Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Campbell
A week after the meeting that determined my future for the next six weeks, I coast through the trees at the entrance of Foster House.
The distillery looms at the edge of the parking lot, a polished gem that once housed the loud, heavy equipment that crushed pieces of the surrounding mountains freed by miners to liberate any gold inside.
The equipment is long gone, hauled out by the mining company when they declared the hills empty of gold, platinum, and palladium.
The inside sat empty for decades, and the elements took a toll on the metal sheeting blanketing the outside and the logs making up the headquarters.
You’d never know now. Silver metal gleams along the sides, rising to peaks of three different levels, and some of the timber has been replaced.
The newer pieces are lighter than the restored older wood, giving the whole building a rugged, industrial aesthetic.
I got a tour once, shortly after they opened.
Jamison dragged me and Avery through. The higher levels are now offices, one each for the Hennessy brothers and Lane and Cruz Foster.
The main level is where the tanks and stills are housed, and there’s a small area in the back for the production line.
A large garage door faces the far end of the lot where a long rickhouse has been built.
It’s a new structure, but it matches the metal, log, and timber look of the tasting room and merch store.
The whole property is a complete one-eighty from how I knew it most of my life.
I grew up being told never to roam the dangerous area full of abandoned mine shafts, but it’s private land anyway.
Hennessy land. As a kid, I had no idea the only remaining Hennessys worked for Daddy, but for a lot of my life, the boys didn’t live in Huckleberry Springs.
There are stories about them. Tales that tear my heart.
The three boys were left alone after their dad died on a hike.
They told no one that they had no guardian.
Eventually, though, they were taken into foster care and then shuttled to their mom.
All the time they worked for Hawthorne Ranch, no one connected the dots that they were those Hennessys, or if anyone did, they kept it to themselves.
I park and enter through the main door.
Inside, Elodie’s little sister, Clementine Palmer, arranges a display of vodka bottles, all with the familiar yellow house on the labels. Her long dark hair is pulled back into two Dutch braids.
She brightens. “Hiya, Campbell.”
“Clem, how’s it going?”
She dusts her hands off on her jeans. She’s wearing a simple yellow shirt with a Foster House logo. Same house that’s on the product labels, only in black. “Good. Are you stopping in for wedding stuff?”
I don’t have to tell anyone about what I’ve been working on for the last three weeks. News spread around town faster than when Jamison announced she was marrying one of those Hennessys. “Yeah. Is Durban around?”
“He sure is. All the guys are in a meeting. The big boss is in town, but Durban told me to let him know when you arrive.”
She picks up a phone, and my traitorous belly does a little swoop.
Normally, I can acknowledge what a good-looking guy Durban is.
He’s tall, with thick dark hair that makes a girl want to run her hands through it.
The way he styles it is always a little unkempt, like he meticulously combs it, then runs his hands over his scalp regardless.
The guy’s so uptight, he’s probably constantly frustrated and tugging on those rich, almost black strands.
All the brothers are undeniably attractive with similar good looks, but I’ve never noticed the others quite as much as Durban.
Iverson is my sister’s husband, so he’s been off-limits since I met him.
Even then, I only thought he was hot in that general, my sister bagged herself a hot cowboy kind of way.
Haven’s more casual demeanor instantly put me at ease, and while he’s a genuine panty incinerator, mine have no singe marks.
But Durban’s always had that slightly disapproving frown that makes me more . . . aware. I can’t miss the way his whiskers fail to hide the cleft in his chin. Or how a deep dimple flashes when he smiles, but he’s never aiming that ovary annihilator at me. I never cared. I was with Stanford.
Now I’m not, and his frown a week ago was deeper than I’ve ever seen it. Yet he took me home without even knowing the whole story.
After he abducted me from the bar for my own good, I figure I’ll feel humiliated around him for the rest of my life.
Now’s my chance not to flub and show him I’m a competent adult.
Maybe I’ll figure out why it’s important to me to redeem myself.
It’s not because I’m interested in him. He has a girlfriend. A smart one.
“He said you can go on up,” Clem says. “They’re almost done, and you two can use the meeting room.”
“Thanks.”
I wind through the merch store and up the wooden staircase with metal handrails that reflect the rest of the distillery’s style.
