Copper Lining (The Cardwell Family Series Book 3)

by Christy Pastore

  My divorce from Noah doesn’t sit well with my sisters, especially Zara.

  “He’s good looking. I don’t understand why you couldn’t make it work.”

  “I mean, did you try, Wilhelmina? Really try?”

  Zara insists on calling me by my birth name. Since my father had naming rights over me, I chose to ditch the name just like he discarded all of us.

  Both my sisters are living the good life in Chicago—sweet and dutiful housewives. Baking isn’t a strong suit for either of them. They’re both great at catering meals though.

  Me and Celia, we live in a charming bungalow in Santa Monica.

  Celia and I walk back to the dressing rooms. Celia all smiles in her “Always Sparkle” T-shirt and cropped denim jeans. I adore her sense of style. Sometimes it can be a bit too much—hot pink boots, sparkly pants, and a plaid shirt.

  “Mom, I like to dress up like you.”

  Smiling at the memory, I grab my bag off the makeup vanity.

  “Can we have lunch at The Ivy?

  That’s my girl, nine going on thirty. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Her father, on the other hand, is a different story.

  I should have known better. But that long hair and those sexy tattoos blinded me. He has the body of Jason Mamoa and a singing voice reminiscent of Michael Hutchence.

  Sucked in and drank all the Kool-Aid he served up.

  “Are you buying lunch?”

  She giggles. “Nooooo. I’ll buy you lunch when I’m older. When I have a good job. I’ll take you to all the fancy places.”

  I haul my handbag higher onto my shoulder. “It’s a deal.” I kiss her forehead and brush her dark hair away from her face.

  She looks up at me with those green eyes. The shade the same as her father’s . . . but that green color doesn’t remind me of him. I’m thinking of another man with green eyes. Smoldering.

  Wes. He’s on my mind constantly. He’s my second thought in the morning, right after Celia. Some days I think about him helping me get her ready for school. I’d be making breakfast in the kitchen, and Wes would rattle off the surf report while drinking his coffee.

  I allow myself these tiny fantasies, but then I push the thoughts out of my mind.

  “So, what do you say, Mom?”

  “I say, let’s do it.”

  “You’re the best mom.” She takes my hand in hers.

  At nine, I still can’t believe she wants to hold my hand. Even stranger, she lets me hug and kiss her still.

  Still.

  Breathing in her goodness, a small tremor rolls through me. I push away the thought that these precious moments are few and far between.

  We step outside and into the glare of the California sunshine. Salt and sea breeze. After a decade, it’s part of my daily routine. Nothing special.

  Until him.

  Falling for him was easy. Too easy. Leaving him was anything but easy. But I knew that if I stayed, I may never leave. In the time that has passed, he’s stayed with me.

  His touch.

  His kisses.

  I don’t want to think about him, but I can’t help it. He’s stuck in my thoughts like your favorite song on repeat, and you just keep playing it until you feel like you got your fix.

  Wes.

  Two months later, he’s still on repeat.

  Celia went down hard after her shower tonight. This is her last week of freedom until she jets off to camp for the rest of the summer—her idea, not mine.

  An all-girls camp in the Adirondacks. The selling point, new campers are paired with a Big Sister to answer questions. The other selling point, new girls are introduced to existing campers before the summer begins. We met her big sis, Olivia, two weeks ago. And lucky me, my daughter’s bestie, Erin, attended the camp last year.

  No stress. I have no worries about sending my girl off to camp for seven weeks.

  With my ass planted on the couch and a glass of red wine on my coffee table, I’m doing what I do most every night when I don’t have some event or dinner to attend.

  Write.

  Research new recipe ideas.

  Plot daily blog posts—sweet, savory, cocktails, or holiday. Those are the sections of my website.

  Plan my Instagram posts—food post, selfie, picture of Celia and me at The Ivy, and a behind the scenes of today’s show for a throwback Thursday.

  I take a sip of wine while I sift through my emails. Sure, I could hire an assistant, but I like doing it myself. I have a hard time giving up control. Drives my publicist nuts.

