Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Wynter
I could be bullheaded at the worst of times. The imposing distillery towered over me, more intimidating than it had been yesterday.
Instead of my pink sweater and houndstooth leggings, I was in a hot-pink, slouchy top that showed off my black-and-gray sports bra, black yoga pants, and my athletic shoes. My pounding head couldn’t be bothered to find something more impressive.
What was I doing here?
I didn’t want to leave Denver without Myles knowing who I was. I’d come to reveal myself and see how he reacted. Yet my determination seemed like a bad idea in broad daylight.
The man I’d met yesterday wouldn’t care I was Wynter Kerrigan. He probably hadn’t ever stepped foot in Montana again and would resent a walking reminder of the childhood he’d left behind.
I didn’t know much about Myles’s childhood before the Baileys, but over the years my siblings had made comments about the various fosters who’d lived with us.
Myles had been through several homes, and most of the time his departure had been at the request of his foster family.
Then the Baileys had taken him in and made him a deal to help him save money until he turned eighteen.
My heart tugged just like it did every time I thought back to that morning I’d learned he was gone.
Before he’d come to live with us, he’d been shuttled from home to home all over Bozeman. He’d had bruises on his face when he’d first come to the house. A fight at school I’d been told, but I had been scared of him until the lull of his voice had cut through my fears.
I’d never heard how he lost his parents—or if they were still alive and how they’d lost him.
I had a lot of questions, and I probably wouldn’t get answers.
Yet I’d driven all the way south of Denver to the outskirts of Castle Rock.
The view was lovely with white-tipped peaks in the distance, hills and valleys cut by winding roads.
The town itself was sprinkled with quaint shops, some giving off an Old West vibe, family housing, and sprawling businesses that pulled the area into the twenty-first century.
They were picturesque mountains, but not the ones I’d grown up seeing.
A beat of longing echoed behind my sternum. I missed home.
I might as well finish what I’d come to do, or I’d berate myself for being a coward the entire forty-five-minute drive back to my apartment. Then I could get a big breakfast and nurse the dull headache that refused to go away.
Inside, I smiled brightly at Braxton and kept walking. “Good morning.”
“Uh, Ms.…” He skirted around his desk. “H-how can I help you?”
“I’m here to talk to Mr. Foster.” I continued toward the elevator.
He scurried to catch me. Was I going to get hauled out of the building before I hit the elevator? I veered for the stairs. I was wearing workout clothes after all.
Braxton was trying to circle around me like a herding dog. “But Mr.—”
“Let her up.”
Both Braxton and I stopped and tipped our heads back. The stairs went one direction and then another, switching back two more times. The very top railing allowed Myles to lord over everything from the foyer on up to the ceiling.
He was doing it now. Glaring down at me, the blue of his eyes deeper than yesterday. Ridiculous that I could tell from here.
“Mr. Foster?” Poor Braxton. He sounded terrified, and it was my fault.
I steeled myself. No. His fear was because of Myles’s management style, not me.
Myles only dipped his head to ease Braxton’s anxiety. “Ms. Kerrigan. A word?”
“Really?” I muttered. Annoyance pushed at my temples with my hangover. I’d been ready to body-slam the front desk guy—who wasn’t much younger than me but seemed infinitely more innocent—and now Myles was asking for my time? Yesterday, he couldn’t run me out fast enough.
Wait. Did he know who I was? Had it registered, and he planned to chew me out?
His gaze sharpened like he’d heard me, and my heart hammered. A desperate flush swamped my body. Should I run before I had to explain why I’d tracked him down? From his vantage point, did I look like a field mouse would to a hawk?
A hawk was too mild. Too small. What was more threatening than a hawk? An egret? A falcon? Definitely an eagle.
“Ms. Kerrigan? I seem to have to repeat myself around you.”
I tipped my head all the way back, my fear retreating, and irritation taking its place. This motherfucker. He hadn’t been this much of a prick as a kid, had he? “Patience is a virtue, Mr. Foster.” I adopted a sweet smile. “I’ll be right up.”
I refused to take the stairs. By the time I reached the top, wine would be leaking out of my pores, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I’d gotten drunk over him. As if he’d care anyway.
My stomach lurched with the elevator. Vomiting on his expensive loafers would be the highlight of my trip.
