by Avery Flynn
Oh, getting freaky in the yacht with your best friend. “That pretty much sums it up.” She resisted the urge to fan her heated cheeks.
Natalie shot her a told-you-so smirk. Sisters.
Hud stuffed the rag into his back pocket and jerked his head toward the next bay in the garage. “I’ve got your car up on the lift now. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll have it all finished. You and your sister can wait in the sitting area, if you’d like.”
She backpedaled at a fast clip toward the waiting room. “Will do. I really appreciate your help with my car.”
“No worries. Logan told me about your offer on the road. Tyrell is a real ass for reacting like he did. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
That stopped her cold. Hud’s grandfather had been the country sheriff and had spent a decade chasing after her father for illegally brewing moonshine in the back woods. Before her parents had retired to Mexico, they’d operated like the Bonnie and Clyde of bootleg white lightning in Hamilton County. Hud’s grandfather had caught her parents more than a time or two and thrown them in jail, giving them the criminal records that made it impossible for them to be involved directly with the Sweet Salvation Brewery. Like the rest of the town, Hud and his family expected the Sweet triplets to follow in their parents’ footsteps and treated the girls as mini-me criminals and outcasts. An apology from Hud was tantamount to a pardon. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve it, but she’d bet Logan had something to do with it.
“Thanks, Hud.” She swallowed past the tightness in her throat and followed Natalie into the spartan waiting room, populated by one couch, two plastic chairs, and a TV.
She flopped down on one end of the olive green pleather couch, and Natalie hunkered down on the other. Miranda’s phone vibrated in her purse. It took three rings before she found it at the bottom. Patilla the Hun’s name flashed on her caller ID.
Ignoring the warning sirens blaring in her head, she forced herself to smile as she answered. “Pat, good to hear from you,” she said, hoping he didn’t hear the worry in her voice.
“Miranda, I’ll get straight to the point. After careful deliberations, Mr. DeBoer has decided that I’ll be overseeing your attempt to get Sweet Salvation Brewery up to snuff.”
She stood up, and her stomach hit her toes. Since she couldn’t reach through the phone and smack her immediate supervisor, she paced the eight-by-eight room. Pat had outflanked her deftly, completely, and without her ever having a clue because she was off the corporate grid in Salvation. Being out in the boondocks wasn’t an excuse. Her cubbie-mate had warned her that something was going on, but Miranda had been too distracted by the ins and outs of the brewery—not to mention fantasies about Logan’s hard abs—to protect her home turf. She might be winning the brewery battle, but she had a sinking feeling she was about to lose the war.
“I have to tell you,” Pat continued. “I’m looking over your latest report now, and I peg your chances of success as worse than a snowball’s chance in the desert during a 100-year drought.”
“That’s not true.” She fought to maintain an even tone.
“You’ve made progress on the operations standpoint, I’ll give you that, but you’re sucking wind on getting distribution channels.” He laughed a weasely little nasal chuckle. “I warned Mr. DeBoer nothing good would come from this. When I show him this report, he’ll have no choice but to agree.”
Her hands shook and the phone slid in her slick palm. “We’ve hit a few roadblocks when it comes to folks signing on the dotted line to carry the Sweet Salvation Brewery beer. But we have a solid number lined up for delivery after our next brew day in a few weeks, and I’m in the process of getting a meeting set up to talk with the manager of the Boot Scoot Boogie, one of the biggest venues in the region.”
“I don’t think you’re really grasping what’s on the line here, Miranda.” He sneered her name, emphasizing each syllable. “If you can’t get a big distributor lined up, this deal will fall apart, and so will your shot at a promotion. In fact, I’d have to talk to Mr. DeBoer about your position within the company. The economy isn’t what it used to be, and every department is tightening its belt, including us. Having you out of the office has shown just how well we operate without you.”
Her vision turned black, and blood rushed in her ears, drowning out the rest of his words. “Why are you doing this?”
