by K. B. Jacobs
My rage dissipated so quickly it was like it had never even been there. What the fuck was up with that?
Hell, I’d only chatted with Lake for a couple of minutes, and the discussion had been highly confrontational. I chose to ignore the bizarre emotional swings that made absolutely no sense and instead focused on the job at hand. “I saw the look between you two when I mentioned Pat,” I said to the other two guys. “What was that about?”
“We all loved Pat,” said Joe. “And while he had his flaws, we really respected what he did here.”
“Damn girl is too young to be running the brewery,” Smitty mumbled.
I eyed him and tilted my head at him to continue.
“Listen, I love that girl,” Smitty added. “She’s hung out here since she was in pigtails, and she has Pat’s talent for brewing, but that doesn’t mean a twenty-four-year-old woman-child should be in charge of a business like this.”
“Smitty,” Joe rebuked, his tone low.
“What? It’s true. We all know it. Look at the debacle last week with that shipment to White Sands. That kind of thing never would have happened when Pat was running the place.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Joe explained, “Some paperwork got misplaced and a couple of the wrong bars got the wrong beer. It could have happened to anyone. Like Harlan—the brew master—says, we have to be patient while she’s getting her feet under her. She lost her dad and that was a shock...to us all. It will just take a little bit for her to settle into the job.”
“Has that kind of thing happened a lot since she took over?” I asked, but the skin on the back of my neck prickled in warning.
Warner glanced behind me, his eyes wide.
I inwardly cringed as I turned around with my disarming smile on my face.
Her eyes glinted with shards of ice as she glared at us. The high circles of color on her pale cheeks made her look even more glorious. This was a passionate woman, full of spit and fire. She intrigued me.
“Ms. O’Brien, it’s so lovely to see—”
“Cut the crap, Thorne.” She cut me off with a slice of her hand, her voice hard as flint. “You wouldn’t be trying to dig up dirt on me now, would you?”
Her gaze was ice cold, but instead of freezing me like it should have, that look heated my skin and sent a sizzling bolt of awareness straight to my groin.
Fuck, this was not the time for my libido to awaken after its three-year hibernation.
Chapter Seven
Lake
Walsh shrugged like I hadn’t just caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. This room normally bustled with the sounds of the machinery and clanking glass bottles, but I could have heard a pin drop as all the men froze in place under the weight of my glare.
“You call it digging up dirt. I call it probing a potential investment.”
I forced my mouth into a smile and bit my tongue. Everything about this arrogant bastard had me on edge, and the sooner he was out of here, the better. “Look, Mr. Thorne—”
“Walsh.”
“Fine. Walsh.” I clenched my fists at my sides. Must not hit the decorated army veteran. “I appreciate that Emily and you have an arrangement, but this is all new information to me. In the spirit of cooperation, maybe it would be best if you found somewhere else to be until I’ve had the chance to speak to her.” Those saccharine-sweet words tasted like skunked beer slipping off my tongue.
This was Alex’s forte. She could charm the tail off a rattlesnake and have him hissing thanks on the way out. I’d rather hit the snake with a shovel.
Walsh only inflated with my words, his broad shoulders getting bigger, though I never would have guessed that was possible. “Ms. O’Brien. Are you trying to kick me out?”
A suppressed cough sounded behind Walsh from where Smitty and Warner stood, hanging on our every word. Even more than him nosing around in the brewery, I hated the idea of him back here, getting cozy with my guys. It was hard enough getting a team who had seen all my awkward teen years to respect me. The last thing I needed was Walsh planting more seeds of doubt. I’m sure there were enough of those before he got here.
“This may be charity work to you, but we still have a brewery to run and beer to bottle.” I directed the last part of my sentence over his shoulder to the three guys still standing there like they didn’t want a paycheck.
“Yes, I see.” Walsh turned back toward our bottling station. “All three bottles.”