When the doors dinged open, he was there, hands stuffed in the pockets of his charcoal-gray trousers. He wore a matching suit coat, and again, the faint blue shirt was kept loose at the collar. He was casual yet severely professional.
“Ms. Kerrigan.”
The thud in my head dulled at his voice. Because of course it did. His voice had been my balm long ago. The effect had only gotten stronger with time.
“Mr. Foster,” I said as if I weren’t dressed for Pilates and hadn’t cocked off to him minutes ago.
“Come to my office.” He strode away.
I had to shoulder past the closing elevator doors and rush to keep up with him. My penance for making Braxton run this morning.
Inside his office, he didn’t bother closing his door. Did that mean he’d chase me right back out after he told me he knew who I was and that he didn’t appreciate liars?
I hadn’t lied. Technically.
He waved a hand to a plush chair that was more comfortable than any furniture I’d planned to buy for my apartment.
I took a seat as he sat behind his desk.
The wood matched the beams on the ceiling, and it was filled with neatly piled reports, two binders, and one laptop.
A single pen sat atop a stack of papers.
He leveled his stern gaze on me. My body didn’t know whether to overheat or ice over. The tension riding in my gut was an uninvited guest.
I folded my hands in front of me, the epitome of calm when my insides were a torrent. “You wanted a word?”
His stare intensified, and he sat back, reclining but nowhere near relaxed. He had an elbow propped on the armrest of his office chair. “Mrs. Crane had to take leave earlier than expected.”
“Oh no. I hope everything’s okay.”
I waited for the accusations. That I was spying on him, or that I was snooping, or that I was being a creep, and if a guy had obsessed about a girl like I had about him, he would get a mugshot and a lawyer. But he only spoke about Mrs. Crane.
Worry formed a lump in my throat. I had wanted to be mad at her for leaving me hanging like a carcass for Myles to berate, but I understood. This was her career. She wasn’t on a fact-finding mission like me, and I had enjoyed my chats with her.
His lips tightened further, if that was possible. “Nothing serious, but she’s out until her ten weeks of sick leave kick in.” He sucked in a sharp breath. “Leaving me in need of an assistant.”
Glad she was okay, I tapped my index finger against the back of my other hand. Anytime now. I was ready to face my humiliation. Then his meaning sank in, and I froze. “Me?”
“I understand we got off on a bad foot yesterday—”
I barked out a laugh. “You mean how being only two minutes early personally insulted you?”
His expression went arctic. “You seem to have a habit of interrupting.”
I didn’t miss the power shift between us. I wanted to learn about Myles, but I didn’t need this job. He needed an assistant, and he had no clue who I was. “I’m from a big family. It’s either talk or get run over.”
A ghost, a hint, a mirage of what could someday form a smile played over his lips.
He was accepting my explanation? It was the truth, but he came off as a no-excuses kind of guy.
“Right. Try to refrain in the office. I don’t like repeating myself.
The pay and hours would be the same as what Mrs. Crane arranged with you. ”
I nodded and crossed one leg over the other. His gaze clocked the movement, then rose back to mine. The air sizzled between us and heat seeped into my body, heading south at the worst possible time.
I’d been too into learning about Myles Foster for too long to be unaffected by him.
Had he even thought about me? About my family?
I opened my mouth to tell him who I really was and find out—but I bit the inside of my cheek instead.
I bobbed my leg, my nerves reigniting. It appeared I had a second chance to learn more.
He knew I was Wynn Kerrigan, interested in working in the distilling industry.
He didn’t know I was also the scared little girl Wynter, one of the Kerrigan sisters from his past. What would happen if I told him?
The Myles who’d fired me for not being early enough would not say What a coincidence!
How have you been? The Myles who’d sent me packing would think I was a lying liar and want me out of the building as fast as my hangover would allow without vomiting.
I wanted to get to know the Myles who was willing to rehire me.
The Myles who made my insides zing and gave me very adult sensations.
This man wasn’t one to welcome his past with open arms. None of his history had been in any of the society pieces about him, only that he had been a foster kid.
People loved a self-made, rags-to-riches success story, but he’d never used it as additional fodder for their articles.
Much of what I’d read was nothing but conjecture.
He might be intensely private, or he might hate the Baileys. I didn’t know, and I wanted to. I wouldn’t let him cut me out of his life again. Not until I knew why first.