Blame it on Texas: Lightning in a Bottle (Kindle Worlds)

by Gina Ardito

  “For…?”

  “To wear. I can get away with the same jeans from yesterday, and I can even wear my bra for another day, but I need a pair of clean underwear.”

  “You want to wear a pair of my underwear?”

  “If it’s okay with you.”

  “You’re okay with that?”

  “Why not? If it bothers you, when you spend the night at my house, I’ll lend you a pair of my underwear, and we’ll be even. Fair’s fair, right?”

  “Of course.” He studied her expression, waiting for a smile or a snort, letting him know she teased him. There was no crack in her veneer. “You’re serious. You wear men’s underwear often?”

  “I’ve done it out of necessity a few times in the past. It’s no big deal.”

  No? Part of him burned to ask exactly whose underwear she’d worn. Her husband’s? A lover’s? And what kind of situation would necessitate it? The saner part of him reasoned she was a grown woman with a past he knew little to nothing about—and it was none of his business anyway.

  “Okay,” she said, shattering his reverie. “As long as you can furnish me with one of your old work shirts, a pair of clean underwear—oh! And socks, too. I’ll need socks if you can spare them. White athletic ones are fine, or if you’ve got those no-shows, those’ll work. Anything really. Once I’ve got all that, I can change and be ready to leave in about ten minutes.”

  “Going…?” he prompted.

  “To the brewery.”

  “Again? Don’t you want to see your house first?”

  She waved a hand. “Nah. I’ll see it later. I’ve got a lot to do to get the brewery ready before the soft open.”

  He wanted to comment that she worked too hard, but reconsidered. Before a big case, he often put in fifteen-to-twenty-hour days, reading case files and precedents until the sun came up, double-checking and triple-checking every word of his opening and closing arguments. Maura used to say his office could burn to the ground around him and when the fire department showed up, they’d find him still seated at his desk, engrossed in legal briefs. His obsession with his job was partially responsible for the downfall of his marriage. So, who was he to judge her? He bit his tongue, nodded, and found her the items she needed.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were on the road, and he struggled to keep from sneaking peeks at her seated beside him, wearing his shirt—and his underwear. The odd intimacy of that fact, the picture his imagination created of her fabulous figure wearing nothing but that pink lacy bra she’d had on this morning and his heather gray boxer briefs, couldn’t be dismissed from his mind.

  He pulled up in front of the brewery, not surprised to find it locked and dark. Leaning across the side console, Bo gave him a quick kiss. “Thanks, Drew. See you around.”

  “You’ll see me this afternoon. I owe you a sunset.”

  “Excellent!” She climbed out of the Jeep, grabbed her black case from the back seat, and strode to the entrance.

  He waited, watching her walk away, imagining his underwear clinging to her butt with every step…

  He shook off the fantasy with effort, waited until she’d opened the front door and turned on the lights, and waved goodbye before he put the car in drive and pulled away. Sunset couldn’t come fast enough for him.

  ****

  Alone for the first time in her brewery, Bo took her time going over every inch of the building and everything inside. In the storage room, she found her glass growlers, in thirty-two and sixty-four ounce sizes, stamped with her logo and waiting to be filled. She picked one up, and ran her finger over the Statue of Liberty’s extended arm.

  “Like it?”

  She turned to find Mitch behind her and gave him an emphatic nod. “I told you yesterday, it’s perfect. Thanks, Mitch. I couldn’t have done any of it without you.”

  “Yeah, you would have. Maybe not as fast, but I’ve never known you to back away from a challenge. What’s more, you always win. You will this time, too. I guarantee it.” As if he understood how his words embarrassed her, he added a hasty, “You’re here early today. I was going to pick you up after twelve.”

  “You found the car?”

  “Uh-huh. Right where I left it. A couple of teenagers took it for a joyride, like the sheriff said. Cooper had a talk with the parents, and the kids are going to make it up to us by working here for the next two weeks, doing whatever we need for free. The dad said to make sure we come up with some tough, sweaty work—make it grueling for them.”

