refused to meet Dustin’s eyes.
Back in the car, once again trapped in a small, confined space with a man who was making her breathless with aggravation and no small measure of lust, she entered the embarrassingly large order for the Prufrock 420 IPA, the Santa’s Bag Spiced Ale and even the odd winter wheat lager.
“You’re welcome.” His rough voice grated on her nerves and stoked her libido at the same time. She didn’t reply. He sighed and seemed to refocus on his phone. She threw the car in gear and backed out of the lot, already picturing their next stop at a major Michigan-based chain grocery store. The general manager would be around today. She had dated the guy last year a while and remembered he had no patience for bullshit salesmen. Let Dustin try to pull that again.
*
“Look.” Her jaw ached from all the teeth clenching. “I don’t know what you did in there…” She gestured to the gigantic store where the damnable man had just made yet another huge sale to not one but three of their flagship stores, elbowing out a fake craft beer from Bud and a well-established regional micro represented by one of her company’s biggest rivals. “But you have to know I’ve tried Victor and Kyle, I mean, it’s not like…oh fuck it.” She did not owe this guy an explanation. She huffed and puffed her way to the next three stops, all of which resulted in slam dunks for Dustin, significant increases in her craft beer sales, and more delicious crow-flavored bile for her.
During the twenty-minute drive from the big grocery to whatever store came next, Dustin tried to calm the spinning in his brain. He’d been on hyper drive with the famous Victor Jabro, realizing the moment he laid eyes on the guy what she’d done—put him smack in front of the hardest sell in a city full of beer snobs, one that had the power to make or break his company. Impressive, and ballsy on her part. But setting herself up to fail just to prove he couldn’t sell his own beer? Not today.
After sneaking a glance at her legs again, he looked back at his phone’s screen, seeing nothing but the color of her flesh, the smooth line of her thigh. In the big grocery he’d been in a blur of anger and lust combined as he watched the smarmy asshole of a manager keep an arm around her waist about two minutes longer than was absolutely necessary. The strange jolt of possessiveness struck him in the chest once again. That pretentious asshole had been with her. His Helena. He shook his head. Holy fucking… Get a grip, Prufrock. She’s a lot of things, but yours is not one of them.
He’d channeled one hundred percent of the blinding jealousy into making a huge sale, surprising himself with how easily it had come. By the time they’d waltzed out of the store, his whole body hummed like a tuning fork. The jumpiness wouldn’t calm, even as she’d tried to convince him she knew how to do her job. Afraid he’d blurt out something utterly inappropriate, he’d just nodded at her, smiled like an idiot and said something innocuous he didn’t even remember. He needed to get away from her, or he risked disaster. She obviously despised him and the more he sold the madder she got in some perverse reversal of logic.
After she screeched to a halt in front of another local beer and wine store where he had to strap on the sales hat once more, he took a breath. Staring straight ahead, letting the shimmering energy in the car propel him toward stupidity, he spoke. “You still sleeping with him?” He shut his eyes, wishing to suck the words back down his windpipe.
“That would go under the ‘none of your damn business’ category, I’d say. C’mon, Prufrock, gird your show-off sales loins. The lady manager in here is a ballbuster.”
He groaned and ran a hand over his eyes then climbed out, grabbed sample bottles out of her hands without speaking. Within minutes he honestly believed the fifty-plus battle-axe of a woman who’d glared at him when he walked in would gladly either bear his love child or make him dinner, whichever he desired. Feeling the heat of Helena’s glare as he finalized another large order, he excused himself and made his way to the back toward the restroom. The tuning fork sensation had morphed into a dull ache centered in his gut, and steadily made its way down toward his balls.
When he emerged—after splashing water on his face enough times to calm the hardening in his jeans—he nearly plowed straight into her. He gripped her arms to keep her from falling and the impulses that had bounced around in his brain since the morning nearly brought him to his knees. He dropped his hands and looked away. “Sorry.” Her gaze was flat, forcing him to take a step back. He stopped when his ass hit the wall. The space between them filled with silence but he didn’t move. “I don’t know how I’m doing it but the longer we work together, the more sales I make and the more you hate me. Clue me in here, Turner. Thought sales were the goal of the day.” He crossed his arms, holding them close to his chest so she couldn’t gauge how shaky his hands had gotten.
She swallowed, and he watched the exquisite warm peach hue of her skin glow red. Admiring the line of her neck, her jaw, the plump fullness of her lower lip as she bit it, a nervous tick he’d love to come to love, if she’d let him. Her silence took on a life of its own.
“Well? I must have left my secret-sales-goal decoder ring at home. You obviously have a different agenda for today. I get it. ‘Prove to the rich boy he doesn’t have what it takes’ is fine but we could have saved some time if you’d just told me first.”
