Bottles & Blades (Eagles Hockey: Oak Ridge Vineyards #1)

Chapter 4

Four

Jean-Michel

I’m buttoning my shirt as I come out of the bathroom attached to my office, hair damp from the shower, vineyard owner washed away, CEO back in place.

Marie is waiting, her eyes glued to her tablet, cell pressed to her ear.

She jerks her head toward the coat rack in the corner of my office and I take the silent direction, snagging my suit jacket and shrugging it on.

Then I rub the towel through my hair once more, toss it on one of the leather guest chairs, and sink down behind my desk as I listen to Marie finish reading someone the riot act. She’s finagling over a clause in the contract we’re negotiating with a subcontractor who manufactures microchips we need.

“And I’ll remind you ,” she snaps, “that you either work with us or we’ll work with your competitor.” A beat. “And then we’ll become your competitor.”

That’s my girl.

Smothering a grin, I log into my computer. Only when her side of the conversation halts, do I allow my gaze to flick up and gauge her expression.

Her scowl tells me that the other side isn’t giving her what she wants to hear.

Idiots.

I click into my company inbox, read through the emails waiting for me there.

The quantity is always larger than anything I can tackle myself, but Marie and her team of assistants are well qualified at filtering them down for me.

What’s currently sitting in my inbox are the messages I alone need to handle.

There are still too many.

But what I don’t get to right now, I’ll deal with later tonight.

It’s not like I’ve been sleeping much.

Not since Angela?—

“Fine,” Marie snaps. “Then consider this your notice. That offer is rescinded.”

I look up again, see her jab at her cell’s screen.

She exhales, shoves her phone into her pocket, and scowls at me. “You’d think by now these assholes would learn.”

“Need to me get someone on another subcontractor?”

“Ah, ye of little faith”—she rounds the desk and points her tablet in my direction, and surprise (or no surprise, really, because it’s Marie), she has a list of businesses already pulled up on the screen—“this is my top choice”—she points at the second listing—“because they have the infrastructure and experience, albeit at a smaller scale. I think we can really help them expand. But every one of these companies can do the job we need them to do—and without the side order of them trying to fuck with us every step along the way.”

“I’m good with your choice,” I say. “Run with it.”

She nods, leans back against the corner of my desk, and starts going through a list of other topics—scheduling conflicts, meetings to take, others to push, a report on an offsite we’re setting up in Costa Rica, and some budget changes that need approval.

Once that’s done, she sets the tablet aside and sighs.

Fuck .

I brace, know that sigh can mean anything from a threat to quit to a catastrophic equipment failure in Berlin, but also knowing it’s not anything good.

That sigh…it’s never anything good.

“Band-Aid,” I say.

Her brows lift.

“Rip it off and give it to me fast.”

Amusement in her deep green eyes, but it’s there and gone in a second, and she doesn’t delay. She gives it to me fast.

“Angela tried to bypass the security desk this morning.”

“Fuck,” I mutter.

“Scottie stopped her, but she pitched a fit and started screaming the house down. Mr. Duarte and his associates saw.” She sighs again. “Coincidentally, I was coming in at the same time and able to get them in the elevator, so I don’t think they recognized her as anything other than a random angry Karen—and not your angry Karen of an ex-wife.”

“Christ,” I growl, rubbing at the throb in my temple. “Did she say what she wanted?”

Marie lifts her brows. “Does she ever have a reason to sprinkle her special brand of toxic bullshit around?”

I think of my short-lived marriage.

I think of her as a mother.

I think of her leaving Chrissy and I for fucking decades before showing back up and wanting to claim half of everything I worked my ass off for.

And that throb in my temple grows.

“Make a note in the file”—one my team of lawyers recommended I keep, tracking all the fucked up shit Angela has done since popping back up in my life like a fucking mushroom in a pristine stretch of perfectly groomed grass—“and email Ted.” My lawyer who’s in charge of my other lawyers.

CEO problems—having that team of lawyers.

CEO with a nightmare ex who disappeared for decades before reappearing to take half of what I worked my ass off for—none of which is anything she worked for—problems.