  She grinned. “I’m sure that can be arranged. When will they be here?”

  “Starting tomorrow, after school ‘til nine and all day on the weekends.”

  “Good. We’ll start by putting them in charge of graining out the mash tun. That’s probably the filthiest job we have.”

  He grimaced in mock sympathy. “God, you’re mean.”

  “Are you kidding?” Placing the growler back in its crate, she snorted back a laugh. “They’re lucky they caught me in a good mood.”

  The mash tun was the first enormous tank on her brewery floor and was used to extract the sugars from the malt before the mixture went to the Lauter tun to create the wort. Once the extraction process was completed, all that wet, used-up grain had to be removed. A worker would position a large wheeled vat beneath the trapdoor set into the side of the tun, open the door, and scrape out what looked like hundreds of pounds of boiling hot, silty mud with a shovel and rake. It was backbreaking, sweaty, grimy work.

  “And when they’re done with that,” she added, rubbing her hands in mock malice, “I’ll have them spread some of the spent grain in the landscaping outside. Preferably in the heat of the day, or at dusk when the bugs come out.”

  “You are tho vile, mis-th-tress-th,” he lisped like an evil minion in a bad fantasy movie.

  She laughed, and he joined in, until she had to brush the tears from her eyes with a fingertip. “Thanks, Mitch. I needed that.” He was the baby brother she’d never had, but always needed in her life. He kept her grounded, kept her focused, and believed in her.

  He waved a hand. “No charge. Judging by your good mood, I take it you approve of the house, as well as the brewery?”

  “Haven’t seen it yet.”

  “You haven’t? Where’d you go last night? And while you’re at it, how’d you get here this morning?”

  Feigning indifference, she crossed the brewery floor to the cold side before giving him a one-word reply. “Drew.”

  “Drew. Drew Garwood? You spent the night with him?” At her nod, he added, “Ah.”

  She whirled to face him head-on. “Ah, what? What does that mean? ‘Ah’?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That ‘ah’ does not mean nothing. Don’t go all judgmental on me, Mitch. It’s not like anything happened between us, okay?” Except for that kiss. That steamy, pants-melting, knee-weakening kiss. But Mitch didn’t need to know about that. “I spent the night in his guestroom. He had originally planned to drive me home, but I was exhausted, and he didn’t want me to get to a new place and still have to unpack all my linens just to climb into bed, so he took me to his place where I could get a good night’s sleep without having to fuss with sheets and pillowcases before falling face-first into a mattress.”

  “Very considerate.”

  While his face remained impassive, something in his tone set her teeth on edge. She planted her hands on her hips. “Okay, spill. What do you know? Is there something wrong with Drew?”

  “Not much, really. Though, I should probably tell you that your brewery sits on land his family once owned.”

  That information caught her attention—no doubt he intended it that way. “What?”

  “Yup. The way I hear it, all this…” He spanned his hand around the brewery. “…used to be a cattle ranch. Not, like, yesterday. We’re talking close to a century ago. This building, the parking lot, the street out front, the restaurant supply place, the auto body shop and that party favors store behind us was all, at one ti
me, part of the Garwood ranch. Supposedly, Granddad lost it all to the tax man during the Prohibition years. I think you can guess why.”

  Her lips twisted as she replied, “Bootlegging.”

  He tapped his index finger on his nose. “Got it in one. I’m not saying Drew’s not a nice guy. He is. But his brother…” He shrugged and shuffled his feet. “Wade’s a whole different animal, from what I hear: vindictive, bitter. Rumor has it he skirts the law and Drew usually bails him out before any charges can stick. Look, I like Drew. I do. But we all thought Rob was a nice guy, too.”

  She sighed. This information would have been nice to know yesterday. Her good mood popped like a soap bubble. Just when she thought she could let down her guard and trust someone again, she was reminded not everyone was who they seemed to be. As if she needed another reminder to begin with! Rob’s betrayal had nearly killed her. She couldn’t survive another downfall.