I was well aware of how rinky-dink our operation might appear to an outsider, but we made it work. My teeth ached with how hard I clenched my jaw to keep from spouting something acidic back at him. Maybe if he thought this place wasn’t up to par, he’d walk away. I certainly wouldn’t be sad to see his perfect ass walk out the door.
“Hey, Lake,” Joe yelled over to me.
I glared back at him, but he either didn’t notice the steam coming out of my ears or didn’t value his life as much as I would have thought.
“Did you know Walsh here served with Jimmy Hebert?”
The name was like an ice-cold pile of snow sliding off the roof smack into my face. I had never been close to Jimmy, but in a town as small as Aspenridge, everyone knew everyone. Jimmy’s death hit all of us hard. Hell, we had a beer named after the guy.
I nodded at Walsh. “Jimmy was a good guy.”
“One of the best.”
There was a moment of silence between us, almost as if we’d come to an understanding. I stared into his green eyes and could almost imagine what it would feel like to run my hands through his wavy, strawberry-blonde hair.
“That’s why I’m here. To make sure his favorite brewery isn’t run into the ground by poor management.”
And just like that, the moment was gone.
“You.” I jabbed a finger into his brick wall of a chest. “My office now. And you three—” I gave my packaging crew my Death Star glare. “This beer isn’t bottling itself. Get back to work.”
Without waiting to see if anyone was following my orders, I spun on my heels and marched through the break room, past the delivery doors, around the brew tanks, and back into my office. Walsh came in only a few steps behind me.
Melissa and Alex took one look at the pair of us and hightailed it out of there. Probably up to Melissa’s apartment over the kitchen so they could lament together about how hard the bloodstains would be to get out of the desk chairs.
The second the door closed behind them, I dropped my polite professional act and let go of the words I’d been dying to say since I found Walsh playing the spy in the packaging room. “How dare you? I’ve been a part of Naked Brews since it was nothing but a five-gallon carboy in my dad’s garage. I’ve been involved in the brewing operations since I was ten. I came home from college almost every weekend to be here. I know more about beer than you could learn in a dozen lifetimes.”
He smirked. He actually had the audacity to stand in this office where my dad dedicated so much of his life and smirk at my commitment.
I put both hands on his chest and pushed. Walsh barely swayed backward, his feet cemented to the floor. My temperature spiked another ten degrees, and my vision narrowed in on his pretty-boy face. I wanted nothing more than to slam a fist into it.
“You see yourself as some kind of savior, marching in here with your leather briefcase and fancy suit. You think you can take a stroll around the brewery and know how to manage this place better than me? You have no idea what it takes to run a brewery.”
“From what I’ve seen, neither do you.”
“Fuck you.” The words spat out, dripping with venom. “Fuck you. Fuck your little charity case. Fuck your agreement with Mother Dearest. And fuck your smug, self-righteous judgment.”
Walsh took a step toward me, that stupid smirk still twisting his pillow-soft lips. “I just call it like I see it.”
“Get out.” The words were barely a whisper, but there was no mistaking them for softness.
“Ms. Ryan says I don�
��t have to.”
I took a step toward him so that our toes were practically touching, and he had to look down to see me. “I know everyone in this town. I went to school with half the guys in the pub. Big guys. I know all the cops down at the station. I know every man with a baseball bat within a five-mile radius. I don’t care what Ms. Ryan has to say. Get out.”
Walsh stepped back and rested his hand on the doorknob like he owned the place. “I’ve seen everything I need to see. It helps to go into an investment with an improvement plan already in mind.”
He turned the knob and walked out. Out of my office. Out of my brewery.
My. Brewery.
How long would I be able to call it that? All the adrenaline leaked out of me, and my legs gave out. I plopped down on the floor and leaned my back against the desk. It didn’t matter how committed I was to making this work. The brewery wasn’t running as well as it could. Dad left giant-sized shoes to fill, and it seemed like the harder I tried to fill them, the more mistakes I made.
The doorway filled with legs, and I looked up to find Melissa and Alex staring down at me. “What did I say about looking at me like that?”
