After that, they didn’t talk about anything for a long while.
Over the next few days, they fell into an easy routine. Sex (so much sex), working, and the occasional outing in River Hill, to dinner at Frankie’s or coffee at the Hollow Bean. On the days when Iain was on the road, driving up and down the coast securing contracts for Whitman’s, Naomi worked furiously on the sculpture in her studio, carving the tiniest details into the growing form on her bench. It was nearly done.
So was their time together—something she was trying not to think about. It felt too good having him here, and spending time together in all her usual haunts. She couldn’t let the swiftly approaching deadline of his departure make her sad; if she did that, she’d have to acknowledge how happy she was to be with him. And they’d agreed that this wasn’t a relationship. If they weren’t dating, she couldn’t be heartbroken when he left. Simple.
On the days when Iain didn’t need to meet in person with restaurant and bar owners, he set up shop in her home office. She cleared off one side of the long desk for him without being asked, shrugging when he raised an eyebrow in silent question.
“It’s mostly old design projects. I’ve been meaning to file them anyway.” She pointed to the nearly-empty bookshelf on the opposite wall. “They’re supposed to be in binders over there, not spread out everywhere.”
“You’ve made a lot of progress on that,” he teased. There was exactly one binder on the shelf.
“For that, you can help me sort.” She handed him a stack of glossy prints, and they settled down together on the floor to sort the papers by project.
“Thanks for doing this,” he said. “Max’s garage apartment is awesome, and the price is right, but it doesn’t really have a lot of space for doing business.”
She laughed. “I’ve been there once or twice. You could balance a fax machine on top of the bike trainer, maybe.”
He chuckled. “He was gracious enough to let me move the exercise equipment, but I’m sure he’s looking forward to having it back soon.”
They both sobered at the reminder of their limited time, and Naomi gathered up the remaining papers awkwardly. “Well. Thanks. I needed to get this done.”
He passed her his sorted stacks wordlessly, and she piled them onto the bookshelf to wait for their binders before fleeing back upstairs to the studio.
Two days later, he came bursting in the front door as she sat frowning at her computer, putting the final touches on Max’s menu design.
“I did it!” He tossed his briefcase onto the table in the hall and loped into the office, spinning her around in her desk chair to soundly kiss her.
Her arms twined around his neck and she lost herself in his lips for a few minutes before she remembered what he’d said. “Did what?” she asked, rolling away.
“Met my sales goal,” he said. “Come back. Don’t stop.” He tugged her back towards him, but she resisted.
“Iain! That’s incredible!” She beamed at him. “I knew you would.”
He blew out a breath that sounded like half of a laugh. “I’m glad one of us did. I was getting worried. There’s not much time left on my father’s deadline.”
“Tell me everything,” she ordered as she stood up. “Are you hungry?”
“Mm. I can’t decide what I want first. Tacos, or you.” His eyes roamed over her, and she felt her body warm quickly under his gaze.
“Well, unless you plan on wrapping me in a tortilla—” she held up a finger as he opened his mouth. “No!” She laughed. “That’s not a thing. I vote tacos first, then some naked celebrating.”
“Your motion carries,” he said. “Get your jacket.”
Over dinner, he told her about his day, barely able to restrain his jubilation. “You were right about the branding,” he said. “One hundred percent. Thank you for putting it together. It keeps sealing these deals. Having the full package makes Whitman’s seem like its own thing, not just some weird experiment from the Brennans.”
“All three restaurants are placing orders?” She started on her second taco. “That’s so awesome.”
He nodded. “They all signed on, and it took me over the edge. Just in time.”
“So now what?”
He leaned back in his seat, laying a hand across his belly as he used the other to push his empty plate toward the center of the table. “Some of it depends on what my family says when I talk to them tomorrow, but I’m hoping the next step is expansion. Whitman’s is a solid brand, and we’re well on the way to having a real foothold here, so we could keep going.”
Naomi set her taco down and eyed him. “What does keep going mean?” She wasn’t entirely sure what the flutters in her stomach meant, but she probably shouldn’t keep eating.
He looked thoughtful. “Well, presumably more sales trips now and again at the very least. A permanent directorship for yours truly.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’m not talking fame, fortune, and glory, but at least I wouldn’t be reporting directly to my older brother anymore. I could keep building this brand up, make it into something really well-known, you know?”
She nodded. His pride in himself and Whitman’s Revival was evident in everything about him—his voice, his posture, his smile. “Do you think, um, you would be coming back here?” She couldn’t believe she was asking. Their time together was nearly over, and here she was begging for more? But somehow, she found herself waiting breathlessly for his answer ... like it was going to change her life.
He leaned back in, his gaze suddenly intense. “Maybe. Would you want me to?”
“I mean … if your job brought you here … I wouldn’t object to …” she trailed off, unsure of what to say.
“A booty call?” He raised an eyebrow playfully.
She felt herself relax. “Yep. That. Definitely that. Your booty. My booty. Together. Doing stuff.” She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger and poked her opposite forefinger through it a few times for visual emphasis.
