by Avery Flynn
“It’s happened.” Hud shrugged, the epitome of cool, calm, and collected—except for the now-destroyed napkin.
Logan placed Hud’s glass in front of his own. “But not often.”
Hud looked down and saw the optical illusion the glass had created. It acted like a mirror, flipping the arrow so that it appeared to now point right. “You suck.”
“I can live with that.” He savored the success and sank his fork into the pie. Damn, success tasted almost as sweet as the pecan pie. The first bite of gooey goodness hit Logan’s tongue like a sugar rush of pure happiness. “Anyway, it serves you right after you messed with the radio in my truck so it only played classical music.”
Hud’s laugh boomed in The Kitchen Sink’s nearly empty dining room. “Learn to change your own oil and that won’t happen.”
Half of the slice was already gone. He needed to slow down, but damn, once he got started, he just couldn’t stop. “Can you imagine my father if I came into the bank with grease under my nails?”
Hud glanced down at the thin black lines that remained under his short-clipped nails no matter how much he scrubbed. “Not pretty.”
Pausing mid-bite, Logan imitated his father’s voice. “The Martin name is not to be sullied by actions or deeds.” He shook his head and returned his voice to normal. “There’s nothing like a reformed man to make you crazy. Shit. I’m surprised the old man doesn’t have his personal motto carved into the family crest.”
The Martin family name and expectations had hung around his neck like an ever-tightening noose for as long as he could remember. But not for much longer. As soon as the Sweet Salvation Brewery admitted defeat and closed its doors forever, he’d be able to make his vision of an industrial park become a reality. The town would benefit, and for once, he’d have done something without his father trying to dictate his every move.
“How is dear old Dad?” Hud’s gaze followed the fork carrying a bite of the warm pecan pie.
“Dad is out of the office on doctor’s orders. He can only come into the bank three days a week. It’s making him nuts. I swear, I thought he was just a mean drunk, but then he sobered up and I realized he’s just as mean sober.”
“And yet you work with him.”
“Who are you, Dr. Hud? Did you misplace your balls?” He shoveled the last two bites of pie into his mouth.
“You’re so funny.”
“I am. And I’m also full now.” He pushed his plate dotted with a few piecrust crumbs into the middle of the table and then reached for his wallet. “But since I’m such a lovable guy, I’ll cover lunch. I have a meeting in a few with the brewmaster from the soon-to-be-shuttered Sweet Salvation Brewery.”
“One of the Sweet triplets?”
Logan shook his head. “She and her sisters are long gone. I’m meeting with someone named Carl.”
“What does he want?”
“Probably a loan, which they are not going to get.” Logan fished out a five and dropped the tip on the table. “That rundown brewery is all that stands in the way of the Martin Industrial Park becoming a reality.”
The Sweet Salvation Brewery plot of land stood directly between the interstate and the site for the industrial park. He needed the land to connect the two and lure potential investors. Negotiations with Julian had been fruitless, but now that the Sweet triplets owned the place, he had the second chance he so desperately needed. There was no way any of those three were going to come back to Salvation, especially not the one who still had an occasional role in his fantasies.
“Fine. You can buy lunch, but it still doesn’t make up for the pie,” Hud grumbled as he got up and walked toward Ruby Sue, who was sitting at her usual spot behind the cash register.
“What can I say?” He followed Hud to the register. “Losing isn’t the worst, but it’s awful damn close.”
Chapter Two
Miranda stared at the three-story Martin Bank and Trust, which stood at the corner of Main Street and First Avenue, right on the invisible border between the social castes of Salvation society. Homes on the avenues started small, but by Tenth Avenue, they became grander visions of what old money and modern commerce combined to create. The Sweets rarely set foot on the avenues. They’d always lived on the street-side of town, where Duct tape held everything together and WD-40 stopped the squeaks.
Miranda turned off her Lexus’s engine but didn’t get off the heated leather seat immediately. October’s chilly winds blew a trio of russet leaves down the sidewalk past the Heaven Sent Bakery. Back in high school, she’d worked there every day before and after school to save enough for college tuition. Larry Martin had stopped in each morning for a glazed cruller and a large coffee on his way into the bank the Martin family had owned since the dawn of time. His red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes had showed just how much he needed the caffeine. He’d never made small talk—no Martin ever did with a Sweet—and he’d never left a tip in the jar.
Maybe he’d had a change of heart about her family since then.
And maybe lime green bikinis would become all the rage in Antarctica.
For the fifth time that morning, she checked to be sure all of her paperwork was in order, including the detailed plan for the brewery’s turnaround. Just like every other time, she had everything she needed…except the money.
And the only way to get the money was to get off her duff and into that bank.
She shoved the papers into her charcoal-colored briefcase and dropped the keys into her purse before stepping out onto Main Street. The wind whipped her long, light brown hair around her head as she hurried through the bank’s glass double doors. A loose strand blew across her mouth and stuck to the pink lip gloss on her bottom lip. Without losing a step, she tucked the errant hair behind her ear. So much for the extra time she’d spent this morning taming the wavy mass into submission.