An elevator was added during renovations, and it’s often used by tourists.
The second level looks over the trees and into the mountains behind the building.
Guests receive some gold mining lore as part of the tour.
Three guys, none of them Hennessys, but all still shockingly handsome, exit the meeting room.
Like the Hennessy brothers, the Foster brothers resemble each other.
I met Lane and Cruz at Jamison’s wedding, and I see them running errands around town and chatting with business owners.
Both are tall, with black hair and blue eyes.
Lane’s short hairstyle does nothing to hide his shrewd gaze, while Cruz’s stylishly long hair just highlights his devil-may-care grin.
They’re both tall, but stockier than their oldest brother, Myles.
Jamison told me once that Myles is Lane and Cruz’s older half brother.
“Bring Wynter and the kids next time,” Lane tells Myles. “And if you’re not bringing Mae herself, I’m not letting you in without her chocolate chip cookies next time.”
Who’s Mae?
Myles smirks. “I dropped them off at your house. Along with the eggs.” He glances at Cruz. “Yours too.”
Cruz grins. “I knew I gave you my code for a good reason.” Cruz waves me over. “Heya, Campbell. Durban said you were coming by today. You ever meet my brother? Myles, this is Jamison’s sister, Campbell.”
I tuck the box under my arm and stretch out a hand.
“Nice to finally meet you.” He gives my hand a firm shake. I’ve never felt shorter than I do now around the Foster brothers, except for when I’m standing around the Hennessys. “Thank you for helping Foster House Gold break into the local events scene.”
“Seems to be our common goal,” I say, and again, there’s no flutter. Myles and his brothers are hot. No reaction. But the thought of Durban being through that door with his glower has my nerves tingling on high alert. What’s going on with me? “Nice to meet the oldest Foster.”
“And now we’ve shown her that it doesn’t get any better than me and Cruz,” Lane jokes.
“Now she knows you’re full of shit,” Myles says smoothly. “And I’m not buying lunch.”
“Haven can get it.” Cruz folds his arms, and his biceps bulge. “He lost the last bet anyway.”
“What can I get?” Haven’s the next to leave the meeting room, Iverson on his heels. They both nod their greetings to me.
“Lunch,” Cruz answers.
I brandish my box of pistachio-crème-filled cruffins.
They’re my favorite of Elodie’s creations.
I already ate mine, or I’d be wearing half of the sugar coating.
I can eat gallons of her custard. I open the lid and all the guys peer inside, interest lighting up their faces.
“There’ll be dessert waiting for you when you get back. ”
Myles snaps his fingers. “Thanks for reminding me. Wynter wants me to bring home a dozen of something.”
“Sure,” Lane says. “It’s Wynter and the kids asking for the goodies.”
Myles mock scowls at him. “Elsa likes to bake, but she changes the recipes without understanding the science behind them. Her last three batches of cupcakes have been . . . interesting.” Pride shines in his eyes regardless of how the cupcakes must’ve been.
“She’s going to work as Bourbon Canyon’s baker, but she likes to sample other goods. ”
A dad who’s proud of his daughter despite her mishaps. Who’d have thought?
The Fosters filter out. Iverson gives me a light slap on the shoulder as he passes. “Ready to kill them with kindness?”
The “them” in question is Stanford and January. “And competence.”
“You’ll do fine.”
He heads down the stairs after the others. I can’t tell from his tone if he’s really convinced I’m going to do okay. I am good at my job. I love planning and coordinating events. Meetings, gatherings—it doesn’t matter. It’s just too bad I had to come home in order to do it.
When I turn around, Durban is in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face.
I startle, and the lid of the box falls closed. “Jeepers. Scare a girl lately?”
He cocks an arrogant brow. “Just the jumpy ones.”
Fright is not what’s swirling in my belly and sinking lower. Fear isn’t making me appreciate his wide shoulders and the natural power in his stance. This guy doesn’t have to boast and intimidate to get respect or authority. He possesses it to the point where I might beg him to use it.
Oh God. Get off the subject of his body and what he can do with it. He’s so not my type. If I keep saying it, maybe it’ll become true. “Aren’t you going to lunch?”
“I have an important meeting.” He checks his watch. “And you’re early.”
“You can thank my three timers for that.”