Chapter 4 #2
The restaurant we pulled up to was not what I’d expected.
Based on the car, I’d thought we would go to a downtown place with glass walls, a place that used wineglasses for water and served their filets perfectly balanced on three stalks of asparagus.
A pasta palace in Castle Rock wasn’t where I expected to find the Myles from the office who ordered in grilled chicken skewers, steak power bowls, and the most boring-sounding salads that still managed to be delicious. Myles didn’t eat carbs.
I was seeing a new side of him. Interesting.
The driver stopped and opened the door. I waited while Myles murmured to him, and then we were heading inside. Sam was easy to spot. He had a corner booth. His hat took up half of it. A Western tie with a turquoise center was the same one Sam wore in all his pictures.
Sam scooted out, grin in place. “Myles, how’s it going?” He shook Myles’s hand and pulled him in for a hearty hug with a solid back thump.
I was riveted in place by Myles’s almost smile. He had sexy-as-hell crinkles at the corners of his eyes and admiration shining in his gaze. “I’m well, Sam. You?”
“Eh, joints are noisy in the morning, and the back hurts more than it doesn’t.” He turned his wide grin to me. “Mrs. Crane finally ditch you for the gardening gloves?”
“She’s out until the end of October. This is Wynn Kerrigan, her temporary replacement.”
“Wynn, nice to meet you.” He stuck his hand out.
My entire hand and wrist were encompassed in a warm handshake. “Nice to meet you, Mr.—”
“Sam,” he said, saving me from having to remember his last name. Daddy and Tate would chide me—Always know your colleagues.
“Nice to meet you, Sam.”
He ushered us into the booth. I was opposite Myles. Sam liked to engage us both. I took my tablet out to take notes on anything significant Sam had to say about sales trends or performance and new distribution options.
I was most shocked by the dish Myles ordered: spaghetti carbonara. A buttery, creamy pasta that had almost no protein. I had ordered the same since I hadn’t been able to concentrate on the menu while listening.
When the food arrived, Sam tabled the business discussion and turned his attention to me. “How ’bout you, Wynn? Where’d you work before this?”
Thankfully, I’d rehearsed my vague background more since starting with Myles. “I interned in a couple distilleries in college, and then I went to more school and got my MBA.”
Sam’s expression turned incredulous. “And you’re his temp assistant? I’ll poach you myself.” He snorted.
I chuckled, aware of Myles’s focus on me as he steadily ate his food.
“I’m trying to decide what I want to do with my life.
” I knew what I wanted to do. I knew where I wanted to work.
But first I had to satisfy my obsession with the man who ate as if he didn’t worry about one drop of sauce getting on his shirt.
I was tempted to tie my napkin around my neck.
“You went to all that school, and you don’t know what to do?” Sam asked. Humor laced his words, but there was more. Tate had described Sam as shrewd, too. He was the type of guy who’d keep pushing.
Myles didn’t seem to care less about who I was outside of my assistant role, and Sam was too interested. I’d dabble in both satisfying Sam’s question and giving Myles information I wished he would ask for.
“Honestly, I’d like to move closer to my family, but my dad’s dying, and I can’t stand to be around and watch him slowly waste away.”
Sam sat back, fork loose in his fingers. “Dang. Guess that’s what I get for asking too many questions.” He gently touched my shoulder. “I’m sorry about your daddy.”
“Thank you. Losing parents is rough.”
His bushy brows drew together. “You lost your mama?”
I only nodded, afraid the whole story would spill out. That I’d ruin my shot at getting time with Myles, time that I couldn’t explain why I needed.
“Hell, kid. I’m sorry about that, too.”
I gave Sam a thankful smile, then slid my gaze to Myles. His look was assessing, but he dropped it and returned to eating his food.
Right. I’d thought he would care about a scenario that echoed his own past, but no. For the rest of the meal, I questioned why I was still in Colorado.
Myles
The Rizz in Colorado Springs looked like its owner. Loud pops of color over a sleek and modern vibe. Wes Clayton used the youngest and trendiest designers when possible.