“You thought you could show me up in front of the rest of the department and the managers? Well, you figured wrong. I paid my dues. I worked my ass off to get to where I am. The worker bees have to see that there are stiff consequences for subverting my authority. You’ve always reached beyond your means, and it’s about time you learned your place in the world.”
So there it was. After everything she’d done to overcome being one of those Sweet girls from Salvation: working two jobs to pay her college living expenses; putting in eighty-hour work weeks; ditching the country twang that made everyone in Harbor City look at her like she was a moron. She’d run as far away from Salvation as she could to claim her future on her own terms, not by how people judged her by her last name. She’d be damned if she was going to cede that decision to some power-hungry middle manager with a hard-on for following chain of command.
“I know where I belong, and it’s in that corner office.” Her voice gained strength with every word.
“That’s not up to you.”
“Oh, yes it is. I’m going to sign that distribution deal. I’m going to turn Sweet Salvation Brewery into a profitable business. And I’m going to get that corner office.” She forced a bone-deep confidence into her voice, even if she didn’t yet feel it in her marrow.
A condescending chuckle echoed through the phone. “Well, you have a week to make that happen. After that, your stuff is getting packed into a cardboard box.”
She hit the end-call button with more force than necessary, but her frustration had to go somewhere or her head was going to explode. Miranda shoved her phone back into her purse and sank down into her seat.
“Now that was dramatic.” Natalie laid down the issue of Chantal magazine she’d been flipping through and stared expectantly at Miranda.
“If I don’t get Boot Scoot Boogie to sign a distribution deal within a week, DeBoer Financial will not only turn its back on the deal, I’ll lose my job.”
Someone cleared his throat. Dread creeping up her back, Miranda didn’t need to turn around to know who had just overhead her confession. Still, she couldn’t act like her childhood puppy, Mitzy, who used to hide her head—and only her head—under the covers when she was in trouble. She desperately wanted to stomp and scream and carry on about the unfairness of the whole situation—or worse, cry, but a lifetime of keeping her chin up had taught her better. Inhaling a deep breath, Miranda straightened her shoulders and spun around.
Hud stood in the doorway, a look of oh-shit-did-I-walk-in-at-the-wrong-time plastered onto his face. He held out her keys. “Your car is ready.”
“Great.” She fished her wallet out of her purse. “How much do I owe you?”
“Michelle will have everything for you at the front desk.”
“Okay, thanks again, Hud.”
“No problem.” He shuffled his feet. “Look, I know it’s none of my business, but if you need an in at the Boot Scoot Boogie, you should ask Logan. He went to college with the owner’s son. They were fraternity brothers.”
The bit of unexpected kindness hit her right in the solar plexus, loosening her grip on the determination not to lose it in public. “I might just do that.”
Hud tapped the brim of his grimy baseball cap and hurried out back to the safety of the garage.
Chapter Thirteen
When the sun was up, the Boot Scoot Boogie turned off its neon signs and flipped on the overhead lights to become a family-friendly bar and grill, complete with tin buckets of peanuts on the tables and con
struction paper cowboy hats for the kids. At ten in the morning, the lunch crowd had yet to pack the huge parking lot, making it easy to spot owner Charlie Everton’s massive black SUV.
Bingo.
Miranda parked in front of the part-time honky-tonk, but her butt stayed glued to the seat, while she wished she had another bottle of Tums. She’d eaten the last chalky tablet on the way here, but it hadn’t made a damn bit of difference on the amount of acid eating away at her internal fortitude.
She had charts and graphs to share with Charlie, but she had no idea if that would make any impact. Uncle Julian’s mismanagement of the brewery had left several of their accounts with unfilled orders—repeatedly. The Boot Scoot Boogie had taken several hits before Charlie had told Uncle Julian exactly what he could do with a bottle of Sweet Salvation Brewery beer. She’d managed to salvage relationships with most of the other bars in the area, but unless she wanted to move to Salvation permanently, she needed to seal this deal.
