Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Wynter
The events of the meeting three days ago continued to run through my head.
In six weeks, we’d meet with the wholesalers.
Since the meeting with Wes Clayton, Myles had replaced the stick in his ass with a titanium rod.
He’d been holed up in his office, demanding reports and data on sales and production possibilities.
He had all the numbers, but he wanted it arranged in a million different spreadsheets with almost as many projections.
The master distiller was annoyed with me. The manager of the packaging plant was taking longer to respond to my messages, and I didn’t dare piss off the grain suppliers. I knew how finicky they could be.
My stomach rumbled. It was almost time for an afternoon break. Since it was Friday, Myles had ordered in pizzas. I had made a comment to the HR manager about the delivery costs this far out of town, and she’d agreed, but no one dealt with the bill other than the boss.
Understated generosity must be his thing. He’d been upset enough at Wes’s accusations that I knew there was more to the story. Did his response mean he was more than the meal fairy?
The edge in his voice when he’d sworn at Wes… Shivers danced across my skin. I’d liked it.
His voice had power over me.
I wandered down to the third floor. The break room wasn’t a little forgotten room in a dim corner.
Open windows in the brick bathed the room in light.
Long wooden tables were rimmed with chairs comfortable enough to nap in.
The savory smells of pizza filled the air.
Braxton was sitting at the corner of one table.
I grabbed a couple slices and a bottle of water and sat across from him.
His plate was empty. He pushed it aside and leaned in close. “What happened the other day? Mr. Foster has been a storm cloud.” He spoke in hushed tones, like the room was wired and fed to Myles’s office.
“I don’t know what I can say.” I was dying to tell someone.
I couldn’t tell my siblings who I was working for.
They thought I was still looking for a job.
If they knew I was with Foster House, they’d rush down here and demand to know why I was a traitor.
Then Myles might think I was a traitor, gathering state secrets or something.
I did have access to his recipes, but I didn’t care. Daddy always said being authentic was more important than being the winner. Other than the basics, Foster House’s blends weren’t like Copper Summit’s whiskeys.
“I shouldn’t have asked.” Braxton looked around like he was afraid Myles had snuck in to listen. “He’s just not usually this…”
“Intense?” I asked.
He smiled, showing the dimple. “You picked up on that?”
“Immediately.” I’d known that almost my whole life. Odd thought. But I was dying to get more information on Myles. Maybe I could give Braxton a little and get something new in return. “Someone accused him of not being charitable.”
The dimple disappeared. “Like how?”
“Donations, scholarships, sponsorships, and stuff.” How much should I say? How much did Braxton know? I had to give a little to get a little. “He even accused My—Mr. Foster of exploiting his foster kid history.”
Braxton laughed. “Whoever said that knows nothing. I mean, just look around.”
“How so?” My curiosity was spilling over. I wanted to shake every Myles detail out of the guy.
“Me, for one. I was a foster kid.”
“Really?” I shouldn’t be surprised. Myles hadn’t been the only foster with me and my sisters. Children of all ages had come and gone, though none stayed as long as Myles. I hoped those kids had lost the stunned fear, the palpable loss by the time they were adults.
Braxton nodded solemnly. “He’s even helping me get into college.
The scholarship I have for the fall is somehow linked to Foster House.
Full ride. And then there’s Arya in IT. She was in the system, too.
Hailey, Tanner, and Julio. Several more who have come and gone.
He’s hired us all and helped us move on if we want different careers.
” His sunny smile was back. “I’m going into fermentation science. I’d love to be a Myles Foster.”
Genuine admiration welled up, both for Braxton’s enthusiasm and for Myles’s hidden generosity. “You’ll do great.”
“Thanks. My boyfriend doesn’t drink alcohol, but I promised I’d make him a steady supply of kombucha.”
“You’ll save him so much money.”
Braxton laughed. His gaze lifted to the door, and he blanched. “Mr. Foster.”
“Braxton.” That hard tone rumbled right through me, leaving need in its wake. “Ms. Kerrigan. I need you to take notes on my meeting in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be there.” I shoved pizza in my mouth to keep from looking guilty.
“See to it.” He sucked the cold air out of the room when he left, leaving only the hot sun radiating on us.
I chewed and smirked at Braxton.
He picked up his plate. “I wish whatever asshole upset him knew what he was putting us through.”
