by Layla Reyne
Craft Brew
By Layla Reyne
Assistant US attorney Dominic Price is staring down the barrel of his father’s debts. The bull’s-eye on his back makes him a threat to everyone he cares about, so when his lover wants to go public with their relationship, he bolts. Not because he isn’t in love—he can’t stomach the thought of putting Cam in danger.
Kidnap and rescue expert Cameron Byrne is determined to figure out what trouble Nic is running from, but devastating news from home brings him back to Boston and to the cold case that has haunted his family for two decades. Shoving aside his pride, he calls Nic for help.
Together they search for answers, navigating the minefield of Cam’s past. But when they get too close to the truth, Cam must use every skill in his arsenal to save the man he loves...before it’s too late.
One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!
This book is approximately 70,000 words
Carina Press acknowledges the editorial services of Deborah Nemeth
Dedication
For my family
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Excerpt from Tequila Sunrise by Layla Reyne
Acknowledgments
Also by Layla Reyne
About the Author
Chapter One
“Move in with me.”
Four words that should have resulted in amazing sex round two.
Not that Cam had ever uttered those words before, but from what he understood, they usually brought a couple closer, including a celebratory tumble in the sheets. Perfect as he and Nic were already there, naked and sweaty from amazing sex round one.
Nic’s understanding, however, was apparently not the same as Cam’s. He stiffened in his arms one second and scrambled out of bed the next. Levering up, Cam braced a hand on the mattress and watched the giant cypress inked on Nic’s back sway with his mad dash to the bathroom.
“Never known you to run from an argument, Counselor!” Technically, they’d not been arguing, but Cam knew the start of one with Nic as well as he knew the other man’s taste. Arguing was what they did best, even better than sex.
“That’s not what I’m doing,” Nic hollered over the running water.
Cam flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Sure as fuck could have fooled me.” A warm wet rag slapped his face, and when Cam pulled it off, it was to the sight of Nic lowering himself onto the bed beside him.
He waited for Cam to finish wiping off, then took the rag and tossed it aside. He stretched an arm over him, planting it in the mattress on the other side of his hip, icy blues staring down at him. “I’m not running.”
“You tell me your rental is getting demo’d and you’re getting kicked out, which thank fuck because that place should have been torn down ages ago.” Aside from its proximity to the brewery Nic co-owned, the run-down duplex made no sense for Dominic Price, federal prosecutor and son of a real estate mogul. “Seeing as you’ve been here every night for four months, I made the logical suggestion that you move in.” He flung an arm toward the door. “And then you bolted like the sheets were on fire.”
“I’m leaving for San Diego.”
Shock propelled Cam up to seated again. “You’re what?”
Nic leaned back just in time to avoid a head-on collision. He folded his arms, lean muscles taut as they bisected the myriad of tattoos painting his torso. “The US Attorney down there is taking paternity leave. They need someone to cover.”
“And you volunteered?”
“No, they asked me.”
Cam scooted back against the headboard, letting it hold him up as his world spun faster than he was equipped to handle at this hour.
It was a great opportunity for San Francisco’s best Assistant US Attorney—getting out from under his asshole boss here and taking the reins of an entire operation there. Major problem for Cam, who after a year in the Bay Area had only recently begun to feel at home, in no small part due to the man beside him.
Anger and hurt bested professional goodwill. “Bullshit you’re not running.”
Nic inched closer, laying a hand on his thigh. “You’ll be safer if I’m not here.”
“This is about your father,” Cam surmised.
Nic’s diverted gaze confirmed as much. Curtis Price, once a Silicon Valley real estate tycoon, was drowning in debt, and last spring some of his lenders had come after Nic, looking to collect despite the decades’ estrangement between father and son.
Cam covered Nic’s hand with his own. “You said we would do this together.” Nic had promised to let him help with the investigation.
“The case, yes.”
“But not the moving-in part?”
“The case part has to come first.” Nic turned his hand over under Cam’s, lacing their fingers together. “I won’t put you at risk.” He was holding something back. The retired SEAL trying to protect him, the FBI agent.
Growling in familiar frustration, Cam tried to yank his hand free. “I can take care of myself.”
Nic held on tight. “Yes, you can, but I won’t paint a bull’s-eye on your back.”
“Think it’s a little late for that. Besides, things have been quiet lately.”
“And I mean to keep it that way,” Nic said. “Us moving in together, not quiet.”
“I’m not going to stop digging, whether you’re here or in San Diego.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” Nic conceded. “But without me here—” he patted the mattress “—you can do so quietly.” He leaned forward, drawing Cam into a kiss that snuffed out his anger but not the hurt.
Cam retreated, resting his forehead against Nic’s. “How long will you be gone?”
“Four to six weeks.”
“What about Gravity?”
