by Gina Ardito
“You wouldn’t even help when it was legal. Remember when I needed a loan to buy into that foreign stock exchange?”
“That was a Ponzi scheme. You would’ve lost money in those markets.”
“Says you.”
“Said the state DA and a half-dozen federal agencies.”
He waved a hand and lumbered to his feet. “Just forget it. Rusty and I will figure it out without you. As usual.”
Drew remained seated, watched his brother leave, and heard the roar of Wade’s rusty, muffler-less pickup as he screeched out of the parking lot. Alone again, he glanced at the clock on the wall and smiled.
Time to see Bo McKenzie again. This should be fun. Right now, he needed all the fun she could bring him.
****
“Come on, Bo,” Mitch said. “I’ll show you the brewery floor.”
Following him, with the sheriff on her tail, she meandered around paint and spackle buckets, extension cords, and sawhorses, arriving in the true heart of the brewery. She looked with approval at the high ceiling and the wide expanse of concrete floor, dotted by a skyline of gleaming stainless steel tanks, two and three stories high, and the maze of overhead pipes, hoses, and valves. The canning area waited for sleeves and product to be put together. Pallets of barley, hops, and extracts sat stacked and ready for use, still wrapped in tight sheets of plastic, untouched. She frowned.
“Any wort going yet?”
Mitch’s moonface puckered in confusion. “We…umm…waited for you.”
“Why? Did you forget the recipe? It’s going to take almost two weeks in the fermenter. Cutting it close, aren’t you? For my lagers, we’re already late. I need five weeks.” She held up a hand, fingers splayed wide for emphasis. “Five.”
“Okay, but the official opening isn’t for six weeks. We’ve got plenty of time.”
“The soft opening is in three.”
Three weeks. In three weeks, all the work was supposed to be completed, beer should flow from her taps, and she planned to welcome her first customers: a coterie of brew aficionados and local officials. She’d hoped to have at least one batch of her special lager ready for them. Now, she’d have to rely on ales only. She didn’t worry about the taste; her ales were delicious. But every craft brewery in the country served ales. Lagers weren’t as popular because of their longer fermentation time. Her lagers were magical—especially her Dragon’s Blood brew, a combination of dragonfruit and blood orange extracts.
Shaking off her disappointment, she placed her case on a nearby pallet of barley and pulled out her microbiology lab from inside. She’d have to get the barley and water mixture started before the lawyers arrived. She’d almost forgotten a hard-learned lesson: in this business—and in life—she had no one to rely on but herself.
“Relax, Bo,” another voice said from behind her, thick with Brooklyn in his words. “I took care of it. Your lager wort’s been fermenting since last month.”
“Uncle Ian.” Thank God! She launched herself into his brawny arms. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Easy, sweetheart!” He gave her a quick hug before extricating himself from her hold. “I come home smelling of anything but brew, and the wife’s gonna have me sleeping on the couch for a month.”
“I think Aunt Connie will let us both off the hook if she knows it’s me hugging you.” The aunt and uncle titles were honorary, based on the Merricks’ longtime friendship with her father. In fact, Connie Merrick had been her babysitter decades ago.
“Maybe,” Ian replied, “but I don’t wanna take any chances. Have you gone to the house yet?”
She shook her head. “Came straight here from the bus station.” She cut a glare in Mitch’s direction. “With a stop to fetch the sheriff, thanks to an unexpected mishap with our car.” A red-cheeked Mitch kept his gaze pinned to her mini-lab atop the pallet.
Ian nodded in the sheriff’s direction, but swerved his attention back to Bo with lightning speed. “The car? What happened with the car? You weren’t in an accident, were you, sugar?”
She cocked a brow. “Sugar? You’ve lived here two years and already picked up the lingo?”
“Welcome to the Palo Duro Canyon, darlin’. This place has a way of getting under your skin. Wait’ll you see Connie. She’s totally embraced canyon living. You will, too. I guarantee it.”
Maybe. God knew she needed the change.
