2. Delia
I nearly spat my coffee all over my computer screen when I found an email from Owen Lawless waiting in my inbox Tuesday morning.
What the hell could he possibly want from me ?
I even went so far as to rub my eyes and blink rapidly to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. With a lingering hangover—and subsequent headache—from the Labor Day festivities of the day before, I wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders.
I set my mug down on a ceramic coaster and clicked the message open.
Saturday, August 30, 2025 (3:57 p.m.)
From: Owen Lawless ( [email protected] )
To: Delia Delatou ( [email protected] )
Business Propositio n
Dear Ms. Delatou,
I’m reaching out today at the request of your sister, Amara. I have a business proposition she informed me you may be interested in, and I’d like to set up a meeting. I’m available any day this upcoming week between the hours of noon and three p.m.
Please respond at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Owen Lawless
I scrunched my eyebrows together in confusion. There was a lot to unpack there, and I hadn’t had enough coffee to deal with it. Instead of attempting a response, I rose from my desk chair and shuffled downstairs, exiting the garage and padding inside to refill my mug. Then I passed through the front door and onto my screened-in porch. This far north in the state, fall was already peeking its head out from the blanket of summer, and I could not be happier. This was truly my favorite time of the year, when the leaves on the maple, oak, and birch trees fencing my yard began to yellow, when the air became crisper, when the breeze smelled of softly decaying things.
I dropped myself onto the padded swing, mug cupped in my hands, and allowed my gaze to roam around my neighborhood. I took my coffee out here whenever the weather permitted, loving the combination of the warm liquid and fresh air to wake me up. Across the street, the Millers were hustling outside—she ushered the kids into her SUV to take them to daycare while he hopped in his truck to head into Traverse City for work. Next to them, Mr. Tuggle shuffled out to his mailbox in his slippers and robe to grab the morning paper. The curtains on their front room twitched as Mrs. Tuggle peaked out, surveying the new day.
Across the street on the other side, the newlywed Mr. and Mrs. Rinaldi climbed into their van and headed downtown, in the direction of the grocery store his family had owned and operated for the last forty or so years.
And next door to me, Tanya Geralt sat on her own porch, a mug of something—most likely chai tea if I knew her—steaming in her hands. When I caught her eye, she waved and shouted, “Good morning!”
“Morning, Tanya!” I hollered back.
Tanya was the owner of Granny Smith’s, the local bar and restaurant my grandmother had built back in the seventies. Her family’s roots in this town ran nearly as deep as mine, and despite having been so young, I knew my family was pleased—if a bit skeptical—when she stepped forward to buy it in the nineties. She was barely twenty-four back then, but she’d made a success of the place. Between Granny’s, Sydney’s Diner, and Brie’s Bakery, the townsfolk of Apple Blossom Bay were spoiled with good cooking.
And I was spoiled to live in such a tight knit community. My first winter in this house, Mr. Rinaldi taught me how to use a snow blower so I could clear my own driveway. Mr. Tuggle, who owned the local hardware store, taught me everything I needed to know about home improvement, giving me the skills to update this place myself. Anytime I was sick, Tanya would bring me a vat of her homemade chicken noodle soup to make me feel better.
I had my family nearby, yes, but there was something so heartwarming about being welcomed wholly by people who weren’t genetically predisposed to love you. That was part of the reason why I’d bought a house in town instead of building on my land farther north on the peninsula. I loved Mom, Dad, and each of my four sisters dearly, but I wanted something that was mine . When I first looked at this house, even before stepping inside, I knew it was home.
It was an old farmhouse that formerly sat on the outskirts of town, the once vacant land around it now filled in with housing as the town expanded. Thanks to the diligent record keeping of our town officials, I even had a few framed photos of the house when it was new and surrounded by fields decorating my walls. Today, though, I was only a few streets off the main thoroughfare. I had a corner lot with a sizable yard and trees providing enough privacy in the back. Plus, there was room to grow if I had a family one day, and I loved having neighbors.
I’d known right away it would need a lot of work to modernize it, but I enjoyed the challenge. In fact, I relished it. The hard work was a good place to channel my anxiousness and energy that I would otherwise exploit elsewhere. I’d done all the updates—save the roof, siding, and some interior framing—myself, including tearing down and replacing every rotted board of the wrap-around porch I sat on now, gutting the kitchen to put in new cabinets and countertops, installing new laminate flooring throughout both levels, painting, and a plethora of other things. In the five years since I’d graduated college and purchased this place, I’d slowly but surely turned it from neglected to lived in.
