by K. B. Jacobs
“And you’re sure she doesn’t really know who Walsh is?” I could be Damian on paper, but I couldn’t answer to his name. I respected the man too much. To me, Damian meant honor, one of the best men I’d ever known. I was so not that man.
No, I was Walsh, and I didn’t want to think what that name stood for. First thing that came to mind was coward, and that was as far as I’d go down that path. Some things were better left unexplored.
“No,” Damian answered. “Believe me, this woman is a piece of work. She heard the Thorne name and couldn’t bow down fast enough.”
Which is exactly why making Damian the president of GSC had been the right move, no matter how much he argued against it. The Thorne name carried an instant reputation and respectability that no one else—certainly not me—could pull off.
“Just stick with our normal story. Tell anyone who asks that you prefer to go by your middle name, Walsh, and no one will even question it. The only thing she’s interested in is the size of the check and something about getting her daughter and friends out of the brewery.”
I wanted to argue the point some more.
In the background of the phone call, the popcorn popper from Damian’s media room echoed with that distinctive percussive pop, pop, pop. Damn. Movie day meant it must be a bad one for Damian. I hated that he was home alone with depression setting in for the day. That took any need to argue out of my sails. No matter how tired I was of living this lie, I had to do it. For Damian, because he couldn’t do it himself. I hadn’t been there for him on the one day he had needed me the most. I could damn well be here for him now.
I paused at a four-way stop and glanced up at the street sign. It didn’t match any of the names on my gas station map. “Remind me again how the daughter plays into this?”
“According to her mom, she’s turned this brewery into some sort of sorority.” The disgust in Damian’s voice rang through the phone lines.
“Hey, don’t knock sororities,” I said. “I’ve had a lot of good times in the name of the sisterhood. This could be fun, and most guys would agree with me. Since when do you have issues with sororities?”
“As long as it’s about the party and girls drunk on beer, I’m good with it. But you and I both know that planning a country club mixer is a far cry from running a serious business. We owe it to Ice to make sure his favorite brew is around for a long time. By buying the brewery, we can guarantee that.”
“You’re right.”
Personally, I didn’t get why some guys got so obsessed about their beer. Yes, Ice had definitely been one of those guys, which is exactly why I was here. While I enjoyed a Budweiser as much as the next guy when I headed to the ballpark in the middle of a hot summer day, that was about the only time I indulged. Give me a good, hearty Cabernet Sauvignon any day, and I was much happier.
“But don’t worry about it,” I reassured him. “I can handle sorority girls just fine.”
“And I know that’s the truth,” Damian said in that tone which meant I should probably be offended. “Just remember, the purchase contract is with this girl’s mother. Maybe you should focus your charm on the other girls involved instead of her daughter. Do your smooth, charming thing with them, get laid—because lord knows you’ve been grumpier than hell lately and need something to take you down a notch or two—and find out what we need to know to get this brewery to the level that Ice deserved.”
Ice. One of the four friends we were honoring who’d died in Afghanistan when the squad’s MRAP was hit by an IED. Damian was the only one in the patrol to survive, although I wasn’t sure if anyone could consider his hermit existence surviving.
As the leader of Ghost Squad, I should have been in that MRAP with them. But I’d been on my way to Germany because I’d gotten hurt. Not wounded in a war zone like every other soldier getting medevaced out. No, I’d been too busy charming my way into the pants of some chick and crushed all the bones in my ankle, tripping over a fucking chair. Typical for me.
We’d both been medically discharged but for very different reasons. Damian was a war hero who had survived. I was the screw-up who had managed to claw my way back from every knock.
We’d spent the last two years honoring those four guys, using the blood money that the military contractor had paid Damian because the experimental metal sheeting on their MRAP vehicle had failed. Instead of protecting them, it had sealed them all inside the burning vehicle. So we’d taken that money and used it to build something more in the hometowns of the four guys to support what they’d loved.
