Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LIAM
I’m not going to admit this to anyone, particularly not Dottie, but when I check the beer’s gravity in the morning, and it’s exactly where it needs to be, I decide there’s something to be said for singing and crystals and chasing luck like it’s a leprechaun.
I tell Briar we’re on track. Her relief seems on par with mine, but she barely says a word to me afterward.
She’s angry at me for accepting her father’s dinner invitation.
I get that. I have a parent who isn’t likeable either, and I’d break time and space to keep Briar from having dinner with her.
Doesn’t mean I’m going to respect Briar’s wishes.
I’m going as her backup tonight, with one mission.
I don’t care who Daddy Sterling is, I don’t care how much he’s worth—he’s not going to make his daughter feel like shit tonight.
Even if she made me feel like shit yesterday.
The day passes quickly, and before I know it, I’m riding my bike toward Sterling Manor.
The air is so crisp it hurts, but it feels good too—like a slap in the face when you need to focus.
When I get to the address Don provided, I roll to a stop in front of the gate and press the call button.
Of course there’s a gate. God forbid anyone uninvited should get in—or anyone invited should have an easy escape. It strikes me as ironic that the Sterlings’ gate is painted gold rather than silver.
A woman’s voice answers over the intercom, “Sterling Manor,” and after I provide my name, she buzzes me through.
That’s a nice surprise—I figured I’d be asked for my social security number, birthdate, and a government-issued ID.
Actually, I’m kind of sorry they didn’t ask, because I would have enjoyed denying them.
A long, black-paved, circular drive leads to a tall, bland white house with pillars supporting a front porch decked out with white rockers and built-in ceiling fans.
I park my bike facing the gate, behind two back-to-back black town cars, before heading to the front door.
There’s no sign of Briar’s little car, so presumably she was picked up.
The door opens before I get there, and Briar steps into the entrance, golden light spilling out around her. She’s a vision in a green floor-length dress, her golden hair cascading around her shoulders, but she’s dressed for a fancy dinner, not Friday night at the folks’.
“I asked you not to come,” she says in an undertone when I reach her.
“That’s some dress.” I gesture to my old jeans and black thermal shirt. “Does this mean I’m underdressed?”
She bites her bottom lip. “Yes.”
Oh well. I have a feeling I won’t be making a good impression tonight, no matter what I do. She peers over my shoulder, her eyes catching on my Triumph. “You really brought your motorcycle.”
“I’ll give you a ride if you ask nicely,” I say, then grin at the scorching look on her face. “Let’s go in. I also brought a six-pack.”
“A six-pack?”
“I thought your old man would like to taste the goods.”
A cold wind billows across the porch, so I wrap an arm around her and lead her back inside, closing the door behind us.
There’s no one waiting in the foyer, which has a mottled marble floor leading to a curving staircase, beside which stands a large, obviously fake silver tree covered in white lights and bulb ornaments.
It would only look impressive to someone who enjoys hotel lobbies, but maybe that’s my childhood talking.
My mom took off when I was ten—Hannah was seven, and my brother was only a few months old.
Our dad claimed he couldn’t keep all of those cleaning sprays and brushes straight, so our house was always disorganized chaos.
Dirty but comfortable. Less stressful than when my mother was there, watching us with thinly masked disapproval.
“They’re in the sitting room,” Briar says, tugging on a lock of her hair.
“Great. Lead the way.”
She glances at me nervously. “I’ll take your coat.”
“You want this one too?” I tease, trying to get her to relax.
Her answering smile is weak as she takes it from me.
I watch her hang it up, and when she returns, I whisper, “Don’t worry, Princess. I’m not going to tell your daddy what happened in his old office last week. Not even if he asks nicely.”
She scowls and stands up straighter, which is exactly what I was aiming for—so I’m smiling as I follow her to the left of the stairway and around the corner, into a room with deep-maroon walls, oversized paintings that look like a toddler water-gunned paint onto the canvases, and dark, velvet-upholstered furniture.
Briar clearly didn’t inherit her exquisite taste from her parents.
A squat man in dress pants and a collared shirt stands from the couch and holds out his hand.
There’s nothing of Briar in him except for the amber of his small, squinty eyes, but they lack her warmth.
I take his sweaty palm and pump it once before nodding to the woman who just entered from the other doorway—a blonde in a red dress.
Her hair is the same honeyed color as Briar’s, but her eyes are a cold saltwater blue.