I was sitting at the bar, on fucking uncomfortable stools, with Wes acting as bartender.
He was drinking a vodka gimlet, Ms. Kerrigan had ordered a club soda with lime, and I was having an old fashioned with whiskey from another Colorado-based company that put out a good product but wasn’t looking to expand like Foster House.
The sun was high in the sky outside, but inside, the lights were low. Neon beams lined the wooden epoxy bar, and an indie band’s melody flowed through the speakers.
A few minutes after meeting Wes Clayton, I’d realized I was way too fucking old for him. He talked like he was Gen Z despite being closer to my age group. He sounded like a social media influencer and constantly said Fair whenever I discussed a limitation in my distribution process.
Wes Clayton came off differently in person than he did online, and I didn’t have high hopes for the outcome of our meeting. There’d be no contracts or agreements drawn up. He’d tell me he’d call me later and ghost me like he probably did all his much younger dates.
I didn’t know for certain, of course. But I’d gotten adept at reading people, especially selfish dicks, during my time floating from home to home. Wes was as transparent as the frames perched on his nose.
“The thing is, Foster.” He steepled his fingers.
Wes had guffawed when I called him Mr. Clayton, but I had been taught not to assume anything about a potential client, or any client.
Never assume, no matter how well I knew them.
Business first, friendship second. Wes Clayton and I weren’t friends.
“Foster, Foster.” He clicked his tongue.
“I like to work with companies that are philanthropic first.”
I’d never heard the word used like that before, but I knew an excuse when I heard it. “I understand.”
“And, well, if I follow the Foster House trail, it only leads to money. I can’t find community support, or sponsorships, or…” He spread his hands. “Well, you can see my dilemma.”
Anger clawed at the back of my throat, hot and quick, reminiscent of my youth. This motherfucker. I was no longer that kid. I was a grown-ass successful businessman. “Can you spell it out?”
“You see, Clayton Enterprises pays out five hundred thousand a year in donations alone. We also have several internships and sponsorships and”—he laughed—“I also sponsor a little league team. As for scholarships, I’ve set up an endowment fund at three different colleges to provide scholarships for several students who major in entrepreneurship.
” He folded his arms across his chest, a smug look in place.
“I prefer to collaborate with others who also pay it forward, including my suppliers.”
At my side, Ms. Kerrigan had quit taking notes. She watched our exchange, wide-eyed. Tension rode through me. Having this exchange in front of her grated on me. What did she think?
Mrs. Crane would remain quiet. Later, in private, she’d cluck, comment on Wes’s arrogance and ignorance, and we’d move on with our day. My regular assistant was apprised of the full scope of my business. She also knew I detested justifying myself.
“An admirable notion,” I said and shot back the rest of my old fashioned, knocking my teeth on the round, neon-blue fake ice cube that assaulted my senses.
Even his ice was pretentious. There was nothing wrong with a perfect cube of ice, slowly melting and softening the notes in the whiskey, drawing it out like a lazy melody.
“It’s more than a notion, bruh.”
I set the glass down with a thunk. Wynn flinched.
His arrogance glowed almost as brightly as my ice cube. “My work helps people,” he said as if he draped blankets over the homeless himself.
My anger swelled larger, bumping against the restraints I’d locked it in.
“Oh, yeah? How big’s your house?” Goddammit.
I could keep my cool better than this. But guys like Wes reminded me of the assholes I’d fought in high school.
Entitled pricks who picked on me because they thought they could.
They were wrong, and Wes would find out I didn’t lie down and cover my head while taking a beating.
His conceited smile slipped. “Excuse me?”
In my periphery, Ms. Kerrigan rolled her lips in like she was trying not to laugh. The girl surprised me at every turn. She never acted how I expected. There was no wanting to scurry away, skittish. She was watching the show.
So I would give her one. “Your house. The profits. Don’t you do fundraiser runs? Five Ks, correct?” He nodded once, still looking confused. “And you use that money, the money other people donated, to slap your name on little boys’ T-shirts.”
He opened his mouth, but I talked right over him.