“This is our last mission,” Damian said. “It should be an easy one. Ice raved about Naked Brews, so no matter how bad of shape the brewery is in, we know the recipes are good. We should be able to buy it and get it onto stable ground fairly quickly. If we have to replace the entire staff working there, so be it.”
“Now, if I could just find it,” I muttered as I passed a small ski shop for the third time.
“What the fuck?” Damian asked. “Don’t tell me that fancy new car of yours doesn’t have a navigation system in it?”
It did, but I hadn’t figured out how to work it yet. I’d been anxious to get on the road and assumed I could figure it out as I drove. Not so much, especially with the messy roads between here and Denver where Damian and I lived.
“Yeah, screw you.” That was the way our friendship worked. We ignored one another’s weaknesses and insulted each other to cover it. “I’m hanging up now.” I whipped the car into the parking lot beside the ski shop. “I’ll call you after I find the brewery and figure out what mess we’ll have to deal with there.”
“Sounds good. Just remember what I told you. No banging the daughter.”
“Okay, Dad.”
I ended the call and stepped out of my car, shivering at the sudden cold. My leather jacket was not made for this kind of weather.
I glanced around the small ski resort town. Aspenridge had built itself around its tourism and gold-mining past...as well as its mammoth, world-class ski slope.
Every building looked quaint and picturesque, featuring painted timber or native rock, rugged yet still tranquil. The streets were lined with old-fashioned gas lanterns. It felt...nice, and that wasn’t a reaction I was used to. I traveled a lot for my job with Damian, but this was the first town to hit me this way. Maybe it was because I knew this would be the last town.
Not a bad place to be for our final mission. Maybe if there were extensive needs to address here, I could convince Damian to come out. The cold weather meant he could wrap up in a big woolen scarf, and no one would be able to see his scars.
We both had to figure out where to go from here. For the last two years, the guys had been our focus. I’ll admit, being Damian’s front man had gotten old, but could I really move on with my life when he wasn’t living his?
Something to worry about after I got the mess at Naked Brews sorted.
I noticed a sweet snow bunny peeking at my car from the window of the ski shop. Yeah, Desiree was bright yellow, so she attracted a bit of attention. As the appraisal shifted to me, I stood up taller and pasted on my most charming smile. The girl’s eyes gleamed with a totally different, more frank appreciation as she took me in. Ignoring the subtle tightening in my chest, I strode toward the door. This was my job—be smooth and charming and get what we needed. However I had to do it.
Time to get to work.
Chapter Three
Lake
The second Barb showed up, I shoved her in the kitchen and begged one of the brewers to take over the bar. Cheerful greetings of the regulars and the sounds of glasses clunking on the wooden bar floated through the closed door of our too small office, but the brew pub was little more than a distraction at that moment. My whole focus was on Melissa and Alex. I hated the compassion and concern on their faces.
“Read it again.” I curled up in Dad’s ancient desk chair, staring at the letter in Melissa’s hands.
“Lake.” Alex’s pitying eyes betrayed
the calm of her voice. “The words aren’t going to change, no matter how many times you read it.”
I ignored her and looked Melissa straight in the eyes. “Read it again.”
Melissa unfolded the stiff creamy paper and smoothed it out on the desk. “Dear Ms. O’Brien. First, allow us to offer our belated condolences on the passing of your father, Patrick O’Brien. He was a long standing client of our firm, and we held him in a high regard.”
“Yeah, right,” I shouted at the letter. “Some big corporate attorneys in Denver who I’d never even heard of. They have no idea what kind of man my father was. Or that no one called him Patrick except Gran, and she’s been dead for a decade.”
Melissa folded the paper, but I reached out to stop her. “Please keep going.”
“You know what it says.” Melissa finished folding the letter and laid it on top of the will the lawyers had included in the thick envelope sent over a month ago. “Naked Brews belongs to your mom.”
