If he were launching the expression in Ireland, he would have had that many customers lined up within a week, even without labels on the bottles. Breaking into the U.S. markets without relying on his family’s PR machine backing the venture was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated. Maybe it had been a naive dream, but he’d figured with such a sizable focus on craft distillers in the States, customers would welcome him—and his superior liquid—with open arms.
Iain wasn’t being arrogant; what his brilliant sister had created (with a bit of his input, of course) was remarkable whiskey. A fifteen-year-old single malt matured in bourbon barrels before being finished in Pedro Ximenez sherry puncheons was some of the best whiskey he had tasted in years. With a nose that recalled relaxing in an oak-lined library, the scent of a wood fire blazing in the hearth while you sipped mulled wine and snacked on fresh gingerbread, Whitman’s lingered on the tongue with silky notes of sticky toffee pudding, candied fruits, cinnamon, and nutmeg. To Iain’s mind, it was Christmas in a glass, and it was unlike anything anyone in Ireland was currently producing.
“That’s not going to cut it, son.”
“I know,” he groaned. Trust me, I know. “But I’ve still got sixty days to line up the remaining forty customers, and I have some ideas that I think are going to work. I met with a designer—”
“I told you; you should use ours. They know Brennan’s branding and what works for the label.”
“We talked about this, dad. We don’t want to launch another Brennan’s whiskey. What Maeve has done is so different from anything our family has ever put out. We want it to stand on its own.”
“While relying on my connections for barrels and using my facility for storage.” His father snorted. “But you and Maeve keep telling yourself you’re doing this on your own.”
Iain bit back the retort that rested bitterly on the tip of his tongue. His dad might be the chairman of Brennan Family Distillers, one of the only independently owned and operated whiskey brands left in the country, but he didn’t own the company outright. Thanks to Iain’s great-great-great grandfather, every male Brennan was given a share of the company immediately upon his birth. A fact his sister, a better distiller than any of his brothers or uncles could ever claim to be, bemoaned almost daily. The patriarchy wasn’t kind to female Brennans. But since Iain owned approximately two percent of the company, and the Whitman’s barrels took up significantly less than two percent of floor space in the warehouse, he had no ethical qualms about using a Brennan facility for storage.
Gripping the roots of his hair tight in his fist, Iain kept his voice as even as he could. “Is this the part of our conversation where I remind you that I own two percent of Brennan’s, and that technically speaking, you’re only a majority shareholder—not the only one?” It was probably a mistake to poke the bear, but he didn’t seem to have a choice.
Iain’s father bristled visibly, and his face flushed red. “If so, this must be the part of the conversation where I remind you that you have sixty days left to make a success of this harebrained scheme. If you can’t, I expect you back at your desk in Dublin, or I might be forced to find someone else to take over your job.”
With those last snapped words, his father abruptly ended the call, leaving Iain to stew over the old threat hanging over his head. The threat that kept him up at night, wondering if he was fooling himself … if he actually had what it took to make a go of this.
Iain wasn’t too proud to admit he’d gotten his job because of who he was, but he’d also attended university and done an intensive internship in London. He had the education to back up his ideas. And it was his idea and hard work that had earned the tasting room an award for being the top tourist attraction in Dublin. He’d done that; not his father … and certainly not his brothers. t pissed him off that regardless of his success, they had the power to make him doubt himself.
Fucking imposter syndrome, he thought as he pushed off the chair and paced the floor—what little there was of it..
He loved the Oakwell Inn, but his room was the smallest one, the majority of the floor space taken up by the plush queen bed and an antique bureau. With a quick sweep of his eyes over the space, he acknowledged he couldn’t stay there much longer. Landing at Noah’s girlfriend’s B&B that first day had been a stroke of good luck, but the costs were adding up. Since he now planned on camping out in River Hill for two more months, he needed to find a less expensive, more permanent place to stay. The town’s central location and artisan population made it a good base of operations for his plan, but a pricy bed and breakfast wasn’t really in the budget.
Unbidden, his mind flashed to Naomi’s cute little bungalow at the edge of town. Not that he was thinking of asking her if he could stay there—he liked the woman just fine, and her bed had been incredibly comfortable, but that was taking things a bit far. No, what he needed was a little cottage of his own. Someplace he could stretch out and think. Someplace he didn’t have to feel guilty for coming in late or walking in on the housekeeper folding his drawers. Somewhere he could invite a certain dark-haired beauty to spend the night if he wanted.
But before that could happen, he’d need to convince her to see him again. They hadn’t discussed their two amazing hook-ups, but Iain knew a person who wanted to keep things casual when he saw one—mostly because Naomi’s attitude thus far mirrored his own exactly. No promises of tomorrow, no declarations of intent … just incredible, toe-curling sex followed by a “see you when I see you” mentality. They weren’t friends, not exactly, and yet for all of his carefree approach to relationships, he wouldn’t mind actually being friends with Naomi. Friends who occasionally fucked. Okay, friends who frequently fucked, because as much as he thought he’d enjoy hanging out and having real conversations with her, he couldn’t deny he’d probably enjoy sleeping with her more.