“What happened with the car?” Ian asked.
“Stolen out of a parking lot.” Before she could elaborate, a voice called from the front room.
“Hellooooo? Anyone here?”
She stiffened. Shoot. She hadn’t even stopped to run a brush through her hair.
“Drew?” the sheriff shouted back. “That you?”
“Yup.”
He must have followed the sound of the sheriff’s voice because he popped into the back room seconds later. And in that same instant, a too-familiar wave of heat reignited inside her.
His gaze scanned the area before settling on her face. “Wow. Everything looks great.”
Was he flirting with her? “Thanks,” she replied, attempting to remain detached, but failing miserably.
“Didn’t I tell you to stick around my office so we could continue our discussion?” the sheriff asked. At Drew’s nod, he added, “What are you doing here?”
“Meeting with the brewery owner to go over her permits and prep her for the final TTB interview. I told you I coulda brought her here. Bo. Good to see you again.” He had the nerve to grin at her like they shared some secret joke.
Thank God, anger sparked anew. Planting her fists on her hips, she faced him. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were when we met?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t see any point. I saw the way you looked at Cooper when you found out he was the sheriff. You had your mind made up that we were a bunch of country rubes you couldn’t trust.”
“That’s not true!”
“Yeah, it is.” He waved off her outrage. “Don’t worry about it. You’re new here. I’d imagine you learned to keep your guard up living in New York all those years.”
A thousand clever retorts settled on her tongue, but he was, for better or worse, her lawyer. She needed him. At least, until they were up and running and showing a profit.
Oh, honey, you want him for more than his legal briefs, her libido chided her. You got a bad case of the hots.
Maybe, but her sane side, still scarred and shamed after Rob’s betrayal, warned her about chasing any romantic inclinations. You’re done with men, remember? Focus on the brewery and only the brewery. Nothing else matters.
Instead of releasing the hounds of sarcasm, she turned the conversation back to his omissions. “The name of your firm is Beeson and Garwood. So, where’s Beeson?”
“Died last year,” he replied. “Five months after his retirement. I kept his name on the business out of respect.”
“Oh.” Chastened by what he revealed, she faced Mitch again in embarrassment. “Would you show Mr. Garwood to my office, please? I need to speak with Ian, and I want to get at least one test done on the equipment before I review the legal stuff. I’m a bit behind schedule.” Maybe focusing on what she loved best would help her regain her equilibrium, to remind her of why she’d come to Texas—and it was not to chase the town’s legal eagle, no matter how attractive she found him.
Mitch leaned close to her. “Umm…do you know where your office is?” he asked in a stage whisper.
Drew snorted and quickly put a hand to his mouth to hide his smirk. Her anger at him renewed itself.
“No,” she said aloud, feigning indifference, “but Ian can show me when I’m finished here. Meanwhile, you fill out the reports the sheriff needs to get our car back.” She craned her neck to glance at Ian over her shoulder. “Let’s run a test cycle on the cleaners, for starters.”
“You got it, chief.”
As he handed her the lab kit, a series of masculine chuckles raised the hackles on her nape. She didn’t have to lo
ok back. She recognized Drew laughing at her.
Fine. Whatever. She dismissed his amusement and gave her full attention to her brewery equipment. She had more pressing concerns than him.
****
Drew lingered an extra few seconds to appreciate the sway of Bo’s hips as she strode around the steel towers. There was something about a sexy-ass woman surrounded by heavy machinery he appreciated more than fine wine or a good cigar.
“Drew?” Mitch Underhill’s voice broke through his musings. “You comin’?”
“Uh-huh,” he said through dry lips and followed Cooper and Mitch out of the production area, past a sign announcing, “Authorized Personnel Only Beyond This Point,” to a hand-carved wooden staircase, where Mitch pointed.
“First door on the right. That’s Bo’s office.”