The bank looked almost exactly as it had the last time she’d stepped foot inside the walnut-paneled lobby. The front counter had three windows attended by conservatively dressed women. Behind the counter, the floor-to-ceiling metal bank vault door leading to the safety deposit boxes stayed shut tight. Off to the right was the bank president’s office. The closed door was marked with a brass nameplate reading “L. Martin”. For the first time since she’d arrived, she was grateful nothing in this small town ever changed.
Miranda’s heels clacked across the marble floor, the sound echoing up to the high ceiling even after she’d come to a stop in front of Larry’s secretary. “Good morning. Is Mr. Martin in?”
In a small operation like the Martin Bank and Trust that employed maybe ten people, the president also served as the chief loan officer.
The petite blonde glanced up from her computer screen. “He is. Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes. The Sweet Salvation Brewery’s brewmaster, Carl, was originally scheduled to meet with Mr. Martin, but I’m here in his place.” Miranda tightened her grip on her briefcase so the leather handle wouldn’t slip from her clammy grasp.
“Give me a sec.” The secretary pushed back from the desk and sashayed to the door, which she gave three quick taps before walking in and closing the door behind her.
Miranda felt the bank clerks’ eyes on her, as curious as rubbernecking drivers passing a fender bender on the highway. No doubt they didn’t recognize her as the girl with the double-patched jeans, thick glasses, and freckles she’d been before she left town. The designer suit— secondhand though it was—did a lot to hide her origins, but she still felt the same nervous energy that had eaten her gut every time she was around the Martins, the royal family of Salvation.
“You’re in luck.” The secretary’s cheerful voice interrupted Miranda’s train of thought. “Mr. Martin can see you now.”
“Thank you.” She raised her chin and straightened her shoulders, determined to project a successful image.
“Do you ha
ppen to have a business card?”
“Of course.” Miranda fished a card out of her briefcase and handed it over.
The secretary glanced down and her eyebrows arched so severely she looked like an example of plastic surgery gone wrong. Her slight gasp boomed in the bank’s library-like environment.
Figuring she’d better make a break for it before the secretary regained her senses, Miranda strutted her way through the open doorway.
Larry stood with his back to her at an open file cabinet, his fingers flying across the many folders jammed inside. He seemed taller and with broader shoulders than she remembered, but it had been a decade since she’d last seen him. He still had a thick head of mahogany brown hair, which had to be the envy of most of the men in his age group.
She strode into the room and laid her briefcase and purse in one of the two chairs opposite his desk. “I hope you don’t mind that I came in Carl’s place today, Mr. Martin.”
He jerked to a stop.
Unease curled into an iron ball in Miranda’s belly. At this close of a distance, she picked up on some of the small details that had eluded her from the doorway. The lack of any gray hair and the tight cowlick at the back of his hairline. The deep tan coloring the back of his neck. The thickly muscled forearm revealed by his rolled up shirtsleeves.
Then he turned around.
Realization tingled across her skin, teasing her senses into a heightened level of awareness that left her body yearning for something it had no business wanting. Not then, and definitely not now.
It was just her luck. Logan Martin hadn’t moved away.
“Miranda Sweet.” The words came out like a whispered curse, and Logan crossed his arms across his broad chest. “I never expected to see you in Salvation again.”
Oh, God, she was really and truly screwed now.
Forbidden fruit had never looked so good to Logan Martin as Miranda Sweet. Not when they were teenagers. Certainly not now.
For as long as Logan could remember, he’d chased after the fairer sex like his father had gone after the last drops of bourbon in the bottle. And Logan had caught just about every one. Even Miranda Sweet. But she’d been the only one to walk away from him—scratch that—run away from him. She’d taken his heart and his virginity and left him more bitter than sweet.
Judging by the guarded look in Miranda’s sea blue eyes as she shielded herself behind one of the creamy leather office chairs, the years hadn’t changed her opinion of him. Checking out her still-made-for-sin body, he had to admit to himself that he hadn’t changed his mind, either. Miranda Sweet was still the most delicious woman he’d ever laid eyes on, and as bad for him as his favorite powdered sugar donut. West Virginia had the Hatfields and the McCoys. Shakespeare had the Capulets and the Montagues. Salvation had the Martins and the Sweets.
“So what brings you back to Salvation?” He kept his arms folded across his chest, squashing the plans in his hand for the Martin Industrial Park, scheduled to break ground as soon as the Sweet Salvation Brewery closed its doors for good.
“I didn’t expect to be back.” Miranda shrugged her delicate shoulders. The late morning sun filtering in through the large window gave her light brown hair a golden halo. If half the stories about the Sweets were true, she’d never get the angel wings to go with it. “But life doesn’t exactly work out according to plan.”
He nodded toward the empty chair. “True.”
When Miranda glanced down, Logan dropped the plans in a drawer and settled in behind his desk.
She crossed her long, tan legs that went on forever and clasped her hands together in her lap.
