Chapter 2
I can”t stop replaying my conversation with Londyn over and over in my head.
The way her lips curved when she smiled at me. The way her eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. That subtle sway of her hips as she moved behind the table.
A group of tourists interrupts my reverie, crowding around Londyn”s booth and clamoring for her Passion Fruit Ale samples. I watch as she deftly handles the throng, her radiant smile never faltering as she pours, chats, and charms every last one of them.
I snag a tasting cup from a nearby tray, inhaling the bright, fruity aroma before taking a sip. The flavor bursts over my tongue—tangy and sweet, with an underlying depth that leaves me wanting more. Just like its creator.
To my surprise, she locks eyes with me. I lift my cup in her direction, offering a silent toast, and her grin widens ever so slightly.
I force my gaze away, but not before catching a glimpse of those full lips wrapped around the rim of a glass, her tongue darting out to catch a stray drop.
The visual makes my throat go as dry as a desert.
You didn”t come back to Madison Grove for her.
My grip tightens on the cup until my knuckles strain against the skin. I down the rest of the ale, letting the slight bitterness ground me.
Westbrook Industries. That”s my target, my sole purpose for returning to this town after over a decade away. Not Londyn Simmons and those curves that could tempt a saint. I won”t be deterred—not by a pretty face or the sting of ancient history.
Tossing the empty cup into a nearby bin, I stalk away from the farmers market and toward my rental car. As I drive through the streets of my hometown, unexpected nostalgia washes over me.
The place has changed, that”s for sure. New shops and businesses line the revitalized Main Street, the old brick facades given fresh coats of paint in a rainbow of vibrant hues. The sidewalks teem with shoppers and diners, a far cry from the sleepy town I remember.
Some things are blessedly the same, though. Like the sturdy red brick of Douglas Elementary, its wrought iron fence and playground just as I recall. I slow as I pass, memories of recess games and schoolyard dares flickering through my mind.
On the outskirts of town, new sprawling ranch-style estates dot the landscape, their manicured lawns a stark contrast to the rugged pastures beyond.
Black Stallion Ranch is bigger than I remember, its fences now stretched over what seems like miles of prime Texas land.
I make a mental note to look up the Lewis sisters while I”m here. Maybe swing by the ranch and catch up with my old buddy Booker over a glass of their private-label bourbon. It would be good to see a familiar face from easier times.
The thought has barely formed before a pang of unease settles in my gut. This town, this place...it”s all tangled up with ghosts, no matter how shiny and new the veneer.
I pick up speed, putting distance between me and those complicated feelings until I reach my rental property—a luxurious modern farmhouse just outside of town.
I could have stayed at my penthouse in Houston, but I need to stay close to pull off this plan. As I pull into the circular drive, I know I made the right decision. The place is exactly as advertised: private, secluded, and more than enough space to set up a mobile workspace.
Dragging my suitcase inside, I get down to the business of unpacking and settling in. Hanging my suits with crisp military precision, lining up my shoes in the closet, arranging my desk with my laptop and my iPad with my notes and the ever-present case files.
This sort of methodical task has always centered me, a ritual as familiar as the brewing process itself.
I fall into the routine, allowing my mind to momentarily quiet. But it isn”t long before those nagging thoughts creep back in, conjuring flashes of warm brown eyes and the phantom scent of Londyn”s perfume.
Why did she have to be there?
Of all the people, of all the places. I hadn”t anticipated running into Londyn so soon after arriving, certainly not under those circumstances. Seeing her again, so vibrant and beautiful and utterly unruffled by my presence...it rattled me more than I”ll ever admit.
She”s the one I thought I”d outgrown and conquered through sheer force of will. But one heated look from those soulful eyes is all it took to reopen old wounds.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, the bounce of the mattress jarring me back to that fateful day in the brewery lab. Londyn and me, putting the final touches on our signature recipe for the competition.
The fragrant steam from the boiling wort, the warm spice of the hops, the way her brow furrowed in concentration as she measured out the malts...
It was all going perfectly, our chemistry as brewers in perfect sync. Until the unthinkable happened—our prized batch, utterly ruined by a single, unforgivable act of sabotage.
In that moment, my world shattered.
Everything I”d worked for, the future I”d hoped to build with the woman I loved, torn apart by one careless move. The betrayal cut straight through me, leaving the space between us scorched.
I trusted her, and she destroyed me.
