Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Wynter
Working for Myles sucked.
I stifled a yawn and stared at my computer until my eyes straightened out. The first text to clear on my computer was the time.
7:52 a.m.
The constant pings from Myles through the night had disrupted my sleep. He’d said he didn’t expect me to drop everything outside of work hours—which surprised me—but when a thought occurred to him, he sent the missive off.
Schedule a time to talk to Ellie about new yeast strain.
Ellie was the master distiller and almost as scary as Myles. She was closer to his age than mine, had five kids, and rattled through timelines of batches so fast my head spun. I couldn’t keep up with notes, and Myles would impatiently fill in. I started using dictation in addition to note-taking.
Arrange appointment with Norton Mills next week.
A new rye supplier.
Double-check time with Wes.
Wes Clayton was opening a trendy club in Denver, the second version of one in Colorado Springs. He also had clubs in Oklahoma City and Dallas. Wes had been on Myles’s radar since Myles learned Wes’s clubs didn’t carry Foster House products.
I would triple-check the time and location of the meeting with Wes. It was this afternoon when Wes arrived at the club in Colorado Springs. I was leaving with Myles right after lunch.
I yawned again, grateful my back faced my boss’s office.
Myles was at work before seven a.m. but didn’t expect me to be there until a quarter to eight.
He stayed until at least eight p.m. from what I could tell from the bulk of his messages, but he often dismissed me at six.
He only ordered in one meal a day, but those muscles weren’t starving.
How early did he wake up? Did he collapse from exhaustion as soon as he stepped foot into his downtown loft?
Or did he have a mansion in the foothills? A ski lodge all to himself?
When did he have time to hone that body?
A guy with his physique couldn’t not work out. He was piled with muscle, and he never called a department like IT or HR, he marched there, taking the damn stairs every time.
Thankfully, he let me stay behind at my temporary desk surrounded by pictures of Mrs. Crane’s two kids and five grandkids. Our first work trip was coming up soon. We would drive, but he had a private jet when needed—not one he owned, but one he co-oped. I hadn’t known that was possible.
As for the job itself, it was simple. I got the access code for the main door and an ID card.
I learned which files were where, who I had to talk to for what, and the rest was muscle memory.
Daddy had made all of us do a term as his assistant when we were old enough to work.
He’d paid us and made us save most of the money for college—which he’d then paid for in full and claimed we had a good down payment for a house instead.
Since I was the youngest, I had worked as Daddy’s assistant the longest.
I’d been in on meetings with suppliers and distributors. Pitch meetings to get our product onto store shelves and into bars. But I’d never been as nervous as I was about flying solo with intimidating Myles and his workaholic ethics.
Had he worked this hard on the ranch? I’d been too young to be a part of chores. He’d helped Daddy in the distillery, too, a fact that inflamed my brothers’ hard feelings. Myles had taken family secrets and profited off them. Big-time.
Maybe I’d feel differently if I’d met a man who vacationed in Paris or holed up in a cabin in Aspen with a new snow bunny every night, but looking back on his calendar the last few years, I found no fun time penciled in. Myles worked, and he worked some more.
My brothers would be shocked. Daddy would—
Would Daddy be around for me to talk to him about my experience with Myles? I couldn’t tell him yet. I didn’t have more to the story than I was working with the man, and he didn’t know who I was.
I’d made it through three hours of work when Myles’s office door opened. A faint wave of amber-laced sage washed over me. The guy smelled as good as he looked. His cologne was like hiking through the mountains on a bright summer day.
Was that why Myles chose that cologne? Did he miss Montana?
Did he miss us? At all?
“Ready to go, Ms. Kerrigan?”
I swirled my chair and sat straighter. His suit coat was gone, leaving him in only his one-button-undone shirt and heather-gray slacks. His brown loafers gave him a more relaxed air. A trendy businessman in his off state. Even his hair had gone casual, with some strands falling over his forehead.
“Ms. Kerrigan?”
I was staring. Only complete honesty would save me from revealing that I dreamed about being the one to run my hands through his hair. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting pajama day.” He was also early for the meeting with Wes.
A small frown tugged at his lips. “Pajama day?”
I waved my hand up and down his frame. “You’re practically ready for bed, Mr. Foster.”
One corner of his mouth twitched up, and I stopped breathing. Was he going to smile? “My meeting today requires less formality,” he explained.
“Stiffness is overrated.”
