4. Delia
Exactly as I did most days, I woke up on Tuesday morning, got ready, and headed down to Brie’s Bakery. This morning happened to be a special occasion as, for once, all of my sisters were free from work obligations and joining me for breakfast.
When I walked through the doors, the comforting scents of sugar and butter swept over me in the most perfect welcome. I found Ella already seated at our usual table in the corner. It wasn’t surprising that she was the first to arrive given she lived above the flower shop that was only two storefronts down from Brie’s.
“Morning, sunshine,” I said when I dropped onto the chair across from her.
Ella’s only response was a grumble, which was basically a jovial greeting coming from her. With her head tilted down, gaze intent on something on her phone screen, I took a moment to study her. She had changed so much these past few years, and I didn’t just mean the tattoos now dotting her skin or the funky colors she dyed her hair that changed weekly.
There was something…darker about her now. Ella used to be the most free spirited of us all, content to dig in the dirt, planting flowers and daydreaming about the days when she’d be able to make a career out of her passion. And she’d sort of succeeded by working for Fanny at the flower shop, but it wasn’t the same. Being surrounded by all that vitality should’ve made her happy as a clam. Instead, she seemed lost, like a shell of her former self.
The rest of our sisters and I agreed it was thanks to her piece of shit boyfriend, but if there was one thing the Delatou women were, it was stubborn. There was nothing we could say or do to make her see reason, not until she was ready to hear it.
On the flip side of Ella’s dark coin was Brie, who bounded over to the table, basking all of us in her glow like a ray of sunlight. Her hands were full of platters of an array of her scones and danishes, and her employee followed behind her with a tray of various coffee products for each of us.
Amara and Chloe breezed in one after the other as Brie returned with another tray, this one piled high with breakfast sandwiches and croissants. The scent of fried meat greeted my nose, and I was sliding a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit with tomato and avocado onto my plate before Brie had even set them down.
She reached out and playfully slapped my hand. “Greedy,” she scolded as I took a massive bite.
“Starving,” I corrected, grinning at her with a mouth full of food. God, my sister was so fucking talented. I would happily eat her food all day, every day.
Once we’d all settled around the table, Brie even taking a few minutes off from fussing over us, we tucked into our food. As plates were cleared and Brie’s confections disappeared, my sisters and I chatted about nothing in particular. Updates on Chloe’s writing, her and Amara’s pregnancies, the winery, flower shop, and bakery floated around us in the kind of easy conversation only sisters could master.
The only one who didn’t open their mouth was me, though I was practically vibrating with the news of my partnership with Owen, damn near bursting at the seams to share my excitement with my favorite people. But I knew we’d circle around to it. And when Amara wiped the corners of her mouth and dropped her napkin onto her plate, her gaze locked with mine, and my moment had arrived.
“So, you met with Owen last week,” she said without preamble.
I nodded.
“And how’d that go?”
Next to her, Chloe’s brow furrowed. “Wait, back up. We’re talking about Owen Lawless here, right? Why did you meet with him?”
“Yes,” I said, then quickly brought her, Ella, and Brie up to speed on the partnership opportunity Amara had passed off to me. I explained how I nailed the proposal presentation and how I knew I had it in the bag but Owen wanted to talk to Cal first.
Amara snorted at that. “You knew Cal wouldn’t reject you,” she said to me.
“Well…I hoped. I know I’m not exactly his favorite person after that shit I pulled Memorial Day weekend, but…”
My second oldest sister waved her hand dismissively. “He loves you, Lia. He’s past all that, and he knows you’re more than capable of taking this on.”
I grinned widely. “Which is exactly what he told Owen. You’re looking at the new half-owner of a distillery!”
My sisters erupted into cheers, Brie sliding an arm around my waist to squeeze me from the side, the other three reaching out to pat my hands—Ella—or ruffle my hair—Chloe and Amara. Then Amara raised her coffee to the center of the table and the rest of us followed suit.
“To Lia!” she cried, and we all clinked glasses. Her gaze locked with mine, one of those golden eyes winking as she said, “I have a good feeling this is going to be everything you’ve been searching for and more.”
God, I hoped she was right.
After breakfast disbanded, I was hyped up on caffeine and adrenaline. I made a quick pitstop at home for my laptop and other things I’d need for my and Owen’s meeting with the architect today, then headed into the city to go over a few things with him beforehand.
I gave Owen no warning that I was coming in early, and his brows drew together when he opened the door, sparing a quick glance for his watch.
“You’re early,” he said.
“I’m aware,” I responded, pushing past him and making a beeline for the couch cushion I’d come to think of as mine after only two visits to this place .
I had a feeling Owen and I would be spending a lot of time ensconced within these four walls, so I was grateful his furniture was comfortable—and that he kept a fully stocked bar cart nearby.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” I said when I was comfortable, my laptop open on the glass-topped table.
