Porter: Men of Lovibond (Mend of Lovibond Book 3)

by Georgia Cates

  I’ve only seen Porter for a few minutes over the last several days. He gave me the website assignment on Monday and basically disappeared. I appreciate the obvious confidence he must have in me and my abilities, but it’s lonely being by myself so much. I’m confident in my designs, but it would have been nice to have had him here to approve what I’ve done.

  “Hey. Everything going okay in here?”

  I look up from my computer screen and smile—maybe a little too much—when I see Porter standing in the doorway. “It’s a little lonesome… but all is well.”

  “You’ve been sitting in that same spot for three days working on the same thing. Aren’t you stir-crazy?”

  “A little. I should probably get up and walk around a bit.” It’s not good to sit in the same position for too long.

  “Feel like taking a drive with me?”

  A drive… Porter and I in a car… just the two of us. That would probably blur the employee-intern line even more than eating burgers together. My daddy would not approve. “I’m game. Are we riding in the Porsche?”

  “No. I’d never drive it to the brewery. I’m in my truck.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Not sure. I just know it’ll be away from here.” I follow Porter out of the art department. “Quick detour to grab my keys.”

  I stand at his office door waiting for him. “Should I go clock out?”

  “No need.”

  I watch the door that connects the offices to the warehouse, hoping and praying my dad doesn’t come through it and catch me leaving the brewery with Porter. Doesn’t matter if I’m twenty-one and a college graduate or not. That would not go over well with him. He’s already made that much clear.

  Porter stops at Molly’s office doorway. “Frankee and I are going to step out of the office for a little while.”

  Frankee and I are going to step out of the office for a little while? Shit. Shit. Shit. That sounds suspicious. God, I hope she doesn’t jump to conclusions. Or say anything to my dad.

  The heat is nearly suffocating as soon as we walk out of the brewery. “I bet it’s at least ninety.”

  “If it’s ninety out here then it’ll be a hundred and ninety in my truck.”

  Porter’s monster black Ford pickup is jacked up and blacked out from top to bottom. It’s badass. “This is not what I expected you to drive.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “A luxury car.”

  “Because my other car is a classic Porsche?”

  “I guess.”

  Porter follows me to the passenger door and opens it. I’m talking legit. He opens it for me like a gentleman. Like my dad still does for my mom. Like guys my age don’t do. Or at least the ones I’ve dated.

  I use the running board to less than gracefully climb into the passenger seat. Thank God I’m wearing Chucks and not some kind of heel. “Short people and tall trucks don’t go together.”

  “Guess that means you don’t drive a monster truck?”

  “I drive a Honda.” Porter starts the engine and its rumble matches its badass exterior. “It’s big and loud. I guess men enjoy that—the roar of a big motor.”

  “We like ‘em big and loud.”

  “Because size matters?” Now I’m the one making statements with sexual undertones.

  He chuckles. “Can’t lie. Size matters.”

  “I like it, even if I do need a ladder to climb into it.”

  He turns on the radio. “Want the eighties or nineties station?”

  “I’m partial to music from those decades, but I listen to lots of other kinds of music too.”

  “I don’t mind eighties or nineties. Nice change of pace for me.”

  Porter chooses the eighties station on his satellite radio and Toto’s ‘Africa’ is playing. “Like that one?”

  “Love it.”

  He’s quiet as he drives down the road and I keep sneaking peeks at him. “Where are we going?”

  He stares ahead for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  I don’t know Porter well, but I can still recognize that his behavior is odd. “Is everything okay?”

  He grips the wheel. “No, Frankee. Everything is not okay. But I don’t want to talk about it while I’m driving.”

  Shit. Is he unhappy with my work? Is he going to fire me?

  He wouldn’t ask me to leave the brewery just so he could let me go. That doesn’t make sense. Something else must be going on. But what? “I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry.” He takes one hand from the steering wheel and pushes it through his hair from front to back. “Would it be okay if I took you to my condo?”

  Ohhh… he wants sex. I should have been able to figure that one out when he asked me to go riding with him.

  You are so dumb, Frankee.

  Porter is incredibly handsome. I’m sure he could ask a dozen women to go to his condo for sex and every one of them would probably say yes. But I’m not that way. I don’t fall onto my back and spread my legs for a guy because he’s hot. That doesn’t make me a prude or goody two-shoes. Just means I have standards.

  “I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I was that kind of girl. I’m not.”

  “No, Frankee. God, no. I don’t want to take you to my house for sex. That’s the last thing on my mind right now. I need to talk to you about something. Something that’s really important to me.”

  “I thought…” Shit. How humiliating. I want to melt and soak into the leather seat beneath me. “I’m terribly sorry. You can take me to your house if you’d like.”

  I’m too embarrassed to utter another word so music is the only noise in the cab of Porter’s truck during the rest of the drive. I’m grateful for the noise. It takes away from the awkward silence.

  We park and I follow Porter through the lower-level parking lot to an elevator. Silence all the way until we’re inside his condo. “Want something to drink?”