As I’d documented the entire thing on my Instagram and TikTok accounts, I’d been surprised by the enthusiasm and rapid growth of my audience. I had dual degrees in marketing and business from Northwestern, but the updating of my home was my first true chance to put either of them to work, and I discovered how much I loved the social media aspect of marketing and branding.
Truthfully, I’d only gotten the business degree because Dad had begged me to, saying it was good to have something to fall back on if marketing failed. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in me; he was simply a practical man trying to raise practical daughters. I heeded his advice if only because I wanted to make him happy. What I’d really wanted was to major in photography, but I had settled for a few courses in school and more online, mostly self-teaching. I’ve always loved photography, and had earned fun money in college by shooting special occasions for my contemporaries. I quickly learned social media photography was a whole different ball game, but one I enjoyed immensely. I really cut my teeth on it, and years of trial and error had gotten me to the place I was now.
All in all, things had worked out exactly as they were supposed to.
Happily, I inhaled deeply, drawing in a breath of fresh morning air and basking in the sounds of my neighborhood waking up and starting the day. I didn’t know how Amara lived out on the peninsula by herself. The silence would drive me crazy.
Speaking of my big sister, I headed into the house and upstairs, scooping my phone off my nightstand where I’d left it and dialed her number.
“Morning, sunshine,” Amara said, voice still sleepy.
“Morning, sissy. Did I wake you?”
“No, you’re fine,” Amara said. “I’m just always tired. This baby is sucking the life out of me.”
I grinned at the thought of my future niece or nephew. I couldn’t believe both of my older sisters were pregnant at the same time. I wasn’t anywhere near ready for children, but I couldn’t quite tamp down on the jealousy that panged in my chest. I was happy they were experiencing something so wonderful together, but I hated feeling left out.
It was that classic middle child in me. I wasn’t truly happy unless I was the center of attention.
“How are you feeling otherwise?”
“Good! Really good. Cal’s been taking good care of me.”
Her tone was suggestive, and I gagged.
“Spare me the details,” I said. “I’m just happy you guys worked your shit out.”
It had been touch and go over the last few weeks—since Amara found out she was pregnant, then promptly fired Cal from his position as Delatou, Inc.’s CFO—whether or not she and Cal would work through their issues and realize how much they loved each other. When Cal popped up at the company Labor Day party yesterday, I knew things would be okay.
Amara deserved that, deserved to be treasured and for her baby to have its father in its life. They were going to be amazing parents.
“Me too,” I heard Cal say in the background, followed by the smack of a kiss.
“So is there a reason you called?” Amara asked.
“Oh! Yes!” I said, remembering myself. “I had an interesting email from Owen Lawless waiting for me this morning. Know anything about that?”
“Took him long enough,” Amara mumbled. Then, “Yes, I do. We met last week because he wants to buy a piece of land from us to build a distillery on. He also asked me to sign on as a partner, but I can’t commit to that right now between the winery and pregnancy. So I recommended you.”
“Recommended me how?” I said, gripped by inexplicable apprehension.
“I may have…bribed him a bit.”
“With?”
“I told him I’d sell him the land if he agreed to meet with you. And before you go off on me, just listen. You’ve been asking for a project for ages. Unfortunately, we don’t have anything new happening at the moment, and that won’t be changing for at least the next year while I get through this pregnancy and the first few months of motherhood. This is your chance to have something that’s just yours, Lia. All I did was get you in the door. I know you can do the rest yourself.”
While I wanted to be mad at her for basically forcing Owen into this meeting, I softened. As always, my sister’s heart was in the right place.
“A distillery?” I asked tentatively.
“Yes!” Amara said, quickly running through the plans Owen had relayed to her. I had to admit, I was impressed. Then again, the man already owned three thriving businesses in the area, not to mention being a successful brand himself, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
Already, my mind whirred with marketing ideas, content strategy, and what exactly I could bring to the table to secure this partnership deal.
It seemed Daddy had been right: that business degree was about to come in handy after all.
Tuesday, September 2, 2025 (10:43 a.m.)