“Okay…” he said skeptically as he came to sit across from me.
“I’d like to document the process.”
“What process?” Owen asked.
I rolled my eyes, irritated by him playing dumb despite the fact that I offered no context. “Don’t be stupid, QB. It’s not cute.”
“I’m not a QB anymore,” Owen grumbled, and it seemed as though I’d pressed a sore spot. Interesting .
“Don’t care,” I said. “What I’m saying is that I want to document, well…everything. The meeting with the architect. The day we break ground. The entire build, designing the interior, distilling the spirits. All of it from start to finish.”
“Why?”
I answered his question with one of my own. “Have you looked into me at all? Like, checked out my social media?”
“A little…” he admitted, but I could tell from his tone that he was fibbing to some degree. The thought sent a little thrill through me.
“So you’re aware that I’ve taken my followers through every single day and detail of upgrading my house.”
“Yes…”
“I want to do that here. Build a following before we even open. With your pretty face and my marketing prowess and social media management skills, we’ll have people busting down the doors the second we’re open for business.” I sighed heavily, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose in annoyance. “This was all in my proposal.”
Owen raised a skeptical brow. “When you say ‘everything,’ what exactly do you mean?”
“I’m not going to be telling people where you live or giving away your social security number but…in my experience, people like thinking they have access to celebrities, or well-known influencers. Since you’re one and I’m the other, I want to give anyone who follows us an inside look at the entire process. Behind the scenes, Q&A sessions, voting on finishes. That sort of thing. An unfiltered look into the whole process.”
He scraped his fingers through his sandy hair, the tattoo of his last name shifting like a flag along with the muscles of his forearm. In his short-sleeved Carhartt pocket tee, half of the curve of his biceps was visible where the sleeves suctioned to his muscles, and I had to clench my mouth shut to avoid drooling. Owen’s body was incredible, and he was exactly the kind of man I’d already have gotten into bed with if my livelihood didn’t rest on an amicable—and decidedly not physical—partnership with him.
“I know that’s your thing, Delia, but I’m not entirely on board with giving the public that much access to my life.”
“It’s not your personal life, though,” I protested. “It’s just the business side of things.”
“I don’t know…” he trailed off.
“Look, if it’ll make you feel better and get you to agree, I promise I won’t feature you in any content. I know how to draw people in either way. ”
“I’ve noticed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You rarely show your face in your own content,” he said, lifting a shoulder in a half shrug. “People are obsessed with you anyway.”
Ha! I thought. He had spent more time on my accounts than he let on.
“So it’s settled then,” I said, reclining on the couch, a smirk dancing on my lips. “I’ll get our profiles set up this afternoon, and I can start posting content right away.”
Owen still appeared unconvinced.
“Owen,” I said softly. “This is why you brought me on. Trust me to handle this.”
He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “it wasn’t my choice” but I decided to ignore him. I was saved from having to respond anyway when a knock came at the door. Owen stood and admitted the architect.
The man strolled in, dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit and caramel-colored wingtip shoes. His thin, pale hair was combed over in a poor attempt to cover the shiny scalp beneath. Shorter than me, the top of his nearly bald head reached somewhere around my nose. Horn-rimmed glasses framed watery, pale grey eyes that swept right over me, and my hand proffered for an introduction, and settled on Owen.
Already, I didn’t like this guy.
“Mr. Lawless,” he said, heartily shaking Owen’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve really been looking forward to this project.”
Owen offered a smile that tensed slightly at the edges. It seemed I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t a fan of the man.
“We have been too,” he said. “And we appreciate you making the drive up from Chicago to meet with us.”
“We?” the architect asked. “I was under the impression you were taking on this project yourself.”
“I was when we initially spoke,” Owen said, then gestured to me. “But I’ve since brought on a partner. This is Delia Delatou.”
“A woman?” the architect asked, surprised. Owen hadn’t yet given me his name and, at this point, I didn’t want to learn it. I’d be content to call him “the weasel” in my mind from now until the end of time.
“My family owns a winery on Old Mission,” I said, my tone so saccharine I gave myself a toothache. “And we’re building on a portion of a forty acre parcel I own.”
The weasel’s furry grey brows drew together and, as though I hadn’t spoken, he returned his attention to Owen.
“Where would you like me?”
Owen led him to where we’d just been seated. The weasel unceremoniously lifted my laptop and dumped it on the couch, sweeping loose papers out of the way to make room for the large rolls of schematics secured under his arm. As he spread them out, Owen grabbed a couple paperweights from his desk—which I quickly realized were actually football awards—to secure the edges so we could study them.
Yeah, the man used football awards as paperweights . My god, I was so far out of my league.
After allowing my gaze to sweep across the first one, which was a full-color rendering of the entire front facade of the exterior, I blinked in surprise .