“Screw you, Prufrock,” she whispered and shouldered past him, headed for the bathroom. He watched, fascinated, as his hand reached out of its own accord and snagged her arm. She stopped, stared at it, then up at him. He started, realizing the blue of her eyes got brighter because of tears. Female tears always unnerved him but his chest tightened in a thoroughly alarming way at the thought of having caused her unhappiness.
He let go of her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
In a split second, her beautiful, angular face was within inches of his. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just pissed off. You’ve had that effect on me since I first laid eyes on you, so yeah, I guess I set you up. But apparently all your country club, private school time has been worth it. Bullshitting comes naturally to you. And that’s all this job is. One long bullshit.” She stomped away before he could speak or, even better, grab her neck and tug her lips to his. The space she vacated quivered with anger. But her crisp perfume stayed in his nose and he had to clench his hands into fists to keep from shoving her up against the wall and kissing her until she saw it his way.
Helena leaned against the metal door, turning her head so her face got the benefit of the ice-cold surface. She closed her eyes, but when all she saw behind her lids were a dark denim-covered ass, large hands, compelling face and deep-green eyes she groaned and slid to the floor. She had no business whatsoever obsessing over this guy. He was so far out of her league he could be on another planet. Besides, she had no time or patience for a quick roll in the hay, althoug
h her thighs tightened at the prospect. Her goals were set for the year. She’d be independent, free of her mother’s debts if she met them. No time to hassle around with the playboy owner of a brewery no matter how drop-dead, movie-star gorgeous he was. Snap out it.
She splashed water on her face, flushed the toilet to make it sound as if she’d come in here for a reason other than to hide from him. Opening the door, she frowned at the sight of his annoyingly good-looking self, still leaned back against the wall, staring at her in that infuriating, skin-pebbling way he had. “Let’s go. One more stop then we’ll eat.” But she stopped in front of him. “Unless we need to clear the air now.” She matched his stance, crossing her arms but keeping less than a foot between them. “Do we?” She refused to look away. The grin that broke out across his face, lighting the green in his eyes and making him even more painfully handsome, made her want to weep, throw things and launch herself into his arms. “Guess not.” She turned and walked back out into the store, blinking her eyes in the sudden glare of need.
Chapter Three
By the time they dropped into a semi-circular booth across from each other for a late lunch, Helena had convinced herself she was either madly in love with the guy or sick with jealousy over any woman who had her claws into him. He’d sold—and sold and sold—increasing her craft beer profit dramatically in just three hours. All with an easygoing attitude, clever but precise brewing chatter, and self-deprecating charm that left her breathless and aggravated. She focused on him again, listened as he finished the description of his life in the brewing institute in Munich.
“No, no really, I’m serious. You should see how we minions literally have to haul giant hot boulders from the forge with these old iron tongs and keep putting them under the brew kettles. And God help your ass if you let the fucker get a half degree cooler than it’s supposed to be—or warmer for that matter. Jesus, I’m surprised I survived it.” He smiled at the waitress.
She repressed a rush of irrational anger at the girl’s simper then spoke. “Well, you did what you loved. You were lucky.” Helena bit the inside of her cheek at the self-pity that surged out with that little comment.
Stop it! He doesn’t give a shit about your sad sack story. Just eat, get through the day and drop him off at his penthouse or wherever.
“Yeah, I did.” He handed the menu back to the girl and sipped his water. Helena looked away, then back at him. A zing flew from scalp to toes, before nestling in around the vicinity of her panties at the intensity of his gaze. “And I am lucky. But I work hard, contrary to popular opinion.”
“I know. I can see that now.” She’d heard him regale the beer shop owners with stories of late nights spent babying batches of brew, poring over the books and brewing logs, trying to match supply to demand without going too far into the red. Something between them had snapped, crackled and popped its way into a strange camaraderie by the time they’d left the last stop. It was a relief to talk, really talk, and not spend so much energy being pissed at him. She sipped her water, but had to put the glass back down her hands shook so hard. She clutched them together in her lap, made herself look into his eyes.
His next words nearly made her leap out of her overheated skin. “So, lovely Helena. I’m gonna attempt to start over. You ready?” She nodded, not trusting her voice. “Boyfriend? Fiancé? Does a guy have a chance or will I get flattened by the former NHL star turned CEO who surely claims you as his?” His eyes were guileless, open and twinkling. She swallowed hard.
“Uh, no. None of the above. But, why, I mean…” She lowered her eyes, mortified by her flustered state. Without a word he slid closer, never taking his eyes from hers, his arm draping over the back of the worn leather of the booth.
“Say no more.” His lips were dangerously close to her ear. Her body pebbled and she glanced around hoping no one was watching, but suddenly unable to care. His body felt so warm, so solid. And so completely out of her league. She moved a few inches away from him, anger returning in a sudden wave of self-protection
“I don’t need this.” She grabbed the beer the waitress plunked down in front her.
“Need what?” He sat back and sipped his own amber-colored brew.