“Not that it’ll make any bit difference,” Marie mutters as she makes notes on her iPad. “I don’t know how the woman does it, but nothing seems to stick to her.”

This is something that bothers me too.

No matter what I or my lawyers throw at her, she’s still out in the world, making trouble for me, living big, and trying her best to fuck up my life.

I sigh. “We focus on what we can control.”

Marie glances up from the tablet. “Which is…?”

“The next item on your list for me.”

The glee that lights up her face at the prospect of ticking items off her to do list is so intense it almost makes me smile.

Just two people addicted to solving problems and earning money and working hard and?—

Deep brown eyes losing their fear, filling with curiosity.

Tiff Hernandez’s pretty face pops into my mind.

Working hard—I don’t know her, but I know she works hard and?—

“—the bids for the Oak Ridge project have come in?—”

I snap out of my drifting and focus, but the smooth curve of Tiff’s lips, the softness of her body, the kindness of her gesture—they cling to the edges of my mind as Marie and I discuss the merit of the bids for the build-out we’re doing at Oak Ridge.

Tastings have increased. Requests for wedding bookings have doubled.

We need more infrastructure to support that.

“Let’s go with the one from Connors,” I tell her.

She nods and makes a note. “Perfect. Their temperature control systems are far superior. We can use them to retrofit the storage facilities as well.”

“Works for me.”

Then she pivots to a few more topics and we make a few more decisions.

“Good,” I say as I lean back in my chair. “Now, what else do you have for me?”

She flips the cover on her tablet closed, straightens off the edge of the desk. “Nothing else work-related.”

“And am I supposed to guess the non-work-related things you have?” I ask dryly.

Her mouth quirks. “Come on now, Mr. Dubois.”

“Don’t even try to be cute,” I mutter. “You know it’s Mr. Dubois out there and Jean-Michel in here.” It always have been. I need her to be comfortable enough to give it to me straight, to not to be worried about standing on formalities.

“Jean-Michel,” she amends, green eyes dancing. “So…the girl?”

“That’s not a question.”

“It’s phrased as one.” Then she huffs out an aggrieved sigh and amends when I just lift my brow at her instead of answering, “Who was the woman you brought in earlier?”

“And who do you think you are,” I reply, “to ask personal questions of me?”

She smiles, triumph in those eyes, not cowed in the least. “One, thanks for confirming it’s personal. Two, what happened to this office being a place where we don’t stand on formalities?”

“ One , I didn’t confirm it was personal,” I counter, even though I totally fucking did. “ Two , that’s when it comes to work conversations and decisions.”

“And us having a conversation about my asshole of an ex is somehow work-related?”

Just thinking about that prick has my temper spiking. But I just grind my teeth together, ignore that point as well. “Three, I didn’t say it wasn’t a place for discussions about your personal life.” Just mine.

“Ah, there it is.”

I frown. “There what is?”

“Jean-Michel Dubois’s hidden fairy godfather streak.” She shakes her head but goes on before I can rebut that statement. “I just have one question.”

“Marie,” I warn, sharing before she can make this something it’s not. “The woman is a stranger. I lost my phone and wallet dealing with that shit show at Oak Ridge, and I didn’t know until stopped to grab something to eat and went to pay.”

Her brows drag together.

“She paid for my lunch.”

Those brows shoot up.

“So, I was just making sure I paid her back.”

Marie’s eyes narrow, no doubt deducing there’s more to the story than I’m sharing. “If that’s the case then why didn’t you just have me bring cash down?”

I know she’ll read far too much into this but fuck it. I’m ready for this conversation to be over, and I hired Marie because she’s smart, tough, and a dog to a bone when it comes to getting what she wants.

There’s no point in drawing this out.

Something about Tiff has activated my—Christ, even thinking the words make me feel like a total douchebag—fairy godfather skills.

But Tiff…she’s vulnerable. She needs something she doesn’t have. Needs someone to look after her. I don’t know that…but I fucking know that. I heard it when she put groceries back. I felt it when I spotted the shadows clinging to the edges of her smile, her pretty brown eyes.

So, I’m going to give it to her.

“Cash isn’t trackable,” I mutter.

Marie frowns. “And a check is?”

“It is for me.”