From: Delia Delatou ( [email protected] )
To: Owen Lawless ( [email protected] )
RE: Business Proposition
Dear Mr. Lawless,
I truly appreciate you reaching out and giving me the opportunity to meet with you. I’m free at 1 p.m. on Friday. Just name the place and I’ll be there.
Sincerely,
Delia Delatou
Tuesday, September 2, 2025 (11:08 a.m.)
From: Owen Lawless ( [email protected] )
To: Delia Delatou ( [email protected] )
RE: Business Proposition
Please meet me at my offices, which are located in the Lawless Club building. Park in the back lot and press the buzzer. Someone will let you in and direct you.
Sincerely,
Owen Lawless
Tuesday, September 2, 2025 (11:18 a.m.)
From: Delia Delatou ( [email protected] )
To: Owen Lawless ( [email protected] )
RE: Business Proposition
Dear Mr. Lawless,
See you then.
Best,
Delia Delatou
I spent the intervening three days between scheduling with Owen and the meeting itself either at the winery shooting content for socials—a job I was more than happy to do since it meant a lot of following Liam Danvers and his tattooed self around the vineyard as harvest commenced—and doing research on the spirits industry, forming a plan of attack in terms of branding and marketing and social strategies. When Friday rolled around, I was as prepared as I could be—which is to say, pretty goddamn prepared.
Still, my palms were clammy with nervous sweat as I pulled into the lot behind Lawless that afternoon. I’d never been here during the daytime, and it was disconcerting to see a space normally teeming with life looking so…desolate.
I knew he’d opted for us to meet here simply to knock me off my game. This was his turf, his home field advantage. By having us meet here, he was asserting his dominance, trying to prove that he had the upper hand. Showing me that he held all the cards, and he was merely doing me a favor.
And, okay, maybe he was doing me a favor at the behest of my sister, but I knew my worth. I knew what I was bringing to the table, and Owen Lawless would be a pretty shitty businessman if he didn’t agree to partner with me.
Gathering my bag and keys, I stepped out of the car and approached the back door, reaching up to press the buzzer as Owen had instructed. A minute later, it opened to reveal a pixie of a girl.
“Can I help you?” she asked, bored.
“I’m Delia Delatou,” I said. “I’m here for a meeting with Owen?”
“Right.” She jerked her head. “C’mon, then.” When I followed her in, the door shut heavily behind us, the hall descending into darkness. From ahead the girl said, “Head onto the floor. There’s a staircase at the far left. When you reach the top, take another left. His office is at the end of the hall.”
She disappeared almost as quickly as she’d arrived, and I gingerly navigated through the dimness and out onto the main floor of the club.
If I thought it was strange to see the exterior in the daylight, it was nothing compared to the interior. All the booths and tables empty, no press of bodies jockeying for position and attention at the long bar, the DJ booth silent. It was almost like stepping into an alternate reality, one of those back room, liminal spaces where nothing was as it should be.
I made quick work of the stairs and long hallway, taking a fortifying breath before rapping lightly on Owen’s office door.
“Come in,” he said, and I pushed inside.
He rose from his chair as I entered, steepling his fingers on the surface of his desk, the silver ring on his pinky glinting in the sunlight as he watched me.
God, every time I laid eyes on the man, it was like being smacked in the face all over again. No one in their late-thirties had the right to look like that. Even without knowing him, it was obvious from one quick scan of his body that he was an athlete. You didn’t get muscles like his from standard gym sessions. He was broad through the shoulders and chest, his torso tapering to a trim waist and flat stomach. His short-sleeved Henley clung to his washboard abs, the buttons open to reveal the tips of his collarbones and that strong, tan throat. The light jeans he had on molded to his thick thighs and looked soft and well-worn, clearly a favorite pair he’d put a lot of miles in. I couldn’t see his feet, but I knew from experience that they were stuffed into dusty brown Ariat boots. His signature ball cap was turned backward on his head, his slightly too-long dirty blond hair brushing his collar and flipping out around his ears.
It gave him a boyish air—the floppy hair, the casual clothes, the cornflower blue eyes that glinted mischievously, even though his overall expression was stern.
Owen Lawless was rugged and sexy, looking like a bad idea waiting to happen, living up to the legacy of his last name.
“Hello, Owen,” I said, offering a little wave and sheepish smile.
“Hi, Delia. Thanks for meeting with me.”
“I’ll admit, I was surprised to hear from you.”
