6. Chapter 6
six
M ax’s ear filled with Willow’s breathy sigh as she said, “Okay.”
An image of her from their interview filled his mind. Her sharp, mossy eyes piercing him the second she’d walked into the pub. God, she was a pain in the ass.
A beautiful pain in the ass.
It probably wasn’t helping the situation that there was nothing he loved more than a good pain in the ass.
He lounged back in his office chair and crossed an ankle over his knee as a smirk pulled at his lips. “So that’s how I get you to listen? Say please ?”
“Ugh,” she said in a haughty little tone, and his smirk morphed into a smile. “Yes, Max.” His nerves flared as she drew out the x in his name. “Polite manners get a polite response. Is this your first time interacting with humans?”
Why did an image of her dressed as a schoolteacher and smacking his hands with a ruler come to mind?
A movement caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to find Cara standing in the doorway, staring at him in shock with her jaw unhinged.
“Are you . . . smiling?” she asked.
He rolled his eyes and shooed her away, but she didn’t move.
“Just a minute,” he said to Willow, then muted the phone as she asked whether he needed time to compute.
He fought a smile as he got up and walked to the door.
“Who’s on the phone?” Cara asked with her arms crossed and a gotcha look on her face.
He closed the door without a word, locked it for good measure, then went back to his desk and took Willow off Mute.
“Computing complete. My programming won’t allow me to discuss my history of human interaction.”
Willow snorted. “Will it allow you to get to the point of this conversation? ”
His smile doubled, and he rubbed his face, annoyed with how much he liked how sharp she was. What the hell was he thinking agreeing to this?
If the numbers worked out and it made good business sense, one could argue for selling her the brewery. But did he really know her well enough to commit to this?
No.
And now that he was talking to her alone for the first time since he’d run her off, he was realizing she was a little too . . . easy to talk to.
And way too pretty.
Funny, too.
Searching for focus, he shook his head. He’d made this decision, and he’d come this far in the conversation. He wasn’t about to hang up and block her number now. Besides, that wouldn’t solve his problem. He needed a brewer—a good brewer.
And fast.
He cleared his throat. “You’re a pain in the ass. But you’re also exactly what we’re looking for, so we’re willing to adjust our offer.”
“Okaayy . . .” she drew out, waiting.
“Adam said you weren’t comfortable moving, but how would you feel about buying the brewery off of me and running it from Churchill?”
That shut her up. She actually became a little too silent, and he didn’t know what she was thinking. He could imagine her pretty little elfin face, brows raised, green eyes rounded. A contrast to the scowl that would’ve turned her porcelain skin pink.
Fuck.
This had a lot of potential to get very messy for him.
“Uh,” she said.
He waited. No other words came, so he carried on.
“You could come here for a month, get the brewery off the ground, hire some workers that can do the day-to-day, then go home. I can oversee it while you’re gone. It’s the best of both worlds.”
Dead silence.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, sorry, that just sounds . . .”
She trailed off back into silence, and he wanted to reach through the phone and snap his fingers in front of her face.
“It sounds like the best thing you’ve ever heard?” Max said, filling in the blanks for her. “You have to go pack? You’ll be on the next flight out of that icy tundra?”
She gave a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “Actually, yes. Well . . . maybe. I’m not sure. ”
Max rolled his eyes. “Glad I’m potentially partnering with someone so decisive.”
“Easy, Maxhole.”
His eyebrows shot up. What the hell did she just say?
“Maxhole?”
“Yeah. That’s what I call you. I’ll need some time to think about this.”
“What the fuck have I got myself into?” he muttered out loud but to himself. “Fine, Wishy-Washy-Willow. You’ve got two days to figure this out.”
Her huff skated over the line through his ear. “I am not wishy-washy. You’re pishy-pushy—”
“Forty-eight hours,” he said, cutting her and her breathy voice off. “Starting now,” he said, and hung up.
Maxhole?
He sat back in his chair, the smile on his face almost permanent now, and completely out of his control. He wondered what to even hope. That she’d say yes? Or that she’d say no?
He shrugged and opened his laptop, trying to shift his focus to work. He’d thrown the ball back to her side of the court, and it was up to her now. If she didn’t get back to him in two days, he’d hire someone from his spreadsheet and forget all about her and her pretty little attitude.