  “Hey.” He jabbed her with an elbow. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Thanks.” She retreated from the storage area, her mind buzzing with recriminations and warnings. Stupid, stupid, stupid. When would she finally learn she had no one to rely on but herself? Give anyone too much rope, and they’d tie her up with it before robbing her blind.

  “Look, I’m sorry I said anything. From everything I know about him, Drew’s a decent, hardworking guy, well-liked, respected. I wouldn’t have hired him to do the legal work for us if I thought he’d do anything to screw you over. I sincerely doubt Drew is anything like Rob.”

  “But that’s the issue, isn’t it?” she said. “There was a time we thought Rob was nothing like Rob, too.” Up until the moment the police came to their door to arrest her then-still-husband, she’d believed in him. It was a mistake she wouldn’t repeat.

  Mitch craned his neck to look her in the eye. “I worry about you. After what happened with that shady SOB, I don’t want to see you jump into a hot and heavy relationship with the first guy who shows an interest in you just to prove him wrong.”

  To prove him wrong—about her not being woman enough for any man. Her cheeks burned with humiliation. “Drew and I aren’t in a hot and heavy relationship. We’re friends. That’s all.” She struggled to look Mitch in the eye, recalling how she wound up sprawled on the countertop kissing her so-called friend while their omelet blackened only an hour ago.

  He nodded, but she sensed he didn’t believe her. Why should he? She’d fallen hard for Rob and remained blind to his faults, even when they should have glowed like neon between them. Was she moving too fast with Drew? Of course, she was. No man had ever ignited a fire in her the way he had.

  Softening her tone, she gave him a promise. “I’ll be careful.” His dubious attitude didn’t change, and she stifled a sigh. Maybe Mitch was right. Maybe she should put some distance between herself and Drew. Maybe she was too vulnerable. “Why don’t you take me home now so I can get my new place set up? This way, I’ll have no reason to go home with Drew tonight and can sleep under my own roof—safe and chaste.”

  He nodded again, this time with a bright smile lighting up his features. “Good idea. Car’s out front. Let’s go.”

  She headed for the exit, but stopped in the doorway, turning back to face him. “Do me a favor? Call Drew and tell him I’ll be too busy to see him tonight. In fact, tell him I won’t be able to see him for the next few weeks. Tell him I’ll call him after things settle down here.”

  He frowned. “You don’t have to—”

  “Just do it. And then, take me home, please. I want to change my clothes and get settled in my new place.” And crawl out of his underwear before she grew too comfortable wearing them and craved being close to him.

  On a sigh, he nodded and followed her out of the storage room. “You’re the boss.”

  Damn straight.

  Chapter 5

  Her new rental house sat in the center of a cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Silverton, about three miles from the brewery. All the homes in this area followed one of four basic designs, among them hers, a Tudor-style revival with multi-paned windows, the signature steep gable roof, and exposed dark wood details interspersed with stucco. It had to be at least thirty years old and lacked any possible curb appeal. In fact, the place was a bit of an eyesore with a field of brown thatch serving as a lawn, two dead six-foot hedges flanking the dented front door, a broken window on the second floor that had been replaced with a sheet of plywood, and rust stains on the lower level stucco.

  Like her, the house had seen grander days, had survived a severe downturn, and now waited for the right moment to regain her former glory. Bo loved it on sight, and bubbles of excitement rose up inside her.

  New life, new business, new home. Things are moving along at a nice pace. Don’t push for more, and don’t screw up.

  “Ready to see the inside?” Mitch asked.

  She nodded, unbuckled her seatbelt, and got out of the car. After grabbing her case from the back seat, she dug her shiny new house key from the front pocket. For the briefest moment—the flick of an eyelash—she recalled Drew’s comment last night about giving her a key to his place if she still wanted it in the morning. She damn sure didn’t now. Shoving thoughts of him into the dark closet in the back of her mind, she strode forward across the dead lawn. “Let’s do this.”

  When she pushed open the door, bright sunlight from the unadorned windows nearly blinded her. Dropping her case in the corner, she raised a hand to shield her eyes.