We exchange polite introductions. Me, Liam. Him, Don. Her, Alicia. Briar’s parents make the kind of light, meaningless conversation that strangers might exchange in an elevator.
“I presume Briar didn’t tell you about the dress code,” Alicia says after a minute, tutting her tongue.
“Actually, Don here is the one who invited me. Briar’s always very good about communicating the rules. We keep a whole list of them at the brewery.”
Briar shoots me a surprised look. Probably because no one’s ever stood up for her in this depressing-ass place. I don’t need her to tell me that. The writing is on the wall.
Don gives a low laugh. “Well, she always was a rule follower. Not much of a leader, no matter how hard we’ve tried.”
“The person who creates the rules is the leader, Don, wouldn’t you say?
” I give him a smile that says fuck you as clearly as if the words ripped out of my mouth.
I didn’t like him before I met him. I definitely don’t like him now.
Briar’s mother is no better, simpering and agreeing with his every word.
Barely even bothering to look at her daughter.
He laughs as if I’d made a joke. “Well, I’m not surprised she’s had to make some rules for you.” Shifting his attention to Briar, he adds, “I’m glad you’re finding your backbone, sweetheart. I guess Briar Boot Camp was a success.”
“Briar Boot Camp?”
“Let’s not do this, Dad,” Briar says tightly.
Ignoring her, he tells me, “Just my nickname for the program I started a few months ago to toughen up my girl. I don’t know if she told you, but her last business was a failure. Success takes work.”
Briar’s cheeks go pink, and anger buckets into my bloodstream. I snap the band at my wrist so hard it nearly breaks.
“She’s lucky she’s got so many people rooting for her,” I say dryly. “What kind of program was this, exactly?”
“Let’s sit down at the dining room table,” Briar suggests, already walking as she says it.
Don throws a hand toward the door in a show of exasperation. “What my daughter doesn’t understand is that feelings have no place in business, but you get it, Liam. I can tell you do.”
I don’t respond. But only because Briar would probably prefer it if I don’t say the words I’m choking back.
We follow her down a hall lit with antique fixtures, to a butter-yellow dining room with an oversized rectangular mahogany table at the center, surrounded by chairs upholstered in leather with brass fixings.
But my gaze isn’t on the furnishings—it’s on the heavy wooden plaque bracketed to the wall, right above one of the five chairs with place settings.
Don’s Recipe for Success, it reads.
Briar resignedly sits in the chair beneath it.
“Ah,” the big guy says, patting his chest as he lowers into the chair at the head of the table. “I see you’ve noticed my wife’s little gift to me.”
“Nothing little about it.” It could definitely brain someone if it fell. Brain Briar, to be specific. “Is there assigned seating?”
“Yes,” Alicia says, beaming. “You’ll sit opposite Briar, between Don and me, so the girls can get cozy across from us.”
“Girls?” Briar asks with a frown, eyeing the setting next to hers with suspicion.
Her parents sit down, so I round the table and do the same.
“We have another guest joining us for dessert this evening,” Don says. “Didn’t I mention it?”
“No,” she objects emphatically, “you didn’t. Who’s coming?”
“Your friend Melly.”
Briar instantly turns to me, her back stiff. “I think I’d like to have one of those beers now, Liam.”
“You brought beer?” Alicia asks with a sour look. “I selected wines to accompany the courses.”
“No problem. I’m sure she’ll have some of that too,” I say, pulling the six-pack out of my backpack and handing Briar the one she likes best, the spiced fig ale.
“We don’t have a bottle opener,” Alicia says stiffly—an obvious lie. In a house like this, where wealth is flaunted, they probably have five of everything.
“No need.” I pull the bottle back, then press the cap against the lip of the table and tap it open.
“The wood…” her mother gasps.
I hand the beer across the table to Briar, who’s watching me closely, a smile playing on her lips.
After she takes it, I lift up the rest of the six-pack by the cardboard holder. “Anyone else in the mood to indulge? We’re going to be brewing all of these at Silver Star, eventually. We figured you’d be interested. Family business and all that.”
Don, who’s been studying me with the fascination of a tourist on safari, nods. “Yes. I think I will.”
I hold out the six-pack so he can choose which one he wants. The bottles are labeled with masking tape—a classy little touch I thought he’d enjoy.
“Dealer’s choice,” he decides.
“Oh, wait one second,” Alicia says, losing her cool. “Wait just one second.” She rushes out of the room.
“Did she leave something in the oven?” I ask as I open another of the beers on the table.
Then a third.