In fact, he wouldn’t mind meeting up for round three, if she was amenable.
Iain flipped through the contacts on his phone before he realized he didn’t have her number. Shit. He could probably get it from Noah, but that might be weird. He didn’t particularly care to explain how he’d left a business meeting without getting a potential contractor’s phone number. He scratched his head and tried to figure out a way to get in touch with her. He supposed he could send her an email, but that assumed she’d see it and read it immediately. He had far too much excess energy to sit around waiting on that. Opening Google, he searched for NK Designs, hoping she had a website with a contact number listed. Bingo! Pressing his finger to the number, he brought the phone to his ear and listened to it ring on the other end.
After six long trills, her voicemail clicked on. This is NK Designs. Leave a message after the tone, and I’ll return your message within twenty-four hours. It was obviously a business line, not her cell.
Iain jabbed the red ’end call’ button and shoved his phone into his back pocket. He might not know how to get ahold of Naomi, but he couldn’t sit in his room stewing any longer. Sure, he’d promised himself he would finish off his bottle of bourbon, but that wouldn’t solve his problems any more than hanging up on his father would have. It might be too early to get drunk on booze, but there were no similar rules about sugar. Grabbing the keys to his rental off the small table located just inside his door, he spun them around his finger and made his way outside to the small blue Toyota he’d rented for the duration.
Ten minutes later he pulled up outside The Breadery, the bakery in the middle of River Hill known for both its bread and its pastries. Surveying the tarts and cakes on display in the front window for a couple of seconds, Iain pulled the door open. As the bell overhead chimed, he came to an immediate stop, a broad smile spreading across his lips. Sitting on a long wooden bench running along the side of the waiting area was a woman he knew tasted far better than any cake or cookie. And she looked good enough to eat.
9
“Heads up!”
Naomi looked up just in time to get hit in the face by a crink
led piece of parchment paper bearing The Breadery’s logo. “If that had been my fritter, you would have been a dead man, Sean Amory,” she called to the smirking blond man behind the counter.
“Worth it,” he said. “Come and get it. Nice and toasty.”
She levered herself off of the bench and got halfway to the counter before she realized who was standing just inside the door, smoldering at her. “Oh! Hi, Iain.” She smiled at him, then crossed the rest of the distance to the counter to accept the wrapped package Sean was holding. She squinted up at the tall baker, lips tightening. His eyes were bleary, and the lines deepening across his jaw spoke of another long night down at the local dive bar. “Sean—”
He held up a hand. “Save it.”
She scowled at him. “How long are you going to—”
“Oh, look, a customer,” he said pointedly. “However can I help you, fine sir?”
Iain came up next to Naomi and perused the glass case. “What did you get?” he asked her.
She held up her treat. “Apple fritter. They only make them on Tuesdays.” Because The Hut closed early on Monday nights, so Sean was sober enough to get up early to chop the apples. But that was neither here nor there. Iain didn’t need to know about Noah’s friend’s sordid history or how he was coping with it any more than he needed to know about the little gathering Noah and Max were planning to figure out what to do about it. He wasn’t a permanent fixture of their group, and he wasn’t staying in River Hill.
“Sounds good to me.” Iain turned back to Sean. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
“How very When Harry Met Sally,” Sean observed. Naomi shot him a warning glance, but he just laughed as he pulled another fritter out of the case and turned to put it into the heating oven on the back counter.
Iain shifted closer to Naomi, and she felt the warmth from his body seeping into her own. “How’re you?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Sculpture coming along?”
She nodded. “The clay’s finally dry enough to carve. It took a little longer than I expected, so I did some design work.”
He winced. “Speaking of design work—”
She shook her head. “Iain ...”
“Naomi, I’m dying over here. I even talked to a couple of the people you recommended, and they’re all giving me the same crap. Here, wait.” He tugged his phone out of his pocket.
“Did you clearly and concisely explain what you needed?”
“Yes, I’m not an idiot. I’ve been in marketing for more than ten years.” He tapped his phone’s screen and then held it out to her. “This is all I can get out of anybody.”
Naomi peered at the tiny image and wrinkled her nose. “Watercolor? Really?”
“It’s on trend.” He elongated the words, making them sound as pretentious as possible, and she laughed.
“I mean, it is, but it’s the wrong approach for what you’re doing, isn’t it?”
He sighed. “Yes. And I can’t get approval for the new label from my father anyway, so it probably doesn’t matter.”
Sean reappeared behind the counter and handed Iain his pastry. “Tough break, dude. Family businesses can be rough.”
“You’re familiar?”
Sean laughed, but to Naomi’s ear, he didn’t really sound all that amused “Oh, yes. The Breadery’s been the Amory family business for generations. My mom owns it. I just work here.”
Iain shook his head. “Got some new ideas you want to try out, do you?”
Sean’s jaw tightened visibly. “Something like that. It’s hard to argue with your family when they just want what’s best for you, man.”
Iain blew out another long breath. “Tell me about it. Sometimes I wonder whether they know me at all.”