My chest constricts as that decades-old anguish rears up with startling force. I double over, fingers digging into the plush duvet as I wrestle for control.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Like the cycle of the brewing process, a ritual to recenter myself.
One ragged inhale, then another. Slowly, the maelstrom eases, though a dull ache lingers behind my ribs.
Raising my head, I survey the sleek modern lines of my temporary quarters, so different from my childhood home or that cozy campus brewhouse.
This is the world I”ve built in the ashes of that shattered dream—a fortress, impenetrable and secure.
No more ghosts, no more distractions. I”ve come too far to be swayed from my purpose now.
Westbrook Industries won”t know what hit them.
Ring, ring...
I answer my cell on the second ring, not needing to check the caller ID. ”J”Mario.”
”Little brother.” The deep baritone voice that”s always sounded like wisdom and authority greets me. ”I heard you were back in Madison Grove.”
A rush of affection surges through me. Despite our age difference, J”Mario has been more of a father figure than an older sibling. After our father died, shielding Jalisa and me from the worst of the fallout.
”Just for a few days,” I confirm, leaning back in the plush desk chair. My temporary home office overlooks the rental property”s lush backyard. ”Taking care of some business.”
There”s a weighted pause before he asks, ”Does this business have anything to do with the Westbrook situation?”
I can”t stop the wry chuckle that escapes. J”Mario has always been able to read me like a book. ”You could say that.”
”I figured as much.” A resigned sigh crackles over the line. ”I take it you”ve put that plan of yours into motion?”
”You know me—” My eyes drift to the case files and confidential dossiers spread across the desk. ”Always five moves ahead.”
”Is that so?” The teasing lilt in his tone is a stark contrast to the gravity of our conversation. It”s J”Mario”s way of reminding me not to take myself too seriously. ”And does your grand strategy account for running into a certain brewery owner?”
The breath catches in my throat as the memory of Londyn floods my senses—her radiant smile, those soulful eyes, the intoxicating blend of tropical fruit and rich malts that clung to her sun-kissed skin.
Gripping the armrest, I force myself to remain impassive. ”You mean Londyn?”
”Did you really think you could slip into town unnoticed?” There”s no mistaking the knowing amusement in his voice now. ”Word travels fast around these parts, little brother. Especially when the son of Mae Knights is spotted getting friendly with the competition.”
”We”re not—” I start, then think better of it. No need to offer explanations, not when J”Mario has already drawn his own conclusions. ”It was just a chance encounter.”
”Sure it was.” The sarcasm lands like a gut-punch, driving the point home. ”And I”m sure it had nothing to do with your conveniently timed business dealings with the Westbrooks.”
A muscle ticks in my jaw as I consider how to respond. There”s no use denying the underlying truth—that my return to Madison Grove is very much centered on dismantling Westbrook Industries from the inside out.
Winston Westbrook and his corrupt empire are going down. And if a few chance encounters expedite that process, so be it.
But revealing those precise details to J”Mario risks drawing unwanted scrutiny. As much as I respect my older brother, his moral compass has always been better calibrated than my own.
”You know I can”t discuss the particulars,” I hedge instead. ”Not over an open line.”
J”Mario”s answering silence stretches out, thick with unspoken meaning. We both know the kinds of ruthless tactics I”m capable of deploying. The same single-minded determination that”s fueled my rise in the corporate world is what drove me to orchestrate this entire operation.
But there”s also an implicit trust between us, forged over years of having each other”s backs through every manner of trouble and strife. We”ll go to hell and back for one another if needed—no questions asked.
Finally, J”Mario speaks, his words clipped and pragmatic. ”Just tell me you have an exit strategy, Jermaine. That you”re not in over your head with these Westbrook snakes.”
”You worry too much, big bro. My plan is airtight,” I assure him.
The truth is, I”ve been so hyper-focused on infiltrating Westbrook”s ranks that I haven”t fully gamed out the aftermath.
Londyn”s brewery, her stake in all this...it”s a loose thread I”ve purposely avoided pulling, at least for now.
There”s a pregnant pause before J”Mario continues, his tone leaving no room for argument. ”You listen to me, little brother. If this whole thing goes sideways, you make sure Jalisa and I are the first ones you call, you hear me? We”ll handle it, just like we always have.”
The weight of his words settles over me, a reminder of the sacred bonds we share as siblings. Despite the murky ethical waters I”m wading into, J”Mario and Jalisa are my tightest allies.
My family.