“I don’t appreciate you thinking I’ll jump in the sack with you just because you turn some kind of magic, rich-boy charm on me, that’s what.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know I had that—rich-boy charm, that is.” He moved away. “And for the record, you were the one who said ‘jump in the sack’. I only asked if you had a boyfriend who would beat me up. Nothing more, nothing less.”
She had to stop herself from begging him to come back around to her side of the table. But she had started down this path. “I’m not your type, Prufrock.”
“I’m pretty sure I know my type better than you do, Turner.” His calm voice irritated her. He turned his killer smile on the stupid girl bringing them their lunch and Helena cursed herself for being such a bitch.
But this guy was most likely after one thing from her. One thing she was not about to give him. Not if the way she reacted to him already was any indication. No way. This was heartbreak on two designer denim-covered legs, waiting to pounce.
“Look, Helena.” He held out a hand. She stared at it for a few seconds before realizing what he wanted. She regretted it the second their skin met. Oh God. She tried not to close her eyes against the chemistry between them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea. You are an amazingly beautiful woman, an incredible sales person. I, um, didn’t really anticipate…oh hell.” He grinned and shrugged, giving her a friendly squeeze before releasing her. “Let’s just pretend that never happened, shall we? I’m out of line. Enjoy your lunch. Tell me about your life while I stuff my inner alpha male back in his cage.”
She smiled, happy to break the moment, but willing it back just the same.
In spite of the lust raging through his psyche, Dustin managed to choke down his burger and fries, slamming back one more beer to try to calm his rattled nerves. She was his type. She was going to be, anyway. He shook his head, needing to clear it of the foggy, possessive thoughts that had rolled through him all day.
Yeah, and how the hell do you really expect to end your engagement, smart guy? Valerie Masterson may be a beautiful, spoiled rich girl but she was stubborn and between her and his mother they’d worn him down. Valerie’s extreme, if slightly dramatic talents between the sheets hadn’t hurt. But he had the impression it was a lot of show. It felt fine, physically, but he had nothing in his heart for her. He owed it to her, even, to cut it off.
Shaking his head at his self-justifying bullshit, he paid—expected on ride-along days—and spent a few minutes in the men’s room staring in the mirror. What in the hell had him so worked up over Helena? Nearly thirty-five years old, with a doctorate in brewing from Germany under his belt, and he could now call himself CEO of the fastest-growing microbrewery in the state of Michigan. He’d had his fair share of adventure, one could claim. And would admit to a bit of ambiguity when it came to his sexuality. His time in Germany had been spent exploring the options in ways he never thought possible. But when faced with the ample determination of his mother combined with the seemingly obvious connection with a woman who matched his means and upbringing, he’d caved like a beta male and he knew it.
He was a trust-fund baby, yes, but determined to make this one dream of his come true in spite of his father’s overwhelming disapproval. His goal of not taking another cent from the man after five years of business had seemed improbable at first, but he’d managed it. He operated in the black, had beer distributed throughout the entire state of Michigan, in Chicago and down into Ohio. They were on track to expand and he’d cut the financial cord by signing loan papers that would no doubt give his father a heart attack, but would allow him to continue the expansion his parents wouldn’t support. But he didn’t care. He’d agreed to marry Valerie and in exchange his mother had agreed to leave him to his brewery.
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Visions of the tall, blond German man who’d been his friend and much more in Munich at the brewing institute invaded his brain. They’d been fellow rookies and the intense physical attraction that had sprung up between them had taken them both by surprise. Dustin’s easygoing, relaxed manner made him more than open to how their relationship developed. Erik had been highly-strung, driven and aloof at first.
Though he’d dabbled with threesomes in college, Dustin never had a one-on-one with another man until that last sweaty summer in Germany. And he’d never encountered another living soul who affected him the way Erik had. Until today.
He let the chill pass through him, wishing he knew how to proceed. What had happened with Erik had time to progress, become an erotic connection then a deep friendship, although they didn’t stay in touch like he thought they would. Mental images of the beautiful woman waiting for him, no doubt tapping her patent-leather toe in impatience, forced him to take a seat and stretch out his legs. The crotch of his too-tight jeans had become decidedly uncomfortable as the images of her, gloriously naked beneath him, paraded around in his lizard brain.
He’d never felt this way about a female, at least not this quickly. Women peopled his life no doubt. Women—yes, mostly debutante level—thrust under his nose by his meddling mother. And finally, his fiancé, The Chosen One, at this moment likely spending a small fortune on God knew what in Paris. But this woman, completely and utterly convinced of her own independence—and of his predator status—would not normally appeal. Typically, he’d write that off. Too much trouble. You already have enough shit to worry about.
And yet…
He groaned and willed his cock to soften, without much luck. Shouldering his way back out to the noisy restaurant, he pulled up short at the vision of Helena seated in a chair outside the women’s room in the hallway. She bent forward, adjusting her shoe, the strong line of her calf and thigh drawing his eyes like magnets, the fall of her thick blonde hair tumbling over her face, the ever-present phone held to her ear.