“This isn’t pity.” Alex used a finger to draw a circle around her face. “This is the face of someone trying to figure out if you need an IPA or a Porter.”
“Porter, please.”
Alex handed me a glass, and the two of them joined me on the floor, their own beers in hand. We did a three-way glass clink, followed by a healthy sip that instantly put me in a better mood. My world might be falling apart, but there was a special comfort in having two best friends and a good brew.
Chapter Eight
Walsh
I stormed out to my car, my dress shoes slipping and sliding on the snowy gravel. Dammit. As if this day wasn’t enough of a shitfest, it had snowed at least two or three inches while I’d been inside the brewery.
With enough force to do some damage, I threw my leather briefcase across the small interior of the car, ignoring when it popped open and papers spilled all over the passenger floorboard.
I flipped the wipers and defrosting systems on high and slammed the car into reverse, not even caring I could barely see out the windows with all the snow. “Call Damian,” I growled into the Bluetooth system.
“Tell me,” Damian answered.
“That woman—” I clenched my teeth with the need to scream, yell, or hit something...or even better, a combination of all three. “She’s fucking impossible. She kicked me out of the brewery. Me!”
“Are you telling me that she didn’t fall for the world-famous Walsh charm?” Damian’s laugh just served to further infuriate me.
“Yeah, laugh it up big guy, but she threatened me with a bat.” Okay, maybe it hadn’t been a real bat, but she’d definitely mentioned damaging me bodily with a bat. Fuck her. “She doesn’t know anything about this deal. I’ve got no idea what’s going on between this chick and Emily Ryan, but you need to get on the phone with her and find out. Because as it stands right now, I will not be having sex with that woman. Nope, nope, a whole lot of hell no.”
Damian choked. “Walsh?” His tone suddenly switched to low and suspicious.
I glanced at the Bluetooth screen. What the fuck was up with that tone? But as my car slid on the icy road, I refocused outside.
“You won’t be having sex with Emily Ryan or Lake O’Brien?” Damian asked while I regained control of the car.
What? I overcorrected the steering and slid again. “What are you talking about?” I yelled, even as my cock pulsed with the thought of slamming hard and deep into Lake’s tight little body. Fuck. This was not the time for my body to reawaken.
“That’s what you just said,” Damian said slowly.
“No, I fucking did not. I said I wouldn’t do business with Lake O’Brien. What the fuck, Damian?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Walsh, you don’t let anyone get under your skin. What’s up with you and this girl? Are you attracted to her?”
“No!” I glared down at the Bluetooth screen, wishing Damian could see just how totally off base he was on this.
There was no way I’d ever...
Yeah, she was sexy as fuck, but...
No, just no.
As a horn blared, I looked up and overcorrected. Desiree spun, metal crunched, and pain exploded across the side of my head.
Light faded to darkness as Damian yelled from my speakers, “Walsh! Walsh! What happened?”
Chapter Nine
Lake
“Okay.” I drained the last of my Porter and handed the empty glass to Alex. “Time to bite the bullet and talk to the female co-creator.” With one hand on the desktop, I leveraged myself off the floor and took a deep breath to steady my nerves.
“How many beers have you had today, Lake?” Melissa jumped up with her hands out, as if I wouldn’t crush her tiny frame in a fall. She eyed me nervously. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to talk to Emily.”
I straightened and tugged at my shirt to make sure I was all in place. “Seriously? You once saw me run an obstacle course in a clown suit after having twice as much to drink. Three beers is a warm up to take the edge off, and that’s definitely the best way to talk to Emily.”
“Should we stay or go?” Alex took Melissa’s glass and set all three on top of the rickety filing cabinet.
“Stay. I’ll put the phone on speaker.” I sat down in the desk chair, suddenly exhausted by the prospect of this phone call. “This impacts the two of you just as much as me. You both quit good jobs to come help me, and if I can’t convince her not to sell, we all could be out of work.”