In her career, she’d closed multi-million dollar deals without even a hint of nerves. Now she needed a jumbo-sized bottle of antacids just to get out of her car. Or a double shot of whiskey. God, she was losing it.
Before she could psych herself out any more, Miranda killed the engine and opened the door. The walk across the asphalt parking lot took half as much time as she needed to steady her nerves, and her fingers trembled when she pushed open the front door.
A trio of waitresses in white T-shirts and denim shorts huddled by the kitchen door, but it was the man standing alone by the bar who snagged her attention. He waved her over.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to sit in that car all morning or if you were going to man up and come inside.” Charlie Everton turned, the sunlight filtering in through the front windows highlighting the few strands of gray hair breaking up the otherwise ebony hue of his short, coarse, tight curls. At six-foot-six inches with biceps the size of hubcaps, Charlie had a big SUV because nothing smaller would work. “You got this town buzzing about all you’re doing at the brewery.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be Salvation if there wasn’t gossip about something.”
“Got that right.” He settled his large frame down onto a bar stool and patted the one next to him. “So what brings you out here? You’re a little early for lunch.”
At the mention of food, her stomach started to do a line dance. Sitting down, Miranda centered her focus on the task at hand, sucking in her abs until the rumbling stopped.
“I wanted to talk to you about carrying Sweet Salvation Brewery beer again.” She laid the blue presentation folder on the bar and flipped it open. “As you can see, we’ve got a plan in place to overcome the management challenges we had in the past.”
Charlie didn’t even bother to look down at the four-color charts. “Yeah, not having your crazy uncle—bless his departed heart—run the place is a huge step in the right direction.”
Her head snapped up. “Uncle Julian definitely had his quirks, but he kept the brewery going as best he could.”
He patted her hand. “Honey, I am not disregarding that. Saying a Sweet acts different than most folks is like saying the sky is blue. It is what it is.”
Miranda ground her teeth together to stop the family-defending retort desperate to get out. Letting her ugly hang out wasn’t going to get Charlie to sign on the dotted line. “Be that as it may, we want to bring you on board.”
“This is nothing against you or your family, but there is just no way I can agree to that.”
“Because of the bet with Logan Martin?”
“This has nothing to do with Logan.”
Miranda’s chest tightened until only a sliver of air found its way into her clenched lungs. “But we’ve got everything in place to be successful.”
“And you’ve also made one hell of an enemy in Tyrell Hawson.”
Next time she saw Olivia, she was going to kill her sister for making that stupid entertainment television pseudo-documentary. And while she was at it, she’d stuff the people who owned YouTube into an iron box and drop it into the Hamilton River.
“Sure, Tyrell’s mad right now, but he’ll get over it.” And chocolate will stop being fattening.
Charlie shook his head at her bold-faced lie. “I don’t think so. There’s talk that he wants to make it illegal to manufacture alcohol in Hamilton County. He’s already got the ladies church auxiliary lined up behind him.”
The foul taste of moldy bread filled her mouth. “Nothing will come of it.”
Even to her own ears, she didn’t sound like she meant it.
“So you say, but I’m not going to get caught up in the middle of a ground war. Especially not if I want to stay on Tyrell’s good side. If he starts making noise about turning Hamilton into a dry county that doesn’t sell alcohol at all, my business goes straight to hell.” Charlie pushed up from the stool and handed back her folder. “You seem like a nice girl. Always have. But I can’t risk my business. I’m retiring this year, and Tyson’s taking over. What kind of father would I be if I left my son in charge of a business destined to fail?”
She accepted the folder and held it tight to her chest, surprised it didn’t bounce in time with the hammering of her heart. “What if I can get Tyrell to agree to a truce?”
The big man’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed. Pity shone from his deep brown eyes as he regarded her. He opened and shut his mouth three times before getting out any words. “I’m a damn fool for even thinking about it.” He rubbed his hand across his jaw. “But if you can work things out with Tyrell—and that’s a big if—then I might give you a shot. It’s all I can promise.”
