Chapter 2 #2
I snapped my spine straight. I wasn’t leaving.
This wasn’t the Myles Foster I knew, no.
Mr. Foster had built Colorado’s fastest-growing independent distillery, selling award-winning small-batch whiskey in a highly saturated market before the age of forty—which he’d turned less than a month ago in June.
This Mr. Foster employed over fifty people between the distillery, warehouse, and packaging plant, and none of them would sell out his information to the press.
If he’d harnessed that much loyalty, then part of him was still that boy who used to read me stories.
The kid who’d even sung when the book called for it. His pitch had been terribly off-key.
My sisters and I might not have changed our last name, but we were still Baileys. We’d grown up learning Bailey principles and Bailey charm. We hadn’t been taught to give up. “Sorry, Mr. Foster.” I curved my lips into a smile that always infuriated my oldest brother. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
He narrowed his eyes.
Mrs. Crane drew in a sharp breath that made her cough. She pressed her fingers to her lips. “Oh my. Excuse me.”
Myles wasn’t distracted. He kept me in his irate tractor beam. “I find a flippant attitude doesn’t work well in this environment, Ms. Kerrigan. You may go.”
I needed a moment before his words caught up with me. “Excuse me?” I had to be wrong. I’d come so far. I’d planned this. I couldn’t leave now that I had him in front of me. He had no idea the impact he’d had on my life. Or the effect his departure had had on me.
If his eyes had been cold before, they were frigid now. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees, and goose bumps broke out over my skin.
“You’re fired, Ms. Kerrigan.”
I sat cross-legged on the floor of my apartment on the southern outskirts of Denver.
The complex was teeming with people and surrounded by even more complexes and people, but at least it was far from downtown.
I could even see the mountains…on certain streets facing in the right direction.
But soon I’d be returning to the stunning view from Mama’s doorstep. I’d been fired.
I seethed over my bottle of wine. I hadn’t bothered with a glass. Drinking an entire bottle was better than downing a pint of my family’s bourbon. I was pissed, but I didn’t want to fuck myself up. Merlot was a safer option for a pity party.
Half-empty packing boxes were piled around me. Yesterday, I was half unpacked. Tonight, I was half packed. Maniacal laughter bubbled out of me.
Myles fucking Foster.
I was jobless. Instead of moving in, I had to move out.
My brothers were right. Myles was a selfish prick. He didn’t care about anyone but himself. He’d taken our car and all of Daddy’s knowledge and built an operation that competed with us.
Technically, he specialized in whiskey while the Copper Summit brand was built on bourbon, but we had lines of whiskey, too.
Daddy’s grandpa had started with bourbon, giving our hometown the name Bourbon Canyon, but the family business had expanded.
Copper Summit now had whiskey and bourbon distilleries in Bozeman, Billings, and Helena.
Montana made. Montana proud.
The phrase was on our labels.
“Fucking Foster has ‘Make every house a Foster House.’ Ugh.” I huffed out a breath and took a swig from the bottle. Merlot wasn’t the best for rage drinking, but the wine had been left by the ex who’d caused my bangs.
A message buzzed on my phone. Summer again.
My oldest sister was a pain. She worked for Copper Summit at the Bozeman headquarters and wanted me in the Bourbon Canyon office.
I had wanted to see the country and experience a life I couldn’t find in a small mountain town that had more cattle than people.
I hadn’t wanted to return to a family who ranched those cattle.
And now I had to do all of that. My plans would have to wait, and it wasn’t Myles Foster putting them on hold. Not completely.
Come on, Wynn. You know he’s not going to last long.
The back of my neck grew hot. As if I needed more anger tonight. I punched out a message. Quiet naggging me. I hit send and squinted. Shit. I spelled a couple words wrong. She was going to know. I couldn’t hide from Summer even two states away.
My phone rang. Hot Girl Summer popped up on the screen. I answered with, “You know people our age don’t actually make phone calls.”
“They have to when their little sister is getting drunk on her own in the city.”
“Of all times for autocorrect to fail me,” I muttered and took another drink. What I’d give for a good maple-bourbon splash.
“What’s the beverage tonight?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Wine.”
“Oh, good. Not a guy problem.”
“Sort of. Not a boyfriend problem.” The things that ran through my mind when I looked at him were beyond boyfriend duties. I didn’t care about breakfast in bed or a dozen red roses. Myles looked like he could destroy a girl in all the best ways, and most of them happened between the sheets.