Melissa and Alex wheeled their chairs around so we were all as close as we could get, and I slid the ancient phone around to the middle of the desk.
“Here,” Melissa said, handing me a color-coded spreadsheet. “These are the financials you asked for. You might need them.”
I ignored most of what was on the page. If Melissa did it, I could just trust it was right. My eyes went right to the bottom where a not small negative number sat at the end of the column. “Is this...we’re in the hole?”
Melissa nodded. “Pat took out a second mortgage to add new fermentation vats a few years ago. We’re basically breaking even on distribution sales, but that’s the only place. I can go over it all with you if you want. There are definitely some places where we need to re-evaluate.”
“Yes, please. But first, this phone call.” I stared at the red number again. This could actually be good news. No way Emily knew our financials. Once she realized the brewery was pretty much worthless on paper, maybe she’d just let me have it. No way Walsh, boy moron, would still want it.
I punched the number into the phone, and the room filled with a dull ringtone.
“Good morning, and thank you for calling Longell Enterprises. Emily Ryan’s office.”
Of course, I couldn’t just call straight to her. I didn’t even have her cell phone number, not that I’d want it.
“Hello, this is Mrs. Ryan’s daughter, Lake. Is she in?” I held my breath. Maybe she’d be out of the office today, and I could just write her a detailed email instead.
“Of course, Ms. Ryan, let me put you through.”
The line clicked over before I could tell the overly-chipper secretary that I was an O’Brien. Never a Ryan.
“Lake, sweetheart, is it really you?”
“Hello, Emily.” I squirmed in my chair, and Melissa laid a reassuring hand on my arm.
“Darling, I’m so sorry about your father. I wanted to come down for the funeral, but it was the end of the quarter for us at work, and I was absolutely swamped. Did you get the floral arrangement I sent?”
You mean the one you had your secretary send down addressed to Lake Ryan? “Yes, I got it. But I wanted to talk to you about the brewery.”
“Of course, I was shocked to find out that your father’s will named me, but I can understand how he wouldn’t want that burden resti
ng on your shoulders. Don’t worry about a thing. I have a buyer all lined up. We just need to iron out a few more details, and you’ll be able to move on with your life.”
“Move on with my life?” The words came out more forceful than I intended.
Alex shot me a warning glance from across the desk. When dealing with Emily, it was always best to keep an even keel. I learned long ago that when things get uncomfortable, Emily Ryan shuts down and runs.
I took a deep breath and evened out my voice. “What do you mean?”
“Move on. Go live your life. The brewery was always your father’s dream, and you were faithful to him to a fault, but he’s not holding you there anymore.” Her words were punctuated by the light tapping of keys as if she was already done with our conversation. “Now you and those friends of yours can find real careers with a solid future.”
Alex stood up, grabbed a handful of darts out of the filing cabinet, and handed them all to me. I threw three in rapid release, each of them hitting the board with a satisfyingly loud thunk. It would have been more satisfying to throttle Emily Ryan through the phone line, but I’d take what I could get. “If you had asked, I would’ve told you I’m not at the brewery out of obligation. I like it here. Love it actually. And the girls like it, too.”
I glanced at each of them, and they nodded in agreement. What would I do without those two?
“Be that as it may, it’s not where you belong.” Her words were clipped and harsh, cutting me with their reality. “Legally, the brewery is mine, and I’m selling it. End of story.”
Time for the big guns. “Does your buyer know Naked Brews is barely breaking even on operations and has a mountain of debt to pay off? I doubt they’ll be so keen to open their checkbooks once they find out this place is a financial pit.” I smiled, imagining Walsh’s smug face falling to pieces when he realized this place was a horrible financial investment.
“Well, I’m not surprised. Your father always did pay more attention to brewing beer than balancing books.” More keys clacked in the background. “As it is, the buyers have already informed me that they’re willing to take on the brewery regardless of its financial situation. Something about honoring a friend. I can’t remember.”