“Your sister made a…compelling argument for giving you a chance.”
I narrowly held in a snort. I guess that’s what we were calling bribery these days.
“Yes, I understand you weren’t exactly keen on the idea,” I said slowly, “but I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
Owen waved a hand, gesturing for me to proceed. “Let’s hear it then.”
I inclined my head to the coffee table and couches behind me, and Owen raised a brow. I didn’t like having this giant desk between us, him wielding it like a bunker protecting his ass. I wanted us at least on the same level, and I wanted to spread all my work out on the table and let him see how much time and effort I’d put into this simple exploratory meeting.
Once we settled onto our respective couches, I launched into my pitch.
For his part, Owen nodded along as I spoke, attention fixed raptly on me, asking questions in exactly the places I anticipated he would. I couldn’t help but grin each time I answered him flawlessly.
The man was putty in my hands.
My plan was simple: document everything. Every step of construction, from materials selection and framing to decor and interior finishes; each moment of distilling from the first, inevitably awful batch to the final product; interviews with Owen, behind the scenes videos, cocktail recipes and packaging reveals. The entire process from start to finish.
I’d learned with my house that people wanted to see everything, and they enjoyed the nitty gritty as much as they loved the highlight reel. With my experience and a face like Owen’s, this thing was a slam dunk already.
Or whatever the football equivalent was. A chip-shot field goal? Sure, we’d go with that.
“This is…impressive,” Owen said, clearly reluctantly, when I’d finished, leaning back against the suede couch and crossing his arms over that beefy chest. His muscles flexed in the most distracting way. I wanted to sink my teeth into them, to lick a path up his forearm along that tattoo of his last name and feel his coarse blond hair scratching my tongue, to swirl along the ink curling around his right biceps.
And, okay, what the fuck? I was about to—hopefully—get into business with this guy; I needed to also get into bed with him like I needed a hole in the head. Not to mention he’d already fucked my sister, so I definitely wasn’t going there.
This was merely my inner chaos demon talking, wanting to come out and play with the paragon of masculinity sitting in front of us. In any other situation, I wouldn’t think twice about it. I’d have already straddled his lap, slipped my tongue in his mouth and put a hand down his pants.
But this was important . Arguably the most important meeting I’d ever had. Opportunities like this didn’t come around often, and I refused to allow the seductress within me, driven by her baser instincts, to fuck it up.
“Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?” I asked, clearing my mind of those dirty images.
“I’m just not sure this is the best decision for me—business wise,” he added quickly.
I raised a brow. “Why, exactly?”
“I don’t think I need to remind you.”
“Humor me.”
Mostly because I have no idea what you’re talking about.
“That shit you pulled at my cabin on Memorial Day with me, Cal, and Amara,” he said. “I don’t work with people who toy with me and the people I care about. It’s one thing to mess with your sister. I get it. I’m the oldest of seven, so I know a thing or two about fucking with siblings. But to drag me , her ex into it? As well as Cal? When you knew full well that things with them were on those new, shaky legs? I didn’t appreciate that.”
Shame washed over me as those—albeit hazy—memories flooded back. The problem was, I had a habit of acting first and damning the consequences to hell, especially when I’d consumed large quantities of alcohol. That night had not been one of my finer moments, but I’d been so sick of watching Cal and Amara make eyes at each other all day. I knew daring my sister to makeout with Owen would effectively drive her into Cal’s arms—and she’d proven me right .
Plus, it had all worked out perfectly in the end, so what was the big deal?
When I relayed this to Owen, he said, “The big deal is I’m not sure I can trust you.”
“Look,” I said, sitting back and mirroring his pose. “You don’t have to like me to recognize that I’m going to be an asset with this business. What’s it going to take to get you to agree?”
“I’m not sure there’s anything you can do, Delia,” he said slowly. “I agreed to a meeting and nothing more. Now that I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain, Amara has no choice but to sell that land to me. That was the deal.”
Panic clawed at my throat. This opportunity was slipping away, and my mind scrambled desperately for a way to hold on.
Then it struck me.
“We can use my land.”
Owen’s brows raised. “What?”
“My land on the peninsula. You can use it.”
“Free and clear?” he asked, incredulous.
I grinned. “Of course not.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I said, crossing one leg over the other and leaning forward, propping an elbow on my knee and my chin in my hand. “Equal partnership.”