  “Wow,” Mitch said from behind her. “First thing you’re gonna need is blackout curtains.”

  “I like it,” she replied. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ll definitely put up window coverings of some kind, but I like the light, airy feeling of all this open space.”

  She crossed the foyer with its chipped marble tiles sporting black pits against the smooth sheets of white and gray, past the curving staircase and missing rungs in the bannister that resembled a toddler’s smile, to the living room. Her couch looked ridiculous as the only object to fill up the excessive space.

  She sighed. “I guess I’m going to have to actually buy furniture, huh?”

  “And pictures or hangings of some kind,” Mitch replied, gesturing to the empty sugar white walls.

  “I don’t know.” She frowned, dollar signs zipping in her brain—too fast to catch. “My coffers are pretty bare right now.” A sudden chill settled in her bones, and she hugged herself.

  “You’re shivering,” he pointed out. “You scared or something?”

  She stared out the window at the bleak lawn. “No.” She wasn’t scared; she was downright terrified.

  Mitch reached up to pat her shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, Bo. You’ll see. Give it time.”

  A block of emotions clogged her throat, making any kind of speech impossible. Without a word, she walked away and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The master bedroom was easy to find, since it was the only room with an open door. She stepped inside and sat on the edge of her bare mattress. Like the couch in the living room, it was the only object up here. She’d downsized, of course, from the king adjustable twelve-inch-thick foam mattress she’d had in New York to a queen-sized, three-inch-thick foam-topped coil version on a metal non-rolling frame. Gone were the vintage linen head- and footboards with the ornate, hand-painted lattice and carved rosettes, along with their matching night tables, bureaus, and lamps.

  The memory woke up inside, a sitcom rerun playing in her head, and she gave herself over to the laughter.

  “Bo?” Mitch leaned in the doorway, wary, keeping his feet firmly in the hall, no doubt in case he had to flee if she lunged for him. “You okay?”

  “I slashed our bed,” she said through her chortles. “The night they arrested Rob, I grabbed a big knife from the butcher block in our kitchen and ripped the shit outta the mattress.” She flopped backward, arms flung out wide, and stared at the ceiling. “God, it felt good!” She sat up again as the memories grew somber. “I had to sell everythi
ng to pay the bills, to pay back all he’d stolen—except that mattress. Every stick of furniture, every piece of china went. I should have sold the mattress too, but no one would buy it in that condition. Damn shortsighted of me, it turned out. I could’ve used the few hundred dollars it would’ve brought me. When the dust finally settled, I was still in the hole about ten thousand bucks.”

  “Stop reliving it,” he told her. “Rob was the criminal, not you.”

  “Maybe. But I sure paid for it. If Dad hadn’t loaned me the seed money for Empire…” Shame burned her cheeks, and she let the thought trail off. At thirty-five years old, she shouldn’t still need her father to bail her out.

  He sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Rob fooled all of us, not just you. He sure did live up to his name, though, didn’t he? Rob.” He snorted.

  On a sigh, she shook her head, a slow side-to-side motion. “Nice try, but it’s going to take more than bad puns to fix my life.”

  “You’re right. It’s going to take time. And hard work. And friends. Luckily, you’ve got all three.” As if emphasizing his statement, he pulled her closer into his side hug.

  “Thanks.”

  She didn’t agree a hundred percent, but she was her father’s child. Malcolm Sheehan raised all his kids—including his only daughter—to fight. It was okay to stumble, he would say, to go down, provided you got back up and fought some more.

  She slid out of Mitch’s hold and got to her feet. “Thanks for bringing me out here.”

  He must have understood her hint because he followed suit and pulled the car keys out of his pocket. “What time should I come back for you? Or do you want me to stick around and help you out here for a while?”

  She waved him off. “No. I need you at the brewery to oversee stuff there. I can handle unpacking here for a few hours. Can you send someone to come get me after one o’clock? That should give me enough time to put some things to rights and make this place a little more livable.”