At first glance, she appeared to be every inch the proper business woman—albeit the Hollywood hot version. But Logan couldn’t help but notice the little hints of the Sweet hidden behind the corporate exterior presented by her navy skirt. The sloping curve of a purple tattoo peeking out from the edge of her black heels. How the dewy pink of her lipstick accentuated the fullness of her bottom lip. And the leopard print interior of her otherwise stodgy gray briefcase.
“You know that my Uncle Julian passed away six months ago.” She tapped her shoe against the carpet.
Logan nodded. “I was sorry to hear about that.”
“He left the Sweet Salvation Brewery to my sisters and me.” She took in a deep breath, and her curves threatened the top button on her conservative white shirt. “I need a loan.”
He relaxed back in the chair. The old familiar want was still there, but he wasn’t falling for it again. This time, he was in total control. “You need funds to fix things up so it’s more appealing to potential buyers.”
It was a logical move and one that would work right into his plans.
“No, I’m not selling. I have a plan to make the brewery profitable again, but I need a loan to keep us open long enough to make that happen.” Miranda pulled a single file folder out of her briefcase and handed it to him. “I’ve outlined my proposal, the timeline, and the loan request in these documents.”
Logan flipped open the report and discovered enough red ink to soak the floor of a butcher shop. Letting out a long, low whistle, he scanned the rest of the documents.
“Wow. It’s a miracle Julian managed to keep things running this long.” He should have pressed his case to buy the brewery’s land parcel years ago.
“He wasn’t exactly known for his business skills.” Her clipped reply told him everything he needed to know about the state of affairs her uncle had left behind.
Any member of the Sweet family was completely unsuitable for a loan, even if it weren’t for something as risky as Sweet Salvation Brewery. And exceedingly unsuitable if the loan would impact his plans for the Martin Industrial Park. Maybe once upon a time he’d thought Miranda was an exception to the Sweet rule, but she’d shown her true colors when she left Salvation—and him—without a second look back.
“I’m sorry, but we’re not going to be able to offer you a loan.” Logan closed the folder and pushed it across the oak desk toward Miranda.
If she wouldn’t sell, he’d just wait her out. It was only a matter of time before the brewery sank underneath the sea of red ink.
Her jaw tightened and a determined spark lit up her blue eyes. He had too much on the line to be thinking about anything other than business, but he couldn’t help but notice the way the flash of creamy cleavage peeking out from the top of her shirt rose and fell in response to her quickened breaths, reminding him of how she’d looked that night so long ago when she’d come undone underneath him.
In truth, there wasn’t much about Miranda that he could forget. The way her skin had smelled like spring rain. How seeing her around town was better than throwing out the first pitch during baseball season. The sweet taste of her lips before either of them remembered who they—and their families—were. The sight of her pink lips parted and back arched as his fingers slipped underneath her skirt and headed toward the promise land.
“If you’ll look at page three, you’ll notice that I outlined all of the growth within the craft brewery industry and the increase in customer demand for locally made beers.” Miranda slid the folder back in his direction, bringing him back to the here and now. “Also, while the brewery has fallen on hard times, I believe the opportunities outweigh any negatives. Turn to page ten and you’ll—”
He had to get her out of the office before he forgot who she was and who he’d become. “I wish you luck finding financing at another institution.” He handed her the folder and stood up.
She didn’t move. “This is a solid investment in what will be a strong, local business that employs twenty-five people, all of whom have kids to feed and mortgages to pay, many of which are held by your bank. And I will tell you in confidence that the company I work for has agreed to buy the brewery once it’s profitable.” A flush pinked her round cheeks, and the color of her eyes lightened to an almo
st Caribbean blue.
For a second, he forgot who she was, who he was, and why they weren’t both naked and on top of his desk. But he pulled himself back from the brink. “Then your company should be willing to back you.”
“The company is insisting on local backing.”
“As I said, I can’t give you that.”
“If you’ll just look—” Her already tight voice broke, and she fell silent. “Would you have said no if I had a different last name?”
Guilt tweaked his conscience. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yeah, what would a Martin even know about being a part of the family everyone in town whispers about?”
“Being a Martin isn’t everything you might imagine.” What he wouldn’t give for the freedom of being a Sweet and saying the hell with expectations and a life planned out for him before he’d even learned to walk. But, as his father often said in his drinking days before taking yet another swig of bourbon, if wishes were pigs, he’d be eating bacon every day.
“Really?” Her eyes went wide. “What happened, did your silver spoon tarnish?”
He laughed despite himself. This Sweet always did have a tart bite.
“Something like that.” He rubbed his hand across his jaw, the prickle of day-old beard scratching his palm. “Look, I’m sure you can find a buyer. I can help, if you want.”
Especially if that buyer was him.
“That’ll be the day.” Miranda stood up and smoothed her skirt over her full hips. “A Martin helping a Sweet, their sworn enemies? We’d have at least four generations rolling over in their graves.”
He nearly threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “You’re the one who came to me for help.”
“I should have known better. It’s probably best if we agree to forget about that.” She tucked a wayward curl behind one ear, an unconscious gesture that used to fascinate him when he’d watched her in chemistry class. A vision of the waves spread out around her in the bed of his Chevy truck, parked at the edge of the Hamilton River.