“Got it,” he said with a nod and took the first three steps before pausing to watch Mitch bring Cooper to the bar area with its shiny, ivory-handled taps. They both pulled up stools to sit and discuss the whereabouts of the missing car, heads bent close, as if they traded government secrets. Stupid, really. If the Patterson boys did take it as a lark, it was probably right back where Mitch had left it by now—minus a few gallons of gas, but unscathed otherwise.
Leaving Cooper to handle the issue, he scaled the rest of the stairs and found the first door on the right open, but the room was dark. After feeling around on the wall, he discovered the switch and flipped it on, bathing the room in soft, white light. If he’d hoped to read anything into her personality by viewing the contents of her office, he came away empty. Everything was pristine, almost sterile in its newness. A large window set into one wall looked out over the expanse of the brewery floor. The bookshelf in the far corner displayed thick volumes of textbooks on biochemistry, herbology and botany, marketing, business administration, and mathematics. Not a knickknack in sight anywhere, not even a scented candle.
His ex-wife loved scented candles. And pastel porcelain figurines that cost ridiculous amounts of money from some Spanish artist company. Judging by the spartan condition of this office, though, Bo didn’t go in for frivolous dust collectors, expensive or otherwise. She was all business—the beer business.
In fact, the only personal item in evidence was a framed photograph sitting on the right corner of the massive antique desk, next to a brand-spanking-new dual-monitor computer. He strolled closer to take a look at the picture. A crowd of people clustered outside the Syrian arches of a building, with a younger Bo standing front row, center, her arms stretched up toward the cloudless blue sky. Pure joy radiated from her face.
How could a woman who frowned with so much displeasure, who viewed strangers with such open suspicion, be the same person whose smile practically burst from a photograph to warm anyone who viewed it?
He picked up the photo and peered closer at the image, taking specific note of the arm wrapped around her waist that belonged to the man standing beside her. Who was he? A boyfriend? Husband? Was he the reason for her smile? What did it take to gain a smile like that from her? Whatever the price, he’d probably pay it.
Above the photo, a framed certificate, from what looked like some German university, hung on the wall. While the words were undecipherable to him, the name cited as the recipient of the degree, Belinda “Bo” Sheehan, gave him pause. The Belinda part didn’t jolt him—hell, his real name was Andrew and he never used it—but the Sheehan did. Was McKenzie her married name? Was the guy in the photo Mr. McKenzie? She wore no wedding ring; he’d noticed that right away. But everything about Belinda “Bo” McKenzie-slash-Sheehan screamed she was not the type to follow anyone’s rules, not even society’s.
“Doing recon on me?” she asked, and he whirled to find her in the doorway, watching her with that same expression of mistrust on her face.
“Just appeasing my curiosity. When was this taken?” He held the photo out, facing her.
She strode inside, that ever-present black case in her hand. Her heeled boots clacked on the floor like castanets, which made him wonder why he hadn’t heard her approach. Note to self: cancel enrollment to spy school.
She took the photo from him and stared at it, as if she didn’t recognize the woman smiling back at them. She tapped the glass on the frame. “This was taken right after graduation at VLB,” she said after a long minute. “A lifetime ago.”
“VLB?”
“The Versuchs- und Lehranstalt für Brauerei in Berlin.”
“You went to college in Germany?”
“I went to college in New York,” she replied with a sharp edge. “I took the certified brewmaster’s course at VLB.”
She swung the case on top of the file cabinet behind him, hefting it as if it were a pillow, and took her seat behind the desk in the cushy leather chair. Drew sent up silent gratitude Cooper hadn’t seen the way she handled the same case he’d struggled to carry. Poor Cooper had a tough enough time outdoing his former military wife when it came to strength and endurance. Seeing Bo handle that odd box with such ease would only crush the sheriff’s already bruised ego.
“Now,” she continued, “if we could get on with the reason you’re here today, I’d appreciate it. I’ve got a lot to take care of, and time keeps running away from me.”