“Don’t call her that.” I pushed out of the chair, yanked a dart from an old coffee mug, and chucked it at the board on the back of the door. “She left a long time ago and never looked back. Got herself a new, perfect little family that likes beige carpet and Sunday picnics with brie and pâté. The egg donor lost the right to be called mom when she decided Dad and I weren’t perfect enough for her Stepford dreams.”
“That’s not really—”
I cut Alex off with what Dad always called my Death Star glare. Powerful enough to destroy planets.
“Fine.” Alex twisted her silky brown hair up into a bun and wedged a pencil through it to hold it in place. “What are you going to do?”
“Fight it, of course. Dad and I talked about Naked Brews staying in the family for generations. No way had he wanted Emily Ryan to have it.” I grabbed another dart and flung it at the board, imagining her pinched, judgmental face right on the bull’s eye.
Alex grabbed the will and scanned through the pages. “I’m not a contract expert, but I’ve seen enough to know that these aren’t as contestable as Melissa’s romance novels would have you believe.”
“But Dad wanted me to have the brewery. I know for a fact that in the divorce Emily gave up all rights to it. She hated this place and couldn’t get far enough away from it and us. Why wouldn’t he have changed the will?”
“Sweetie.” Melissa put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a tight squeeze. “I loved Pat as much as everyone else here...”
“But?”
She pulled the rest of the darts from the coffee mug and hid them behind her back. “He wasn’t exactly the most organized person. After spending the last month going through all the financials, permits, and everything else, it’s a miracle this place doesn’t have a dozen citations for late filings and code violations. He had to apply for an extension on his taxes every year.”
Frustration thrummed deep in my chest. I fell back into the desk chair. Melissa was right. Dad could tell you if a beer’s ABV level was off just by smelling it, but he taught me how to forge his signature when I was twelve so I could keep the deposits from piling up and the electric bills from going unpaid.
“So what do I do? Just walk away?” On the desk, a tiny silver frame showcased a picture of Dad and me at a rock-climbing competition when I was a teen. Dad never could understand the thrill of hurling myself up the side of a cliff, but he was there, always. “This was his dream. I can’t let it die.”
“Maybe you could talk to Emily.” Alex grabbed the darts from behind Melissa’s desk and tossed them inside the open filing cabinet. “You said she couldn’t get far enough away from the brewery. Maybe she’d just give you Naked Brews.”
“Doubtful.”
On the few occasions each year when I did speak to the Mothership, the pleasantries always broke down into an argument about me working at the Brewery. You could do so much more with your life, Lake. The brewery is a dead end. Naked Brews is no place to work and have a family. According to Emily Ryan, “having a family” meant walking out on your husband and nine-year-old daughter like they were yesterday’s news. I’d rather have the brewery.
Outside the office, a familiar chant echoed through the pub. “Heads up for falling snow!”
I stood and ran my hands through my short blonde hair, probably making it look worse than it already did. “It’s doubtful Emily will help me, but I’m going to have to call her eventually. For now, we’ve got a pub full of people and a brewer who’s going to have my head on a platter if I don’t relieve him soon.”
I marched around the desk, squeezed between Alex and Melissa, and threw open the door, determined to focus on the tasks at hand and not the reality that the mother person was once again trying to ruin my life. I only got three steps out the door before running chest to chest into a yummy piece of man meat standing in the pub, brushing a small mountain of snow off his head and jacket.
So not a local. I definitely would have remembered laying eyes on that chiseled jaw, muscular physique, and green-eyed combination before.
I pointed at the wet snow dripping down the brown leather of his jacket. “Heads up for falling snow. It’s not just a pretty sign we hang on the door.” Though I wouldn’t mind hanging this pretty boy where I could keep him occupied for an hour...or two. God, it’d been a long time since I’d gotten laid.
“What a charming safety hazard. I’m looking for Lake O’Brien.”