  Speaking of my publicist.

  I slide ANSWER CALL for Sadie. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Hey, so, have you given any more thought to adding some style posts to your website?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “And why not?”

  I sigh and switch to speakerphone. “I don’t know. I think it’s risky. It might turn people off who only want to see what I have going on in the kitchen.”

  “Okay, well, since that’s out,” she drawls. “We got a call from Brant Cardwell, the CEO of Cardwell Bourbon.”

  My heart skips a beat. “Yeah, I know who he is. He’s the guy. The guy that will take Cardwell Bourbon back to the top of the game.”

  “I don’t know about all that. What I do know is that he wants a meeting with you.”

  My brows scrunch together. “Me? Why?”

  “If you quit asking questions, I can tell you.” She laughs. “He saw you on the show this morning. Wants to talk to you about developing a new bourbon for his company.”

  Disbelief courses through my veins. “But I don’t know anything about making bourbon.”

  “Yeah, but he does. And you know about food and flavor palates.”

  I shake my head and swallow down almost all my wine.

  She goes on to tell me that Brant is going to be in Los Angeles this weekend. “He wants to meet at the W Hotel on Sunday at four. Can you make it?”

  I blow out a deep breath. “Yeah, I can. Celia’s with her dad this weekend. So, I’ll be there.”

  “Fabulous. I’ve sent a confirmation, and now, I’ll send you his contact information.”

  We end our call and I refill my glass. Work with Cardwell Bourbon?

  My feet do a happy little dance. This might be just the challenge I’ve been searching for. It will definitely take my mind off that Wes guy.

  Wes

  “Mom,” I call out from the foyer of my parents’ home. “I got those muffins that you wanted.”

  The midmorning sunlight casts a glow over the warm wood floors of the french country home where I grew up. I trek down the hallway past the solarium and the drawing room in search of my mom.

  The smell of maple, bacon, and butter fills the air. There’s nothing like a homecooked family meal. Sunday brunch is a sport at my parents’ house.

  I only hope that Mom made sausage and gravy. After staying up and drinking half the night, I need it in the worst way.

  When I enter the kitchen, there’s a serious spread. It’s enough food for a damn army. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, and—there they are—fluffy biscuits. My mouth practically waters.

  “Ah, Weston, there you are,” Mom says as she breezes into the kitchen.

  “Good morning.” I kiss her cheek, and then she rolls up to her tiptoes to hug me.

  “My goodness, you’re as tall as your daddy’s new horse.”

  I laugh. “I doubt that.”

  My eyes dart to the pan she’s taking out of the oven. “Smells good. What did you make?”

  “Well, there was this gal on Kate Lekkas’ show the other day, and she made peach cupcakes with our bourbon. Thought I’d try out the recipe.”

  “Is that so?” I ask before popping a strawberry into my mouth.

  Cupcakes.

  These goddamn things will haunt me for the rest of my life. Cupcakes equal Minka.

  I need to get her out of my head. Normally, I don’t get hung up on chicks. But Minka is the on
e woman that I can’t shake.

  I have to though, for my own sanity. The chances that I’ll see her again—zero. There’s a better chance of me getting hit by a blimp.

  My stomach growls when Mom sets the tray in front of me.

  “Hungry? You want to be the first to try one?” she asks, and her eyes beam with pride.

  “Sure, Mom, I’ll try the cupcake.”

  “They need to cool, and then I’ll add the frosting, but you get the first one.” She points her spatula at me then goes back to making the frosting.

  My brows shoot up. “Can’t wait. Where’s Pop?”

  “He took Caroline, Haven, and Tyler out to the stables. They’re getting a look at the new foal.”

  “Where’s Brant?”

  Mom mixes together the cream, butter and adds in some vanilla extract. “He went to Los Angeles.”

  “What the hell?” My hands grip the corner of the island. “What’s he doing out there?”

  “Business. He’s going to meet with the gal that made these cupcakes. Your brother thinks that she could be the key to making a new bourbon.”