He would’ve said she kept running away from him, but he bit back the comment and reached into his own leather satchel for the final TTB paperwork. Taking the seat opposite her, he slapped the manila folder onto the desktop. He flipped it open and removed various stapled packets of paper. “The good news is, we’re almost done. Your COLA application was approved; you’re in compliance with all state and local zoning regulations—”
“Do you think my logo is insulting to Texans?” she blurted.
Cut off in mid-recitation, he stopped and looked up from the pile of papers. “I’m sorry. What?”
“My…” She grabbed a ballpoint pen from a cylinder of writing implements on the desktop and placed the capped end between her teeth. “Someone I know told me that,” she said and bit down on the plastic tip.
Her face took on a vulnerability that kicked him right in the chest. Bluster. All her cool confidence was an act. Behind the steely façade hid a woman filled with uncertainty. Part of him wanted to reach out and squeeze her hand to offer comfort, but the saner sections of his brain told him if he tried, he’d pull back a bloody stump for his troubles. Belinda “Bo” McKenzie would never allow anyone to acknowledge the smallest chink in her armor.
“Not at all,” he reassured her. “And if the beer’s good, no one’s going to care anyway.”
She gave a deep exhale, relaxing her posture, and smiled with that air of confidence he’d become familiar with in their short time together. “My beer is the best you ever tasted. Trust me. You’ll see for yourself in a few weeks.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” He refocused on the stacks of paperwork in the manila folder. Picking up the next batch in the pile, he flipped to the last page. “Okay, I need your signature on this one.”
She uncapped the pen while he rotated the page so she could read it. “What is it?”
“An authorization for me to access all your financials so I can funnel your funds into my own accounts.”
Her sharp glare returned to visibly stab him in the eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? What are you implying?”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Nothing. It was just an old lawyer joke.”
“Not funny,” she grumbled.
Obviously not. “Sorry. By signing this, you acknowledge you’ve read and understood the policies for your TTB license, which Mitch should’ve sent to you for your review about four weeks ago.”
“Right. He did.” She scribbled her name on the blank line and pushed the packet across the desk to him.
Drew rearranged the pages and pushed it back to her, his finger pointing to the line at the beginning of the third paragraph. “Initial here.” She did. “And here.” He pointed to another section, and she complied. “A
nd one last signature…” He flipped the pages once more. “At the bottom, here.” When she finished this time, he rearranged the papers into their original order and stacked them on the desk blotter.
“Great. That takes care of most of it. Just one more thing.”
She waved the pen with a flourish. “Okay. What now?”
“Have dinner with me? Tonight?”
****
The pen fell out of her fingers and landed on the desk with a clatter. “I…umm…I’m sorry, but I can’t. I have so much to do. I mean, I just got into town an hour ago—”
“I know. And I’ve seen and heard enough about you to know that you’ll probably wind up working here most of the night. You won’t even think about eating, until it’s too late, when you realize everything’s closed up.”
“You’ve heard about me?” The question came out too sharp, too quick, but she couldn’t stifle her overwrought emotions. First, the comment about stealing her money and now the reminder he knew secrets about her. What did he know exactly? Did he know about Rob? Did anyone else? “What have you heard? Who told you about me?”
“No one told me anything,” he said. “Not really anyway. What I mean is, most of my contact between you and this brewery has come through Mitch. Yet, it seemed like every time I needed your signature on a form or an answer to a question, no matter what time I contacted him, day or night, he’d have your reply in under a minute. It was always, ‘Here ya go. Bo signed and initialed where needed,’ or ‘Bo said to do this,’ or ‘Bo said yes.’ Bo seems to work more hours than I do, and that’s saying something. Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Not lately,” she admitted with a grimace. Not since the allegations went public. “And not well when I do.”
He blinked a few times behind those smart-is-the-new-sexy black-rimmed glasses. The dim light in the sheriff’s office had hidden the fact that, close up, his eyes were the exact color of her mead honey beer.
He reached across the desk to take the manila folder, and his fingertips brushed hers. “Have dinner with me,” he repeated. “You have to eat.”