  It’s a hot June day in Alabama. It’s so hot that you almost need an IV to stay hydrated. “I’d take some water.”

  One look and I learn two things about Porter: he’s clean and organized. His gray living room’s decor is minimal with streamline furnishings. And spotless. Everything has its place.

  “I like your condo. Have you been here long?”

  “Two years.”

  I bet the cost of living in this area is astronomical. “The area is great. You have so many nearby dining and entertainment options. That must be nice.”

  “One of the reasons I chose this place.”

  Porter hands a bottled water to me before sitting in the chair beside the sofa. “I’m sure you must think I’m acting crazy.”

  “I wouldn’t say crazy. Maybe a little… unusual?”

  He twists the top off his bottled water and drinks close to half. “I know we don’t know each other well, but you’re the first person who came to mind when I recently got some bad news.”

  I have no idea what that means. “What’s on your mind?”

  “My mom was just diagnosed with breast cancer.”

  Oh. I get it now—why he asked me here to talk. “I’m sorry to hear that. Did your mom say what stage she has?”

  “One B?”

  “Did she explain the stages and what they mean?”

  “No. She’s so shaken that I’m not sure she’s had time to absorb anything about the stages or treatments.”

  That’s understandable. “One B is early breast cancer. The tumor is on the smaller side and has only spread to a few lymph nodes. The five-year survival rate is really high.”

  “So one B is a good one to have? I mean, as good as it can be with cancer?”

  “As far as cancer goes, there are definitely worse stages.”

  The lines in Porter’s face ease. “Was your mom’s bad?”

  “She had two A. It’s a little more advanced than one B. The five-year survival rate for her kind is around ninety-three percent.”


  “And my mom’s kind is higher than that?”

  “Oh, definitely. I’m not positive, but I think they may even predict it to be one hundred percent.”

  Porter’s face almost completely relaxes.

  Surgery. Radiation. Chemo. Side effects. Expectations. I tell Porter everything I know about breast cancer and its treatments. I answer his hundred and one questions, but more importantly I tell him what to expect as his mother undergoes treatment—the important stuff no one tells you.

  “Where does your mother live?”

  “Mobile.”

  “Is that where you grew up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are your parents still married?”

  “They are. And I have an older brother and younger sister who still live there.”

  “I’m sure that’ll ease your mind knowing she’ll have family to care for her.”

  “I guess. I know they’ll take care of her, but it won’t be like being there myself.”

  That makes me think even more of Porter than I already did. “Mobile isn’t that far. You can drive down whenever she needs you.”

  “I was afraid I was being out of line by asking you to come here, but I’m glad I did. You’ve put my mind at ease.”

  “I’m glad I was able to do that for you.”

  “I guess we should get back before everyone at the brewery starts to wonder where we disappeared to for so long.”

  Mutha-humper. We’ve been gone for almost three hours.

  People had to have seen us leaving together. They aren’t going to be wondering anything. They’re going to be assuming. “Umm… yeah. We’d better get back.”

  I relax when I return to the art department and don’t find my dad pacing the floor. I think it’s fair to say that the lack of his presence is equivalent to a dodged bullet this time.

  This time. What about next time? The next time Porter asks me to lunch. The next time he asks me to leave the brewery with him.

  Intuition tells me that this time won’t be the last time.

  I feel like I need to address yesterday with Frankee in case she’s feeling a little awkward about it. “Hey, I just wanted to run by for a minute and say thank you for yesterday.”

  “No problem.”

  “I can’t tell you how much our talk calmed my nerves. And my mom’s too. She sounded so much more hopeful after I told her about your mom’s experience.”

  “I’m really happy you were able to help ease her worries.”

  I could feel how much Frankee loves her mother. The same way I love mine. “You’ve been through this. You understand how I’m feeling right now.”

  “I do. And it can be very scary. Not everyone understands that the family member diagnosed with cancer isn’t the only one in need of support.”

  “I feel like I should warn you that I may need to talk again.”

  “I’m a daughter with a mother who had breast cancer. I’d be dumb if I didn’t take a special interest and learn everything I could about it. I’m your girl if you need to talk about it.”

  “I can come to you as long as it’s within the next three months, right?”

  “You know… we have these handy little gadgets these days called phones. I hear you can communicate on them, even from long distances.”

  I shake my head; she doesn’t get it. “Not the same thing. I won’t be able to see your face or feel the calm that you emanate.”

  “I emanate calm?”

  “You do. I don’t think you realize how much.”

  She laughs. “O… kay. I’m going to let you keep believing that.”

  “I am. Because it’s true.”

  I wasn’t originally planning to come into the art department and talk with Frankee. I was only going to quickly speak to her from the doorway, but like every other time I’m near her, I feel a pull drawing me closer. “What are you working on today?”

  “The merch page. How long since you updated that? The actual merchandise, that is. Not the page.”

  “A while.”

  “Yeah, I can tell. I really think Lovibond could use a facelift in that department.” She covers her face and peeks at me through a split between her fingers. “It’s rather stagnant. Sorry. Would you be all right with me designing some new products?”