  I wave my hands in front of me. “Hold on. Brant went to Los Angeles on business. Why didn’t he ask me to go?”

  My brow furrows. Anger rages inside me. Brant could have invited me. Right now, I could be surfing out at Rincon Point in Santa Barbara. Well, not right now. I don’t have a death wish surfing in the dark. But by sunrise, I would have made those waves my bitch.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sure that he would have.” She adds a teaspoon of bourbon to the mix. “This was last minute. Don’t be mad at your brother.”

  Oh, I’m pissed all right.

  Footsteps approach, drawing my eyes to the doorway. My mood lifts a bit when I see my sister, Haven, walk in. Behind her is my future sister-in-law, Caroline. She’s seven months pregnant. I think. I’m not good at the baby stuff.

  Kids are not my thing. Don’t get me wrong, kids love me. I intend to be the greatest uncle this kid will ever have. And I will spoil the hell out of him or her.

  “Sis.”

  She runs toward me, practically jumps into my arms. I pull her into my frame. “Wes, it’s so good to see you.”

  Even after living in California and New York these last months, she’s still got the pretty southern rasp. It’s not as pronounced as Caroline’s. There’s an edge of subtlety.

  I hug her tight. “I didn’t know that you and Tyler would be here.”

  Pop and Haven’s husband, Tyler, stroll in, beers in hand.

  “Hey, where’s mine?” I toss Pop a wink.

  “Here ya go,” Pop says and shoves the bottle into my hands.

  I throw the cap into the garbage and down a few swallows. “That hit the spot.”

  “I miss tequila and wine,” Caroline groans.

  “It’ll all be worth it once that beautiful baby gets here,” Mom tells her.

  “I don’t know how women do it,” Tyler says. “I’d be a grumpy bastard without booze.”

  Haven laughs. “That’s true enough.”

  “Okay, y’all let’s dig in,” Mom orders. “Grab your plates and let’s eat in the dining room. It’s too hot outside. Caroline will be miserable.”

  “When’s this baby coming anyway?” I ask.

  Caroline smiles and adds a few slices of bacon to her plate. “Late August, I’m told.”

  She doesn’t even look pregnant. Her bump is barely there, it’s like she swallowed a volleyball.

  We all load up our plates and then settle into the dining room.

  My gaze swings to Haven. “So, what are you guys doing back here anyway?”

  Haven smiles before taking a drink of juice. “It’s the annual fundraiser for Feed Our Kids this month at Saffron House. We flew in to finalize some details.”

  We. My sister is a “we” now. And for that matter, so is my brother. Haven and Tyler are married. Caroline and Brant are engaged with a baby on the way. I’m about as far away from any of that as a guy can be.

  Brunch volleys between talk of the new baby and when Haven and Tyler are planning on having kids.

  “Mom, slow down,” Haven says. “We just got married.”

  “Whenever Haven tells me it’s time to start a family, I’ll do my best,” Tyler assures.

  I like the guy. I like Caroline too. My siblings have found really great significant others. I think back to the conversation Brant and I had about Caroline not wanting kids. Guess the right person can change your mind about almost anything.

  Brant’s words echo in my head: “. . . love and being in love can change anything.”

  I lean back in my chair feeling satisfied. Mom leaves the room and then returns about thirty seconds later—cupcakes.

  She places one in front of me and I scowl.

  Haven picks up hers and tears at the paper. “What do you have against cupcakes?”

  My brows shoot up. “Nothing,” I lie.

  “You just looked at that cupcake like it insulted you,” Caroline points out.

  Ignoring the words coming out of their mouths, I sink my teeth into the dessert. It’s so good. Like really good.

  And just like that, I’m back to thinking about Minka.

  “So, Wes,” Tyler starts. “How was your last trip to Maui?”

  “Oh, we have just been dying to go out there,” Haven says.

  We.

  “It was great.”

  I launch into a few poignant details about the months I spent there, surfing, taking people on dives, and eating some of the best food around.