His expression froze for a heartbeat before his gaze intensified.
“Stiffness is never overrated, Ms. Kerrigan, under the right circumstances.” I sucked in a breath and almost started coughing, but he continued smoothly, “However, Wes Clayton is known for his modern and trendy style. I don’t think he’d appreciate a full suit. ”
I had to be mistaken. That hadn’t been innuendo. It couldn’t have been. I forced my mind to return to business and recalled the pictures I’d seen of Wes. “You aren’t opting for a pair of powder-blue frames, tight brown slacks, a pink polo shirt, and shoes that match the glasses?”
“I still have to be myself.” He shoved a hand in his pocket, striking a pose straight from the ad he’d bought the cologne from. “Wes’s style is his.”
I lifted a shoulder. “It works for him.”
His blue eyes turned to ice, and the air between us turned frigid. “Indeed. It’s time to go.” He started for the stairs.
A shiver raced down my spine. I grabbed my tablet and yanked my backpack from my bottom drawer.
I stuffed the tablet, some notepads, and a pen inside and raced to the elevator.
If I’d known I’d be climbing in and out of a car chasing Myles, I’d have worn pants instead of a sleeveless summer dress with a flowing skirt.
At least I’d bypassed heels for a pair of wraparound sandals.
Myles was waiting by the front desk, chatting with Braxton when I rounded the corner off the elevator.
Braxton was even grinning. When I approached, he was saying, “Of course, Mr. Foster. Thank you so much.”
“Anytime, Braxton. Don’t hesitate to come to me with anything.”
Curiosity burned a hole in my head. Myles wasn’t the type to make people smile.
He’d been nothing but professional to all his employees, protective, even, as he’d explained their roles and the good jobs they did.
I might’ve melted a little when I’d caught hints of fondness, but seeing him chat with Braxton was a new view into Myles Foster.
His shoulders had relaxed, and I caught a flash of the teen I’d known.
Myles glanced at me, spun on a heel, and went to the door.
Braxton winced for me and gave me a finger wave. “Bye-ee.”
I sent an air smooch his way and breezed out, smiling.
The front desk clerk was one of the highlights of my day.
Everyone at Foster House treated me well, but I was nothing more than a temp employee to them.
I was used to working with family, with all the employees being unabashedly up in my business, so it was hard to work where I didn’t matter beyond my position.
Braxton was friendlier and made each day a little brighter.
Myles hadn’t loaded himself into the black SUV. He stood holding the door open. His driver was in the driver’s seat. Weren’t they usually the ones holding the door?
“I don’t like to be late, Ms. Kerrigan,” he said as I slid in.
Ho-ly shit. The interior was a sophisticated mix of black and wood accents that should have looked dated but only came off as expensive. The real shocker was the privacy shield between us and the driver.
“It’s like a limousine.” What he said finally sank in. “Wait—late for what?”
He adjusted his position and pulled the seat belt across himself. He gave me a pointed look until I did the same. Of course I always wore my seat belt. If he would remember who I was, he’d know.
“The lunch meeting with Cadillac Sam.”
I only knew who Cadillac Sam was because the guy took out ads in every bathroom stall in every restaurant, club, and gas station in Colorado. But that was the extent of it. “I didn’t arrange a meeting.”
“I did.” He was thumbing through his phone, and he flashed me his calendar. All it had was Lunch in blue blocked out from eleven thirty to one.
“I saw that, but I didn’t realize it was a business lunch.”
“The blue is a standing lunch with Sam.”
“You’re on a first-name basis with Cadillac Sam?
” The guy owned the most popular chain of liquor stores in Colorado and was spreading into every state that shared a border with Colorado.
I hadn’t dealt with him, but my oldest brother, Tate, had.
Tate described Sam as charming, gregarious, and cunning, but a businessman first and foremost. He’d said Sam didn’t tolerate people who couldn’t look beyond his 1967 Cadillac DeVille convertible, ten-gallon hat, and bushy gray mustache.
“Sam and I go way back. He was the first major retailer to carry Foster House.”
“And because he did, you were able to level up.” The car kicked into gear. I studied Myles. This was my chance to learn what made him tick other than corn yields and the bottom line. “You feel like you owe him.”
Myles tucked his phone away. “I owe a lot of people. Sam and I both like to talk business. He’s…he reminds me of someone.” He stared out the window. Conversation over.
Typical. The man filled me with more questions than answers.