This was what Owen wanted?
There wasn’t anything wrong with the plans, per se. The entrance was a monolithic thing constructed of chrome and glass, rising to a peak at the front with the rest of the building a lower, sprawling rectangle behind it. I barely listened as the weasel shuffled through the plans for the inside, speaking about how people would walk into a grand foyer where we could set up our gift shop and rest rooms. The bar beyond was full of sharp lines, reflective textures, and so much proposed neon my eyes hurt simply staring at the page.
“No,” I said, cutting the weasel off in the middle of a sentence, finally finding my voice.
The weasel glanced at me, heaving a world-weary sigh, and Owen’s forehead scrunched.
“No, what?” Owen asked.
“This”—I gestured at the plans, at the materials, at the weasel’s whole…person—“isn’t going to work.”
“Why not?” Owen seemed genuinely curious, which I supposed was a good sign. This was the first test of our partnership and, while I was certain he didn’t particularly appreciate my protestations, he was at least humoring me.
“It’s too pretentious for this far north,” I told him honestly. “It’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”
“And that’s…a bad thing?”
“I was under the impression that was the point,” the weasel said with an eye roll, and I cut him a glare.
“This won’t be in the city,” I snapped. “This will be in the country, the wilderness. We’re not building with the intention of welcoming in wealthy clientele who will spend gobs of money on our spirits. I’m sure we’ll get guests like that on occasion, but they won’t make up the bulk of our patronage. We’ll be welcoming in moms and dads, students on vacation and friends celebrating weddings. It just won’t work. I have some—”
I reached for my laptop, but the weasel cut me off. “I’m sure you’ve spent plenty of time with your little daydreams, but let the big boys handle this, little girl.” He turned to Owen. “Does she need to be here?”
“ She is half owner of this building and the land it will sit on,” I reminded him. “How dare—”
“Owen, can you please get your girl on a leash so we can approve the plans and move on?”
My blood instantly boiled, my cheeks flushing red hot with the rage rising in my chest. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? And what was Owen doing, standing there watching this man insult me and not coming to my defense? If this was how things were going to be…
With jerky movements, I gathered my things and stalked for the door.
I glanced at Owen over my shoulder and said, “Call me when you realize I’m right.”
I stormed out and, the moment I threw myself behind the wheel of my car, I dialed my sister.
“Hey, Lia,” Amara said when she answered. “How’d your meeting go?”
“Fuck Owen, fuck the weasel, and fuck this partnership!” I shouted. “How dare you get me into this?”
“Woah,” my sister said. “Slow down and tell me what’s going on. ”
Quickly, I explained the disastrous meeting, and by the time I finished, shouting expletives about the weasel and his stupid rodent-like face, Amara and I had dissolved into a fit of giggles.
Our laughter lifted some of the weight that had settled on my chest, the anger coursing through my veins ebbing.
“Really, Mar!” I gasped. “He looked like Timothy Spall with less hair.”
My sister cackled harder, and I had to pull over on the side of the road as tears blurred my vision.
When we’d both composed ourselves again, I pulled back onto the highway that would take me home, wiping the stray moisture from my face.
“I needed that laugh,” I said. “It’s only day one and we’re already fighting! I can’t believe he didn’t even come to my defense. He’s supposed to be my partner . Remind me why I thought this was a good idea?”
“Because you were made for this, Lia,” Amara said, her tone instantly soothing more of my frayed nerves. She was barely a year older than me, but there was nothing like having your big sister remind you of what was important.
And what was important here was that I was strong, intelligent, and capable. I knew the plans the weasel had brought us were garbage.
We didn’t need endless chrome, glass, and shiny surfaces. This was a distillery on the north end of Old Mission, not a night club on Michigan Avenue in Chicago. We wanted to embrace nature, not fight it. My vision for the place was simple: a warm, cabin-in-the-woods vibe. From the outside, it would be unassuming. The exterior would be constructed to look like a log cabin, the inside walls the same wood, though planed and stained. Poured concrete floors. A corrugated steel bar with a bird’s eye maple top and tables around the main room to match. The interior would be divided in three: the gift shop and bathrooms near the front, the bar area itself, and the stills at the back, viewable through a wall of plexiglass. I’d include a lot of natural elements, like more wood and stone, in the overall decor. Lots of warm, earthy tones. We’d include a patio off one side for outdoor seating in the summer sunshine that could easily be winterized with vinyl sheeting and a small, wood-burning fireplace in the corner. Plush, faux-leather seating that was easy to clean. A gravel parking lot.
It would be romantic and sexy, but rustic and cozy. Everyone who walked through the doors would feel like family, exactly as our patrons to the winery did. Obviously, I wasn’t an architect or an interior designer, but I knew I was right.
Now I only had to wait until Owen realized it too.