The hair on the back of my neck bristled at his sharp tone, and his mossy eyes weren’t quite as attractive as they’d been a minute ago. “You found her. And you are?”
Pretty boy flashed me a toothy grin and fished a business card out of his leather jacket, knocking more snow on the ground. “Damian, but a beautiful girl like you can call me Walsh.”
I glanced down at the card, which read: Damian Thorne. Ghost Squad Charities. President. I turned the pretentious card over, but that was all the information given. “We do a few charity events every year, Mr. Thorne. Let me give you a quick intro to our PR manager.”
“Please call me Walsh.” Damian Thorne wriggled more snow out of his jacket and turned up the wattage on his smile. “I’d love to discuss your charity work later, maybe over a drink. I want to learn everything I can about the brewery.” He winked at me. What a pretentious asshat.
Alex, who was clearly watching the action from the office, snorted.
“Look, whatever your name is—”
“Walsh.”
“Fine. Walsh. As you can see, it’s lunch hour around here, and I’m a little busy. If you want to take a seat and wait, you’re welcome to it, but I have a brewery to run.”
I stepped to the side to get around him, but he cut me off, his broad chest nearly knocking me over. This guy didn’t know when to quit.
He flashed me another wide smile that probably worked on most girls. “I understand you’re busy, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see this much business in here. But I’m only in town for the day, and since this is about to be my brewery you’re running, I’m sure you can find a minute for me.”
Shock and fear shot down my body, colder than the heap of snow Walsh received from the slanted metal roof when he came in. “Naked Brews is my brewery.”
Walsh the douche dropped his charming smile and rolled his eyes. He dug around in his briefcase and pulled out a leather portfolio, waving it in my face. “According to the paperwork I have here, Naked Brews belongs to your mother, Emily Ryan, and when the ink is dry, it will belong to Ghost Squad Charities.”
I balled my fist up at my side and jutted my chin up at his smirking face. “Emily Ryan isn’t my mother, and Naked Brews will never belong to anyone but me, so you can march your arrogant ass right back out the snowy door you came in.”
“Is everything okay?”
I spun around and found Alex standing in the doorway to the office, her arms crossed over her chest. Melissa stood behind her.
“Everything’s fine.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “Mr. Fancy Pants thinks he
can buy the brewery from the Motherload, and I’m simply informing him that will happen over my cold, dead body.” I turned slowly back to face him to make sure he could see just how serious I was.
“Look, I couldn’t care less about your mommy issues. I have a signed letter here from Ms. Ryan giving me permission to look around the facility and investigate operations.”
Damn her. Damn Emily Ryan. Damn Walsh/Damian Thorne.
The door to the pub opened again, welcoming another group of hungry regulars. Colby waved spastically at me from behind the bar, a look of pure aggravation scowled across his face. I didn’t have time for any of this.
“Fine.” I tossed up my hands, frustrated with the entire morning. “Look around all you want, but don’t touch anything unless you’d like to leave here a few fingers short.”
I marched around him and headed straight for the bar to relieve Colby and pour myself a tall glass of the strongest beer on tap. Damn them all.
Chapter Four
Walsh
I couldn’t believe it. I laid on the charm as thick as it comes, and Lake fucking blew me off. Me. Just fifteen minutes ago, I’d been charmed by this small town and the friendly locals. Hell, I had numbers in my pocket from two of the girls I’d met at the ski shop who’d given me directions to this hole-in-the-wall brewery.
Who the hell thought a brewery—where beer was made for consumption—belonged in an old barn where they used to house livestock? Weren’t there sanitation issues about that? No wonder I’d missed this building I’d driven past at least four times. Yes, it was a huge, red building, but it was a fucking barn for god’s sake.
A barn with seriously faulty roof construction. No way in hell was it okay to build a place where patrons came in and out that let an avalanche of snow slide off the roof...over the doorway! What the fuck? Another chill ran down my spine as the icy cold water dripped off my hair and down my neck.