He laughed. “You’re a true romantic, Miss Klein.”
“I know,” she deadpanned. “It’s all those romance novels Angelica makes me read.”
Angelica had developed a taste for historical romance novels during her Hollywood years. Naomi still wasn’t sure how her friend had gotten hooked, although she’d once muttered something about Gwyneth Paltrow while Naomi was browsing the Oakwell Inn’s well-stocked bookshelves.
Personally, she hadn’t enjoyed the historical romances Angelica had foisted on her—it was a little difficult to read about a time when your ancestors weren’t treated particularly well, while more dukes and duchesses than could possibly have ever existed trotted about never getting syphilis no matter how much ’rake reforming’ they did.
But she’d found a few modern romance authors who were tackling more realistic pictures of historical life, and then she’d discovered contemporary romance, which had led to a month of solid reading. Now, Angelica was considering forming a River Hill book club, and she’d been badgering Naomi to join.
“You’ll have to recommend one to me.”
She raised her eyebrows at him, then lowered them and narrowed her eyes. “Challenge accepted.” She leveled a finger at him. “Get ready to have your mind blown.”
“I’m so ready. I mean, my mind, of course, and at least one other part of my body, right?”
She let her head fall back as she laughed. She really enjoyed being with Iain, more than she’d ever expected to. None of the other men she’d spent time with had ever been as good at dirty banter as he was, and none of them had ever enjoyed it very much when she’d made saucy comments. Iain not only liked it, but he was happy to engage her competitive side in a game of one-upmanship. Her conversations were going to be so much more boring once he left.
“Listen …” She didn’t know what impulse made her open her mouth, but she found herself plunging on. “If you do come back here, for work, you could, um, stay at my place if you want.” He was silent, and she realized she was ac
tually blushing as she raised her eyes to meet his gaze. “Not that you have to. I just—”
“I would love to.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “Are you sure? I just didn’t expect you to say something like that, since … you know.”
“Neither did I,” she confessed. “It just popped out.”
“That’s what she said,” he muttered under his breath.
She snorted. “I’m just saying, if it would be easier for you, I wouldn’t mind.” She paused. “We’ve been sharing the space pretty successfully, right? If you came to town for a few days here and there I think I could handle it.”
“Good lord, I hope you’ll do more than handle it,” he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“You know I will,” she laughed. “Any appendage you can think of.”
“Thanks, Naomi.” He squeezed her fingers, then turned her hand over to trace the lines of her palm with his own finger. “It means a lot. I know space is important to you.”
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re still not allowed in the studio,” she teased.
“I would never expect studio privileges. I’m not some kind of monster.”
She laughed. “What do you think your family will say when you tell them you’ve met the quota?”
He let go of her hand and slid his palm back along the tabletop. “Really, you’re going to bring my family into this lovely moment?”
“It’s either that or we fuck right here on the table, and I think Max would get mad,” she whispered conspiratorially.
“Fair enough. If you’re going to kill my boner for Max’s sake, I’ll answer the question.” He grinned at her. “Crisis averted. I don’t know what they’ll say for sure, but I’m hopeful they’ll agree to my expansion ideas. At the very least, I expect they’ll be pleased to see the business growth.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Think your dad will be proud of you?”
He blew out a sigh. “Wishful thinking, but I hope so.”
She grimaced. “I know the feeling.”
“I know you do.”
Right on cue, her phone buzzed against the hard surface of the table. Iain glanced down as the screen lit up and saw the long string of unopened text message windows. He raised his eyebrows. “That’s a lot of texts.”
“All from my mother.”
He leaned over, reading a few of them upside down. “Are you going to answer her?”
She shrugged. “Definitely not right now. Maybe later. I don’t know.”
He reached over to steal her last taco. “Nothing urgent?”
“She wants me to come to more events this week, to help my dad secure the Chief of Medicine position he’s gunning for. They think a united family front makes him look good, but they don’t seem to care that I might have other stuff going on.” She only had a little more than a week left with Iain; her family was going to be around for the rest of her life. She deserved a break. “My dad’s a really good doctor, and he’s well-liked in the hospital and in the community. If he can’t get the damn job himself, maybe he isn’t ready for it.” Saying the words out loud felt disloyal, and she winced.
“Harsh truths,” Iain observed around a mouthful of pork.
She sighed. “I told my mom about the Z Gallery deal and she didn’t even register it. I could have told her about my deadline, and the fact that I legitimately have to work, but she wouldn’t have believed me. It’s easier this way.”
Her phone buzzed again, this time with a new email and a voicemail notification. She hit the power button on the side to make it go dark again. She deserved some freedom, a little more time with Iain and her work. Which meant a few more days of ignoring her family. What was the worst that could happen?
16
Iain opened up his laptop and set it on the tiny coffee table in front of him. Launching his video chat app, he waited for the call to connect. He shouldn’t be nervous—not with the great news he had to share—but he’d woken up this morning with a pile of lead resting heavy in his belly, and he hadn’t been able to shake it.