It took everything she had not to wrap her arms around the giant of a man and squeal. Instead she held out her hand. “I’ll take it.”
They shook hands before Miranda marched out of the honky-tonk without a plan but with a renewed sense of determination. She had a chance, and as long as she had a chance, she wasn’t going to stop fighting.
Miranda sped up the thirteen steps—one for each original colony—leading to the Hamilton County Courthouse’s wood and glass front door. Walking through the doors of the designated state historical site was like stepping back in time.
Iron heat registers lined the walls puffing out anemic bursts of heat that did little to alleviate the October chill from the air. Most of the heat went straight up to the vaulted ceilings, decorated with a fresco of the county’s founding fathers—even Matthew Sweet made an appearance. Now that had to just chap the old guard’s hides, but it put an extra spring in Miranda’s step as the click of her heels on the stone floor echoed across the lobby.
The scent of old paper hung heavy in the air, because the county council had yet to convert the plethora of historical land and tax documents into digital form. Now that smell made her feel almost as at home as Ruby Sue’s sweet tea.
Miranda and her sisters had been dragged to the courthouse on a monthly basis by the parents who were protesting a fine or a cease and desist letter from the county. Mrs. Macrina, one of the county executive’s secretaries, had always snuck a few cookies out to the girls while they waited for hours on the hard wooden bench in the hallway.
She paused at the stairs to fix the drooping ankle strap on her black heels. A man’s gruff order to wait here filtered up from below. The sheriff’s office was in the basement, and that’s where they’d gone as teenagers to bail their parents out after their mom had lit a bag of dog poop on fire on the courthouse steps in retaliation for having to pay to get the family’s ten dogs licensed at fifteen dollars a mutt. That incident had made the front page of the local paper and into the news briefs section of the large metro papers in Richmond and Washington, D.C.
Not surprisingly, her prom date had backed out after that. She’d spent the evening studying for her college entrance exams and counting down the days until she could leave Salvation
for good.
Shoe fixed, Miranda marched to the opaque glass door at the end of the lobby with the words “County Council” painted on it in gold foil.
She’d worked out her plan on the drive over. First, she’d outline the economic impact of people losing their jobs to the county executive, the mayor, and any council members in the office. Next, she’d explain the financial implications of fewer tax dollars going into the county’s coffers. Finally, she’d open up negotiations on building a road to the industrial park through the Sweet Salvation Brewery land. The whole thing was fair and completely reasonable.
Too bad Tyrell was not.
But she’d spent too many years toiling under Patilla the Hun not to master how to outmaneuver a mini-tyrant with delusions of world domination. She just had to walk in there like she had brass balls the size of a small man’s ego and brazen her way through his objections–no matter how much she wanted to throw up right now. Failure wasn’t an option.
Pushing back her shoulders and raising her chin, she shoved open the door, accidentally slamming it into Tyrell and sending the rotund man stumbling forward and into Logan.
Tyrell collided with Logan like a bowling ball shot out of a rocket, the unexpected collision knocking the air out of Logan’s lungs and pushing him back three feet. Fighting to maintain his balance, he pushed forward against the mayor and placed a hand on each of the shorter man’s shoulders. Over his head, he spotted Miranda staring in the doorway, her blue eyes as round as basketballs and one hand covering that luscious mouth of hers.
“Oh, my God, are you okay?” Her eyes had grown to dinner plate dimensions. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was standing there.”
Tyrell harumphed and shook off Logan’s steadying grip.
Logan didn’t care. His attention stayed riveted on Miranda. The smooth material of her deep purple dress clung to all the right spots, highlighting the curves he’d spent hours tasting last night. He’d licked powdered sugar off her dusky pink nipples and the dimples above her pert ass while she shivered beneath him. When she had moaned his name while he was balls-deep inside her, he’d come as close to heaven as he was bound to get.