”I hear you,” I murmur, suddenly struck by a surge of gratitude and affection. ”And I”ve got your word on that?”
”You know it.” The gruff sincerity in his voice is like a balm against the doubt gnawing at the back of my mind. ”Jalisa and I are locked and loaded. Just say the word, brother, and we”ll be there.”
We disconnect, and I lean back, fingers steepled beneath my chin as I mull over our conversation.
J”Mario”s staunch loyalty is predictable, a given. But the fact that he felt the need to voice his concerns at all...it”s a stark reminder that my actions are hurtling me into perilous territory, with potentially severe consequences.
Not just for me, but for those who matter most—my family, my legacy, and the deeply-buried part of me that still yearns for Londyn”s light in my life.
Shoving aside those thoughts, I rise and begin pacing the length of the room, needing to expel this restless energy coiling inside me.
My phone vibrates with a new text from Mae, my mother.
Looking forward to dinner tonight, baby. It”s been too long.
A pang of guilt lances through me at her words. It”s true, I”ve been lax about making time for the woman who sacrificed everything to keep our family afloat after my father”s desertion.
I make a mental note to pick up her favorite bottle of red before heading to her place later. A small gesture, but one I know will put a radiant smile on her face.
As I continue my circuit around the room, I think about my siblings, J”Mario and Jalisa.
We”ve all walked very different paths, but the ties that bind us have only grown stronger over the years, seared by the crucible of our family”s darkest days.
My father”s death left a wound that will never fully heal. But they also ignited an unquenchable flame within each of us as we went from a struggling middle-class family to being broke.
An all-consuming mission to build a legacy and never want for anything fueled me. It led me straight to the brewing industry and my singular focus on restoring the family name.
Even as a child, I understood the sacrifice and heartbreak woven into the Knights family. How our third-generation brewery was ripped away by corporate greed and my father trusting a man who was supposed to be a friend.
The day he announced we were shuttering Knights Brewery was one of the most painful of my young life. I can still hear my mother”s anguished sobs echoing through the empty warehouse as we packed up the last remnants of our legacy into cardboard boxes.
Falling into the plush armchair, I rake a hand over my face, the memories crashing over me in waves.
Those nights huddled around the rickety kitchen table, my siblings and I watching in silent confusion as our parents battled over dwindling finances...
The gut-wrenching strain in my father”s voice as he admitted he”d been forced to sell the brewery to Westbrook Industries...
The devastating finality of the day when I stood over his grave after a ranching accident, leaving my mother crumpled on the floor.
What will I do now…
The pain in her voice.
So much grief, so much loss—all at the hands of Winston Westbrook and his empire of greed.
My path was set that day, even if I didn”t fully understand it at the time. While J”Mario and Jalisa poured themselves into other pursuits, building their own visions of success, I became obsessed with righting the wrongs my family had endured.
Regaining our stake in the brewing world. Restoring our standing and reputation. Crushing the Westbrook name beneath my heel.
That singular drive carried me through undergrad and grad school, my thirst for knowledge matched only by my lust for vengeance.
For a second I see Londyn”s face, and her smile before she noticed me across the park.
I watched as she chatted and laughed with the crowd gathered around her booth. My gaze traveled from the top of her head, those wild locs piled in a messy bun, down to the soft curves of her body hugged by a casual sundress.
She”s always had an incredible figure, but there”s something more womanly about her now—lush hips, a full bust straining against the fabric.
The sight awakened a primal need to make her mine.
Dangerous territory...
I can”t afford to be distracted, not with everything riding on this revenge plan against Westbrook Industries.
One misstep, one crack in my armor, could jeopardize years of careful strategizing.
But I feel it again, the gravitational pull she always had over me. It would be so easy to surrender, to let myself get swept up in her.
But I can”t. I won”t.
Not after the way she betrayed me, crushed all my dreams with one selfish act.
The sting of that wound still burns fresh. No matter bad I”d love to sink deep insider her.
My jaw tightens as I force myself to focus on the task at hand. Not Londyn Simmons.
Clenching my fists, I turn on my heel and stalk to the door so that I won”t be late for dinner.
I can”t let my guard down for even a moment. Because Londyn has a way of scrambling my senses, clouding my judgment until I”m drunk on the fantasy of us.
But I know better now.
My path is clear, my purpose unshakeable. I”m going to bring the Westbrook empire crumbling down around Winston”s ears. And if Londyn”s brewery gets caught in the crossfire...
So be it.