Finally, his father’s face appeared on the screen. When his oldest brother Braden’s face moved into the frame next to their father’s, Iain stifled a groan. This can’t be good. He hoped his skepticism wasn’t immediately evident to both men. If they sensed any weakness, they’d pounce. They weren’t bad people; that was just the way it was between the men in his immediate family. Sometimes they reminded him of the pack of wolves he’d once watched a documentary about.
“Hey, man,” his brother said, turning this way and that to admire his reflection in the camera feed, and the newly-grown beard that lined his jaw. One would think Braden was the first man in the family to have gone this route. Iain had been sporting a beard for years, and all he’d ever gotten for it were un-funny hipster jokes.
“Hey, Dad. Hi, Braden.”
“Thanks for getting up so early to do this call,” his dad launched in. “I know the time zone differentials can be tricky.”
“No worries. I’ve actually been up for hours.” What Iain didn’t say was that he’d rolled out of Naomi’s bed at six o’clock this morning so that he could get back to his place, shower, and prep for this meeting. He’d had all his ducks in a row for a few days now—facts and figures at the ready—but he’d still wanted to make sure everything was airtight. This call could set the course of his life for the next several years. He needed to be at his best.
His dad nodded. “That’s good. Used to be getting you up before half-ten was an exercise in futility.”
“Used to be my job meant I was at the pub until they closed,” Iain reminded him. Before he’d taken on the task of setting up the distillery’s visitor center in Dublin, Iain had been responsible for the company’s community outreach program. It basically meant he’d traveled around Ireland making sure Brennan’s held pride of place in all the best bars, restaurants, and dance clubs. That meant late nights, and oftentimes, killer hangovers. Cozying up to the barbacks and pub owners had literally been in his job description, and still, he’d somehow caught flack for it.
But the past wasn’t what this conversation was about, even if his father felt the need to take every opportunity to bring it up. It was time to look to the future, and how Whitman’s could play a significant role in the expansion of the Brennan stable of whiskey offerings abroad.
Eschewing further small talk, Iain launched right into the results of the last few months spent on the west coast. “I’ve got great news for you,” he said, swiping his sweaty palms up and down his jean-clad thighs. “Not only have I hit my quota; I’ve surpassed it. All with two weeks left on the clock.” He smiled and waited for the praise to come.
When instead his dad and his brother glanced meaningfully between themselves, he felt his smile dimming. He knew that look. He’d been on the other end of it for practically his whole life.
“What?” he asked, trying to keep his tone from turning belligerent.
“Son,” his dad began, letting out a long, protracted sigh. A sigh that sounded an awful lot like the ones Iain had frequently heard as a kid.
But dammit, he wasn’t a kid anymore, and this was his livelihood. “Don’t ’son’ me,” he said, clenching his hands into fists at his side. “I’m not a child. I’m one of your employees, and a damn good one at that.” He cast a pointed glare at his brother.
No one in the family liked to mention it aloud, but sales of Brennan’s had been flat since Braden took over as CEO. Iain strongly believed it was because his brother lacked the vision needed to take the company where it should be.
It was an excellent time to be in the distilling business: sales of Irish whiskey were booming in the U.S., based largely on high-end premium offerings. Unfortunately, under Braden’s leadership, Brennan’s had been the last of the Irish distillers to offer a premium bottling, and their earnings reflected it. They were one of the oldest family-owned distilleries in Ireland. They ought to be at the top of every list, not scrambling to k
eep up.
Braden rolled his eyes and glanced away, muttering something about his youngest brother flying off the handle. Iain took a deep breath to calm his pulsing frustration. At the end of the day, as President of the company—and the person with the largest share of voting rights—only his father’s opinion really counted. His oldest brother might like to think he was in charge, but Iain owned exactly as much Brennan stock as Braden and Fionn did, and in terms of voting rights, the two had no more say than Iain did.
His father blew out a breath. “No, you’re not a child any longer, but your behavior these past few years has been childish. This is a family business, and you seem to keep forgetting that. This isn’t the Iain show, where you get to prove what a maverick you are by striking out on your own. There’s a way we do things here—a way we’ve always done things—and if you want to continue to be part of that, you need to learn to toe the party line. It’s what’s best for the brand, and what’s best for the family.”
A sickening feeling of dread settled low in Iain’s gut. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew what the next words out of his father’s mouth were going to be, but he asked for clarification all the same. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that this little experiment is over. You need to come home.”
Home.
To a place where he would always play third fiddle; where he was the punchline to a family joke; where a grown man was spoken to like a recalcitrant child. Nothing about that sounded appealing.
“And if I don’t?” he pressed, holding his breath. Never, in the history of ever, had Iain ignored a direct edict from the Brennan family patriarch. He might have bristled over the years at the heavy-handed way his father dictated to him, but until now, he’d never felt the need to push back—too hard.
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