Whimsical Tigress (Whimsical Dreams #18)

Prologue

Sitting in her apartment with her bare feet propped up on the small table in front of her armchair, twirling the stem of a wine glass in her hands, Brooke Marino scrunched her brows in deep thought, wondering what in the hell she was going to do.

In the past ten years since she had graduated from college, Brooke had forged an impressive career for herself as one of the top graphic artists in the craft microbrewery space in Florida.

She had fallen into it completely by accident; Brooke and her family were of Italian descent, so it was wine and not beer that had figured more prominently in her life as she was growing up.

However, as she was working on her graphic design bachelor’s degree at Full Sail University in Winter Park, Florida—just outside of Orlando—a fellow student had asked her if she was interested in working in the taproom of a tiny area microbrewery part-time.

The job, Brooke had rapidly discovered, was great fun and had introduced her to the world of craft brews.

Although she was still a wine girl at heart, she had enjoyed learning about different types of craft beer and meeting the eclectic, fun people who hung out in brewpubs and taproom breweries, while pursuing her degree in graphic design.

One day while she was on shift, however, she’d looked askance for the hundredth time at the plain, unexciting beer tap handles in the small taproom and decided she needed to do something about them.

As a gift to Ricky and Schroeder, the taproom owners, Brooke had produced four custom beer tap handles, molded from polyurethane resin, painted with fine, exquisite detail to represent their brand, then sealed.

With a grin that had stretched from ear to ear, Brooke had presented them to the two men one day for their three-year wedding anniversary, telling them she was killing two birds with one stone.

“First, it’s your anniversary, so congratulations on another year with your ball and chain,” she’d smirked, giving them a large, wrapped box and kissing them on their cheeks.

“Second, since my eyes have been bleeding for quite some time, this is as much for me as it is for you. Frankly, I didn’t think queer boys did boring…

but evidently, it took the femme lesbian to sail to the rescue and yank you out of Dreary Land. You’re welcome.”

When they’d unwrapped the package and saw the custom beer tap handles Brooke had designed and produced for them, their mouths dropped open in utter shock.

“Gurllll…if I had ovaries, they would be hitting the floor,” Schroeder had enthused when he got his voice back, holding one reverently as he admired its artistry.

“Seriously, Brooke, thank you so much! You have some serious damn talent, my friend. I cannot wait for our customers to see these.”

Brooke hadn’t thought anymore about it until about a week after Schroeder and Ricky had switched out the taps, gushing to anyone who would listen about Brooke and her amazing skill.

Then, a customer had asked her if she would be interested in producing beer tap handles for her cousin’s taproom, which was located on the east coast of Florida.

Almost before Brooke knew it, she’d built a thriving business, which she had expanded to include graphic design services specifically geared toward the craft microbrewery space upon her graduation.

Throwing herself into her new career, Brooke had focused on learning every aspect of brewing, right down to understanding how CIP—or Clean-In-Place—systems worked: the standardized method of cleaning and disinfecting the interior surfaces of the tanks, pipes, and process equipment used in the brewing process, all without having to disassemble the complex systems that brewed and fermented the product.

“If I’m going to do this,” she had told Alyssa Riker, who had been her best friend since kindergarten, “I need to understand every single thing—at least at a high level—about how craft beer is made. As a graphic designer, my job is to communicate ideas and create visual concepts, so consumers understand what they are buying…not to mention, enticing them to buy the product in the first place. How can I do that if I don’t thoroughly understand what I’m trying to sell? ”

Brooke had grown to be such an expert in her field, she was continually offered far more work than she could accommodate, with a line of eager, patiently-waiting clients snaking out her door.

Early on, she had decided against taking a partner or hiring other designers to handle projects for her, feeling that Brooke Marino Designs would do best as a one-woman show, with various independent contractors providing assistance where needed.

Now, she rubbed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes as she took another sip of her wine, pissed that her excellent reputation in the craft microbrewery space was in jeopardy—all because some greedy, amoral dicks thought she was too stupid to figure out what they were doing.

A cynical smile lifted the corner of Brooke’s mouth as she took another swallow of her wine.

Whether she was being discounted because she was a woman, or because she was only a graphic artist, Brooke didn’t know.

What she did know, however, was that Thom Geralt, Clayton Tucker, Jack Webb, and Robert Hoyt were going to wake up one day to find out she had scorched their asses so hard, their tiny, shriveled balls had also been seared fiery raw.

What you did not do to a Marino—ever—was steal from them or show them disrespect.

Her nonno had taught her that from the time she was a very small girl.

Although Nonno was no longer on this earthly plane, she knew he wouldn’t recognize his beloved granddaughter if she didn’t take steps to protect what was hers—plus, he’d be furious with her.

There was no question that she was going to make those tools sorry they had ever decided to mess with a Marino.

What was throwing her off at the moment, however, was figuring out the best way to strike back.

As she had previously explained to Sabine Burns, Thom Geralt had approached her one day and expressed his interest in working with her to turn around an already-established microbrewery on the verge of bankruptcy.

As it turned out, Brooke knew the owner—someone she had a great deal of respect and liking for—but had been sorry to hear he had fallen on hard times because his wife’s breast cancer diagnosis had diverted his attention from his business.

Thankfully, Sandy was expected to make a full recovery, as her latest scan had showed her to be cancer-free, but the months of neglect had driven his microbrewery to the brink.

Thom told Brooke that he and his partners had bought into Cask & Canvas and were looking for a graphic artist who could help them to rebrand.

Because they had invested in four breweries in the Tampa Bay area, he had told her that—should the graphic design for Cask & Canvas be a success—they were interested in signing a contract with her for her to do the graphic design for the other three breweries they owned.

Brooke’s lip curled as she took her laptop from the seat beside her, propped it on her lap, and opened it.

She had expressed her willingness to work on the Cask & Canvas project immediately because of the circumstances surrounding its imminent failure, even though both her schedule and her waiting list were already full.

Given her reputation and the situation with the microbrewery, Thom had said, they really needed someone of Brooke’s caliber taking charge of the rebranding to make sure it was a winner.

Confirming that he understood she needed limited access to their systems because of how she worked—assuring him she needed nothing that was proprietary or had to do with anything financial—Brooke had gone straight to work, creating three pieces of concept art that would provide her a direction in which to proceed, based on his feedback.

Her first misgivings came when she noticed Thom and his partners always seemed to be working very late at night—even through the wee hours of the morning—regardless of the day of the week.

While it wasn’t uncommon for area microbreweries to stay open until midnight or one a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays, they were more apt to close at nine or ten p.m. on weekdays.

However, Brooke consistently received emails and communications from Thom at one a.m., two a.m., even three a.m., with instructions that made it clear Thom was physically on site at the time he sent them.

Why? There was no earthly reason anyone had to be physically present at a brewing site during those ridiculous hours, especially someone who was not a part of the actual workforce.

Second, Brooke peered at notes on her laptop, the owner had mentioned casually in passing one day when Brooke was actually on site herself that there were some odd transactions taking place that hadn’t been making sense.

Thom had immediately moved to give him a practiced response that had seemed to satisfy the owner, but Thom’s explanation had rung false to Brooke.

Pretending she was completely uninterested in the conversation—telling Thom she was ready to talk about the next phase of the rebranding as soon as he was available to spend some time with her—she had nonetheless filed it away in her mind so she could think about it more when she was alone.