“That’s true of families everywhere,” Naomi said. “Business just makes it more complicated. When your livelihood is intertwined with your family, it’s a lot harder to stand up and prove yourself.”
“Were you ever in the family business?” Iain asked her.
“Please. Do these look like doctor’s hands?” She held up the hand that wasn’t clutching her fritter, showing off the streaks of clay and ink she hadn’t bothered to scrub off.
Sean smirked at her. “Not cut out for it, huh?”
“Not interested. And don’t poke fun at me, baker boy.” She leveled a finger at him. “I’m leaving you alone. For now.” Sean’s drinking hadn’t impacted anybody other than himself—yet—but it was only a matter of time. “Come on, Iain, let’s leave him to wallow in his bread dough.”
“Nice to meet you,” Sean called as Iain held the door for her. “Hope you survive.”
“Seems like a good guy,” Iain remarked as he strolled down the street next to her. “Nice that he’s on track to take over the family business, assuming that’s what he wants to do.”
She shook her head. “No way to tell. He used to be a record producer in L.A. Big time. Something happened and now he’s back here.” She paused. “He drinks a lot.”
“I assume you don’t mean that in the good way.”
Iain made a living from selling alcohol, she realized. “Sorry. No.” She winced. “Awkward.”
He shrugged. “Appreciating it is different from drowning in it.”
She nodded. “So, what are you going to do about your problem, since we’re not solving Sean’s out here on the sidewalk?”
He grinned at her. “Actually, I’m pretty sure my problem can’t be solved on the sidewalk either. At least, not if public decency laws are still a thing.”
She laughed. “Oh, is that what we’re talking about now?”
“Maybe.” He unwrapped his fritter and took a bite. “This is really good.”
“I know.” She’d planned on taking hers straight home and devouring it while she stared at the clay and waited for inspiration to strike, but strolling along next to the sexy Irishman was unexpectedly fun. She folded the paper carefully down so she wouldn’t get her fingers sticky and took her first bite. “So … your place or mine?”
He winced. “Given that ’my place’ is still a tiny room at the Oakwell Inn, I’d be grateful to go to yours.”
“Yeah? How grateful?”
Extremely grateful, as it turned out. Naomi couldn’t even regret the time lost working in her studio because yet again she jumped up out of bed crackling with creative energy.
She shook Iain, who was drowsing. “Do you mind if I go upstairs?”
“Mmph. Go for it.” He scrubbed his hands over his eyes and stretched as she admired the play of his muscles. “Can I make some calls from your office?”
“Sure. It faces the front window and I don’t have any curtains, though. Fair warning.” She grinned at him. “The neighbors might be curious.”
He sat up, and her mouth watered a little at the sight of his bare chest. “Should I give them a show?” He flexed an arm.
“Depends on your goals.” She laughed. “You might get a basket of brownies from Mr. Hughes, but Mr. Tidewell would probably critique your form.”
“Aging bodybuilder?”
“Former Navy.”
“Ouch. I’ll put on a shirt, in the interest of international relations.”
“I think we already had those,” she teased as she headed out the bedroom door and up the stairs.
Two hours later, she sat up and stretched, sending a small avalanche of clay dust tumbling to the floor. “Damn. Every time.”
“Art seems messy.” Iain was at the door again.
“It is,” she said ruefully. “There’s a ShopVac in the closet.”
“You ready for it? I can grab it.” He moved toward the closet in the corner opposite the bathroom.
“Sure. I need a break.” She’d finally gotten the curve of the biggest element shaped the way she wanted, but how to pull off the next part still eluded her.
He rummaged in the closet for a bit and then pulled the large, wheeled vacuum out. “Got a plug?”
“Right there.�
�� She pointed.
He rolled the vacuum to her, then unwound the cord and plugged it in. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” She made quick work of vacuuming up the piles of dust, then ran the hose over her shirt a couple of times. “Done.”
“That how you do laundry?”
“What, they do it differently in Ireland?”
He laughed. “Talk about cultural differences.”
She unplugged the vacuum and put it away, then shooed him out of the studio and down the stairs.
“So, do you know what you’re making yet?” He followed her into the bedroom as she stripped off the dusty shirt and dropped it into her laundry basket.
“Sort of.” It wasn’t what she’d expected it to be, but if she could get the clay to reveal what she saw in her mind, it would be some of her best work. She went into the bathroom to brush additional dust out of her hair.
“I just don’t get how you see what’s inside the clay,” Iain said thoughtfully. He was perched on the edge of her bed, watching her through the open bathroom door.
She twisted her hair into a quick ponytail and shrugged. “Years of practice? Innate talent? Artistic genius? How do you know what a new whiskey is going to taste like?”
He looked at her and smirked. “I taste it.”
“Oh. Maybe that was the wrong metaphor.”
He laughed as she pulled a fresh tank top out of her dresser. “I get where you were going with it, though.”
“Did you get all your calls made?” she asked, gesturing for him to lead the way toward her home office.
“Most of them. I stole some of your printer paper to take notes.” He picked up a folded sheaf of paper and waved it at her. His handwriting was neat, she noticed. Lots of slashing angles, but very readable.
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