  She’s a summer intern who’s telling her boss that his merchandise is stagnant. That takes balls. And she’s taking the initiative to improve it.

  I like this girl.

  “I haven’t had time to mess with that side of the marketing in a long time. What kind of products are you thinking about?”

  She sucks air in through her teeth, jaw clenched. “Sooo… this is the thing. Lovibond sells T-shirts and the designs are great but every one of them is for dudes. They’re a boxy fit with a high round neck. The fabric is thick and stiff. Girls don’t wear that kind of stuff. We want soft fabric. A fitted cut. A deep V to show off our boobs… and no guy minds that, right?”

  She caught my attention at boobs. “You’d be correct.”

  “You need at least one design and cut for women. And I think you need more options on the ball caps. You have one—and again, the design is great—but it’s for a guy.”

  I don’t know why I didn’t see that. “You’re right. My stupid man brain didn’t cater to the female clientele. That’s a huge mistake on my part since Lovibond is working hard to appeal to the female beer drinker.”

  “I’d also suggest offering a Lovibond logo beanie. This is a modern hipster company. It shouldn’t only have ball caps. And something else to consider: people are crazy about their pets. I think it would be cool to consider collars, leashes, and maybe even shirts for animals.”

  Frankee Dawson gets this company and the people we’re trying to market to—I think better than I do. “I can tell that you minored in marketing.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should. That’s what it’s intended to be.”

  “The seasonal labels are done and I should be finished with the website design by tomorrow. I can work on designing the new merchandise after I finish. If that’s what you and Oliver and Lucas want.”

  “You have my approval—and mine is the only one you’ll need—but I have to warn you. When Lawrence sees your label and website design and the new merchandise you’re coming up with, she’s going to want you to do the same for BCC.”

  “Designing for Bohemian Cider would be fun. I’d love to do it.”

  I see sheer eagerness in her wide eyes and broad smile. “I’m not showing Lawrence your work until you’re finished with Lovibond, or she’ll try to steal you out from under me. I can’t afford to share you right now. I have too much going on in the back.”

  “Everything okay?”

  No. Everything is definitely not okay. “The taste is off in about half of the sweet potato cream stout batches. We can’t figure out what’s happening to them.”

  Frankee grimaces. “Yikes… that is a problem.”

  “A big problem. If we can’t solve the problem soon, we’re going to be forced to change the seasonal to something else or not put out a seasonal at all this fall.”

  “Won’t you lose money?”

  “Definitely. Beer drinkers love seasonals. There’s a huge profit in it for us.” We won’t just not make money if we don’t put out a seasonal. We’ll lose a lot of money; so much time and effort has gone into perfecting this recipe.

  “Well, go do what you’ve got to do and don’t worry about what’s going on with graphics and marketing. I’ve got this covered, and I won’t hesitate to give you a holler if I run into a problem.”

  It’s a fucking relief to have her here.

  I trust Frankee’s judgment, and I know she’ll do an amazing job. The burden she has lifted from my shoulders is incredible. “Please know that the stellar job you’re doing doesn’t go unnoticed.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  She has been with us for two weeks. I can’t believe how much easier sh
e has made my job in that short time. I’m going to hate to see her go in September.

  “Do you like vegan food?”

  Frankee looks up at me from her computer screen. “I don’t know. I like vegetables so… maybe.”

  “It’s the craziest thing. Lawrence has gotten me hooked on this little vegan cafe about ten minutes from here. Their food is unusual but delicious. I’m thinking about riding over to check out their specials of the day. Wanna go with me?”

  A wrinkle forms across Frankee’s forehead and her brows tense. What does that mean? “You don’t have to worry. I won’t let you choose anything weird. I’ve tried everything, so I know what’s good.”

  “I’d like to but…” I wait for the words to follow her ‘but’ and I get nothing.

  “I’m your boss. I think you’re supposed to do as instructed. And I’m instructing you to have a healthy vegan lunch with me.”

  Okay. Maybe that’s a cheap shot—and not at all an instruction she has to follow—but I want to treat her to lunch. Reward her for a job well done. And maybe show her some appreciation for being so kind when she talked to me about my mom’s cancer.

  She leans away from her computer and shrugs. “When you put it like that, I suppose I have no choice but to follow my boss’s instructions.”

  “Are you at a good stopping place?”

  She nods. “I am.”

  “Good. We can go early and beat the lunch rush.”

  I forgo stopping by to tell Molly that I’m leaving. I don’t want to see the you’re-leaving-the-brewery-with-a-girl look on her face. I’ve already seen it once this week and that was enough.

  Molly is a sweet woman. Like a second mom to Tap and Stout and me. She wants us to be happy and has made it clear that she believes the first step in making that happen is being with the right woman. A wife. And she tells me often. To say that Mama Molly doesn’t approve of my dating habits is putting it mildly.

  Frankee places her foot on the running board of my truck. “Forgot my ladder.”

  “My truck isn’t that tall.”

  “Says the man who is at least a half-foot taller than me. I’m five-four on my best day.”