“I can manage the business end of the brewery from anywhere.” Nic curled a hand around the side of Cam’s neck, squeezing lightly and drawing his gaze. “It’s a good opportunity. I’ll have my own office and can set the agenda. Take cases that matter, not just the ones that guarantee a win. You know as well as I do this is how DOJ works—we go where we can make a difference, where we’re needed.”
Like Cam had been needed in San Francisco, so he’d left Boston behind. And now Nic was needed in San Diego. But what about the people who needed Nic here? Was this thing between them not affecting Nic the way it was affecting Cam? “What happened to building something?” he whispered hoarsely.
Nic’s determination faltered and he twisted away, his back to Cam as he braced his heels on the bed rail. “I’ve never been good at construction. I’m better at demo.”
“That’s bullshit too,” Cam said, anger resurging, but redi
rected for Nic, not at him. “Look at Gravity, at your USAO teams, at your work with the Bureau.”
“It’s too good, Boston. You, us, most of all. And the last time I had it this good...” Glancing sideways, Nic’s eyes were brimming with remembered pain. “I made a mess of things and lost it all. I can’t let that happen again. I can’t lose you and everything I’ve already built here.”
His breath hitched, torso heaving, and Cam’s attention was drawn again to the giant cypress on his back, to the spindly limbs that curled over Nic’s shoulders and to the mysterious GS in the center of its trunk. His biggest mess, Nic had once said. And now Nic didn’t want to make another. This was affecting him, maybe more than it was affecting Cam. And if Cam wanted a shot at building more, he couldn’t push right now. That would be a mistake he’d regret. He needed to give Nic the space to find his answers. “Okay, Dominic. Go to San Diego.”
Nic huffed a relieved sigh, shoulders dropping and curling forward. “You gonna let the argument go, just like that?”
Trailing a hand over his back, Cam slid to his side and rubbed his cheek against Nic’s, the brush of scruff against his own electrifying. “I’m thirty-six,” he rumbled in Nic’s ear. “Not a fucking teenager. I’m going to miss you like crazy, but this is a two-way street, one I’d like to keep driving on with you, the same direction.” He grasped Nic’s chin and angled his face toward him. “Do what you need to clear the roadblocks.” He palmed Nic’s cock with his other hand. “And fuck me good before you leave.”
“Christ, I’m an idiot,” Nic growled, right before he did exactly as Cam asked, proving himself smarter than he gave himself credit for.
* * *
Five weeks later, Cam was wondering who was smart and who was the idiot. He was leaning toward them both being the latter, phone and video calls a poor substitute, especially as they’d both had less and less time for those owing to work. He glanced at the ever-growing stack of admin paperwork on his desk, the pile teetering precariously. Assistant Special Agent in Charge came with more than just a pay raise, not that the extra cash went far in the Bay Area, especially when he was trying to keep up with a bunch of fucking millionaires.
A new mail notification flashed at the bottom of his screen, and Cam groaned aloud, anticipating more busywork. Double-clicking the icon, he was halfway to hitting Print, his normal routine for admin emails, when he realized what it was—next week’s federal court calendar for San Diego. He’d set up the alert when the new month had rolled over without a firm word from Nic as to when he’d be home. Looking at the latest court calendar, which didn’t have D. Price on it anywhere, Cam deduced his answer was soon.
Which meant he needed to get his ducks in a row, namely on the case he was supposed to be working with Nic. Things had remained quiet during his absence, but with Nic returning, he’d be putting himself back in the line of fire, should his father’s lenders get impatient again. Cam wouldn’t let him get hit. He’d committed to never losing someone else he loved, which now included Nic, the miserable weeks apart making that conclusion irrefutable, even if he hadn’t let Nic in on that bit of information yet.
Pushing back from his desk, Cam left his office and strode through the bullpen. Bypassing the elevators, he continued down the long hall to “the cave,” the interior boardroom that’d been converted into the cyber agents’ domain. He wove through the server racks to the workstations in back, finding the agent he needed at her desk, a wobbly pencil bun visible above three oversized monitors. While the other agents paused and acknowledged him, the rapid-fire tap-tap-tap of Agent Lauren Hall’s nails didn’t let up.
“If you don’t mind?” Cam said, tilting his head toward the exit.
The other agents gathered their things and scurried out, the flurry of movement finally attracting Lauren’s notice. Brows drawn and eyes narrowed, she looked stumped, and seriously sleep-deprived. She was turning in her swivel chair, popping out her ear buds, when Cam plopped down behind the adjacent desk, the visitor chairs in front of hers made useless by the wall of screens.
“Something you can’t hack?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Well, at least he had better news for her. “Nic’s on his way back.”
Her big blue eyes brightened, a spark of excitement—she was fond of poking the prickly bear, and just generally fond of Nic—but then she reined it in, asking cautiously, “How do we feel about that?”
While he and Nic hadn’t told any of their friends about their relationship, Lauren had intimated she’d figured something was brewing between them. They hadn’t confirmed or denied.