  After expounding on the highlights of my time surfing and eating my way through Maui, the talk turns to travel and a discussion of the best shows to binge on Netflix.

  In the background, I can hear my mom’s voice outlining the highlights of her and my father’s latest trip to the Outer Banks. The old man really needs to shake his fear of flying and get on a plane.

  The chatter fades away and my thoughts turn to the part of my travels I left out: the dark-haired beauty with big hazel eyes that I can’t seem to forget. I can still see her naked body—delicious thighs and luscious lips.

  It’s a strange feeling because, as I said, I’m not one to reminisce about random hookups, but Minka . . . maybe it’s because she left without a goodbye. No “Dear John,” letter. She snuck out like the Colts did when they left Baltimore and headed for Indianapolis.

  Too often, I find myself in a daze wondering what happened to her. As the images in my mind turn to focus on that perfect peach ass of hers, a familiar stirring happens south of the Mason Dixon line—in my pants.

  Spontaneous hard-on? Hmm. Not since I was thirteen and Jennifer Nicklas showed me her tits behind the overhead screen in science class. We pretended to sharpen our pencils, slowly, while I convinced her to whip a tit out.

  Looks like I’ll be calling that hottie who slipped me her number at the bakery earlier. Because I’ve got to get back in the game.

  Sitting in the country club’s dining room, my knee bounces as I polish off my bourbon.

  “I’m so glad you asked me out, Wessy.”

  Wessy? Is she serious?

  Adding the “see” sound to my name sets my blood pressure rising. My gaze shifts to her face. Sophie’s cute. But she’s about as dull as they come. This is our second date in two days.

  After brunch on Sunday, I hauled myself back to the bakery in the hopes that she was still working. When I saw her behind the counter, I asked her out on the spot. Things didn’t go well that night. I thought the reason for our lackluster conversation had been my mood. So, I asked her out again.

  Big mistake.

  It may be rude because we haven’t even ordered, but I want to leave.

  Sophie bops back and forth in her seat. “I think I’m going to order the large Caesar salad.”

  “The pasta carbonara here is fantastic.”

  “Oh, I can’t eat carbs. One bite of pasta and I’ll gain like ten pounds.”

  The whi
ny baby voice grates on my nerves. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “You work at a bakery. Doesn’t that cause a temptation?”

  “I just listen to God. Chapter one Corinthians—he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.”

  Surprised by her biblical quote, I ask, “Are you a woman of God, Sophie?”

  “Yep. God spoke to me. He told me that you’re my someone special.”

  Oh, no. I’m afraid your God’s wrong on this one.

  I wave down our server. We order our food and another drink for me. Sophie turns her nose up at my suggestion of wine. Instead, she settles for a Shirley Temple.

  “Cherries just make drinks more fun.”

  I’m going to need a lot of drinks to make it through this night.

  “Oh,” Sophie squeaks. “They have coconut cheesecake. It’s so tempting.”

  Coconut.

  Minka.

  I’d give anything to have her sitting here with me and not Sophie.

  She’s gone.

  I need to forget Minka. I’ll never be able to find her. I don’t even know where to begin.

  My drink arrives and I down half of the liquid.

  Sophie rattles on about her senior year at Elliston and the classes she’s taking. I’m barely listening. Then it registers—school.

  “How old are you?”

  She blushes. “Twenty-one.”

  Fuck my life. She looks like she’s at least twenty-six. Either I’m losing my edge or one woman in particular is clouding my better judgment.

  Date over.

  Wes

  I don’t see Brant until our Thursday morning staff meeting.

  He spent all Monday traveling and then worked from home on Tuesday. I spent all day Wednesday on the road meeting with a few restaurants and trying to convince them to put us back on their menu. I had a fifty-fifty win percentage that day.

  I’m not giving up on the other three restaurants. I’ll be back.

  “Thanks for taking me to LA with you.” I lay on the snark.

  He folds his hands on top of the conference table. “Sorry, it was a last-minute trip. If I go again, I will take you.”