I swallowed. “Don’t worry. The guy got a severe dressing-down.”
“Would’ve loved to have witnessed it.” He tossed his plate and left the break room.
I’d seen Myles let loose just a hint of his temper. How spectacular would it be if he lost control in other ways? I had to fan myself while eating the rest of my food.
My eyelids drooped. I might be young, but I’d been told I had an old soul and that included being ready for bed by eleven. It was almost midnight, and I was still at the office. My fatigue was the sum of another week of long hours and number crunching.
Myles had the cuffs of his shirt rolled up, and I’d been drowning in muscle and veined forearm porn for hours. Dark hair dusted his skin, and my fingertips tingled at the thought of his strong chest under my hands.
Being tired made it harder to forget how attracted I was to my temporary boss.
Add in the low level of anxiety rising thanks to the light pattering of rain on the window, and I wasn’t thinking clearly.
I would have to drive back to the city in rain.
I hated driving in bad weather. I disliked bad weather, period.
I blinked at the blurry screen. We’d pored over tables, rearranged data, reinterpreted information to determine the various quantities Foster House could supply for a national distributor without sacrificing flavor and quality.
We wouldn’t be working this late if Myles thought the amount was satisfactory.
He didn’t say it, but he was worried he couldn’t fulfill expectations with the facilities and staff he had.
He thought Mainline Grocers would turn him down flat.
A few times, I’d caught him muttering, We can’t sacrifice the product for money. The money will come after the quality.
Again, I was struck silent by the familiar phrases. Myles had been put to work on the ranch. As far as I knew, and from what I’d gleaned from my older siblings, Myles hadn’t worked in the distillery very often. Was it possible he’d accompanied Daddy there more than we’d realized?
Frustrating that Myles wouldn’t discuss it.
As if to prove my point, his phone buzzed. He looked at the message, stared at the screen with his phone in his hand for several heartbeats, and tucked his phone back in his pocket. I’d noticed that before with certain calls and messages. Get lost in the screen, then ignore.
Who was calling him? A woman? Several women? Someone from his past? Who did he have in his present other than Cadillac Sam and the employees of Foster House?
More questions. No answers.
I rubbed my eyes as more tables and timelines flashed on the screen.
No matter how Myles positioned the numbers, Foster House fell short.
He’d need to make deals with more suppliers.
More suppliers meant more corn and grain to use and store.
More use meant more mashers, more stills, more space, more staff, more, more, more.
This place was big. There was room to grow, but not for a pitch weeks away.
“What if you came at them a different way?”
Piercing blue eyes that didn’t show an ounce of fatigue shot my way. “How would that be?”
The yawn that was close to working its way out was crushed under the weight of his direct scrutiny. My idea had seemed revolutionary seconds ago, but verbalizing the thought was terrifying. I’d witnessed exactly how he felt over a week ago when he’d told Wes Clayton off.
“Um…” Adrenaline dripped into my veins and chased away my sleepiness. “You’re trying to sell them on numbers, but it’s the story that sells.”
His gaze sharpened like the last time I’d spouted some of Daddy’s advice. “I’ve already sold them the story. That’s how I landed the meeting.”
“You sold them the story everyone knows. You’re a kid who had it rough and made good, and now you’re a successful businessman.
” I scrubbed my face again. I was committed to saying what was on my mind, but I couldn’t watch him turn to an icicle that could stab me when I did it.
“Look, I know you told Clayton you don’t want the recognition or the admiration, but other people need it. That’s just the way life works.”
“I don’t need to cater to—”
“Yes, actually, you do.”
“You’re interrupting again, Ms. Kerrigan.” This time, I might’ve heard humor, but I might just be that tired.
“Like I said, in order to be heard in my house, I had to talk over strong personalities. You’re kind of in the same boat. In rural Colorado, you’re becoming a big deal. But if you want to be the next Jim Beam—”
“I don’t want to be the brand of the masses. I want to be the go-to top-shelf brand of serious whiskey drinkers.”
I scowled at him. “Now who’s interrupting?”
He pushed back and crossed his arms. Time for bicep porn. The thin fabric of his shirt clung to the bulges like I wanted to.
When he didn’t speak, I continued. “So, if you want to be a nationally recognized top-shelf brand, albeit on a smaller scale than Jim Beam but a whole lot bigger than you are now, then you’ll have to create a deeper story. You might want to consider sharing more of you.”