“Like I need something to show for a month of work,” he answered.
She pressed her lips together like she wanted to say more. He glowered. She rolled her eyes, then spun back around to the monitors, some of the long brown waves coming loose from her bun.
“Curtis’s bank accounts continue to dwindle,” she said.
While they hadn’t been actively investigating, they had set up alerts on Curtis’s accounts and installed extra security at the properties he still owned.
“Any new loans?” he asked.
“Several. He’s barely afloat. Most were re-fis, except this one.” She rotated the monitor closest to Cam so he could see the document open on the screen.
He rolled his chair closer, squinting at the long-form deed of trust.
“It was made back in May,” she went on. “But only recorded this week.”
May.
Five months ago, when the threats against Nic had quieted.
Her rainbow-painted nails directed his attention to the property description line. “You recognize that address?”
“Fucking hell. That’s the mansion in Hillsborough.”
“Yup, and the same company holds the mortgage on the office building in Burlingame.”
“Please tell me you’ve cracked that.”
The mortgage holder had a generic company name, as did many real estate lenders and investment companies. Nic had claimed not to know who it traced back to. Cam didn’t buy it, suspecting that’s what Nic had been holding back.
“That’s where things get interesting,” Lauren said.
He waved a hand, prompting her to go on.
“There are other affiliate entities too, with loans on other Price properties, and at the top of each company’s org chart is Vaughn Investments.”
“Who runs that?”
Her dark brows raced all the way to her hairline.
“I’m supposed to know?” Cam said.
“Vaughn Investments is run by Duncan Vaughn.”
“Who’s he?”
“Only one of the biggest real estate investors in the Valley. He’s like, all over the weekly business journal, opening this or that new project. I can’t believe you don’t know who he is.”
“I haven’t lived here my whole life, remember.” He also avoided the local business journals and other reminders of how little money he made, relatively. In any event, his mind was making a more troubling connection. “So you’re telling me one of this area’s biggest real estate investors might be behind the threats against Nic?”
She nodded, not looking the least bit surprised. “I’m still tracing funds, but I’d doubt there’s any ‘might be’ to it.”
“Why’s that?”
She rapped her nails on the desk in a mock-drumroll. Good news did not follow. “Because Duncan Vaughn is Silicon Valley’s version of a gangster.”
* * *
The gate agent called for Zone 5 passengers to board, and Nic heaved himself out of the vinyl chair with a sigh, in no hurry to race the other passengers to hell. Ninety minutes of cramming his six-foot-three self into coach, then at the end of his journey waited a new apartment, a mountain of unpacked moving boxes, and a dark-haired, dark-eyed Bostonian whose mood Nic couldn’t pred
ict after five weeks apart.
Don’t run to your death, the SEAL saying went. When he’d been a SEAL, Nic took the saying seriously. Calm, methodical, well-scoped-out missions saved lives; uninformed, recklessness ones cost them.
He still took it seriously, post-military. Accepting Cam’s offer to move in with him would have been reckless, no matter how much he’d wanted to say yes. With his father’s creditors looming, Nic might have been running them both to their deaths. He wouldn’t have that, wouldn’t risk Cam. So, as Cam rightly accused, he’d run the opposite direction, making true the other SEAL saying inked on his torso.
The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday.
Because each day away from Cam had hurt. He’d missed his Southie drawl and hungry kisses, his bed with the so-worn-they-were-soft sheets, and even his big-as-a-dog cat named Bird. He’d also missed their friends, who’d been steadily expanding Nic’s world beyond Gravity and the US Attorneys’ Office. He’d missed them all—his life—more than he cared to admit. But facing them anew, after he’d cut and run, no matter how good the reason, was going to make yesterday, as miserable as it had been between trial and transitioning cases, somehow easier.
“Excuse me, Mr. Price?”
Nic turned toward the lilting British accent, finding an unfamiliar older gentleman standing behind him. Gray hair styled, expensive suit tailored, he carried himself with the impeccable air of a professional butler or steward, Nic familiar with the sort from when his father had a staff of more than two. The stranger also carried Nic’s checked suit bag over his arm.
“That’s me,” Nic said. “Is there a problem, Mr...?”
“Chase. Jeremy Chase,” the man said with a polite nod. “You’ve been rebooked onto another flight.” Jeremy held out a business card emblazoned with a star and clover logo Nic knew well. “I think you’ll find it a much more comfortable transport to San Francisco.”
Nic took the card, flipped it over, and read the note on the back. He couldn’t tell from the two-word order—Follow Jeremy—if the author was furious with him or not. Commands were her normal default. But there was no doubt that what she was offering, even if it came with a side of recriminations, would be more comfortable than Seat 25D. He pocketed the card, shouldered his messenger bag, and grabbed the handle of his carry-on. “The lady wants me to follow you, Jeremy.”