Chapter 9 - Laurel
The Dog and Kettle was set off the side of a road, surrounded by a picket fence, with a couple of lazy hounds hanging around in the outdoor seating area, not paying anyone any mind.
To live up to the rest of the name, various teakettles ranging from dinged-up tin to shiny copper were hanging from twinkle lights along the edge of the peaked roof.
A burly man with tattoos and a beard halfway down his chest greeted us and told us to make ourselves at home, and I followed Mik toward the bar, which took up the entire length of the big place.
Despite its size, it was set up to have a homey, English pub feel, which got overtaken by the country music blasting from an old-fashioned juke box.
Behind a glass wall, I could see into the brewery, with several massive stainless steel tanks that Mik nodded approvingly at.
He was no longer up in arms at me for suggesting something less than five-star dining, and I was glad because it meant I didn’t have to put more than a few dollars on the company card for a toothbrush.
I had always wanted to visit this place myself, but my snobby ex would rather have died than ever show up there, so I was able to relax knowing Rand wouldn’t be popping up to surprise me.
As Mik ordered the first round from the dozens of taps, I wondered if maybe Rand’s influence during the year I worked for him had rubbed off on me. Was I as much of a snob as him now? Even if I wanted to deny it, I had been acting like it, probably bordering on insufferable.
If only Mik didn’t get under my skin so badly, almost asking for me to fight him at every turn. I cared about the restaurant, and my future reputation depended on my demanding the best.
“This was a good choice,” he said begrudgingly, his eyes on two of the bartenders, who were talking to each other and glancing back at us.
I didn’t recognize them, but there was no limit to Rand’s influence in this town, and I couldn’t make myself smile or agree with Mik as one of them headed over to us, looking purposeful.
I braced myself, and oddly, Mik seemed to do the same. The barstools were close together, and the place was already packed. He was already a big man, but as the flannel-clad bartender came close, Mik somehow expanded.
“Are you Mikhail Fokin?” he asked, though it was clear he was already certain he was right.
“Who’s asking?”
I swiveled around, bumping my knees against his, to see him giving the bartender a glare that should have dropped him on the spot. I was no stranger to his imperious attitude, but what did this guy do to deserve it?
The bartender introduced himself, waving at the other man behind the bar. “I’m the owner here,” he said. “I’ve got ten bucks riding on you being responsible for one of my customers’ favorite imports last summer, Zabava pale lager?”
As quickly as he puffed up, Mik relaxed again. “You know about my brews?”
The owner of the Dog and Kettle waved his bartender over, who peeled ten dollars out of his tip apron, but the owner waved it away.
They were both excited to meet Mik, speaking in a rush and name-dropping different beers.
Mik almost glowed and looked more like an ancient deity come to life than ever as he settled into his element.
“It’s not easy to get,” the owner complained after they made some unspoken pact about five minutes in that they were now all best friends. “The Zabava was such a hit, but it was a fluke we were able to get any at all, and then it was just gone.”
“It was an experiment,” Mik said. “Named after my great-aunt. We like to do limited editions.”
“Well, hook me up as a supplier if you ever decide to expand more in the US,” he said. “And congrats on winning the Euro Grand Tasting last year.”
“You’re famous,” I marveled when they got back to work.
“That’s the first time that’s happened,” he admitted, then grinned, rightfully proud. “So that’s what it took to impress you?”
“Ha,” I said. “Like you’ve been trying.”
He rolled his eyes, and we decided to move to a table and order some food with our second round.
We got jostled by some people getting up to dance on the small dance floor near the jukebox, and once again, there was that quick tensing of all Mik’s muscles before he relaxed.
More of an instinct than a conscious decision.
“I thought you were going to fight the owner when he came up to us,” I teased. “As hard as you try, you haven’t been in California long enough to have enemies.”
His face briefly darkened before his grin came back. “Oh, you don’t know how hard I try.”
He was joking right back at me, and it felt good to be able to get some of my frustration out, all while having fun. And I realized I was having fun. The music was rollicking, everyone around us was in a good mood, and the dance floor was getting more packed.
Nobody cared who was watching them as they swung around with their partners, rushing to get close when a slower song came on.
I looked around, perusing the crowd, not seeing anyone I knew, and relaxed even more.
Mik and I tried bits of conversation, and I learned a little about his brewery, but the music was too loud, and we gave up, content to toast each other and enjoy the atmosphere.
After some chicken wings and before Mik decided on the third round, he nodded toward the dance floor with a question mark in his eyes.
Rich cheese platters and chicken wings drenched in spicy ranch weren’t what I was used to eating, let alone two dark, foamy beers.
Getting up and moving around was just what I needed.
It was a hard-hitting song about trucks and guns and wild women, and Mik pulled me up close against his chest before swinging me back out again.
Stop being so clumsy. Who said you looked good in that outfit? Fix your hair before you embarrass me as usual.
The voices rose out of my memory, almost drowning out the music for a moment as I became overwhelmed with self-consciousness. What the heck was I thinking putting myself on display? Who did I think I was?
Mik tugged me back, holding me close against his rock-hard chest for a moment to lean down near my ear. “You look so damn amazing.”
The cruel voices in my head retreated instantly at his low growl. Shocked, I looked up to see he meant it. His eyes roamed over me appreciatively as he swung me out again, and when he dipped me as the song ended, I was laughing. No one was watching us or judging me.
“So do you,” I said, returning the compliment since it was true.
By the end of the next song, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt that carefree.
It had to be the beer. Breathless, we headed outside for some fresh air, nabbing a table near the fence.
The twinkle lights barely made it that far, and the lone candle in a jar only cast a small circle of light.
The music wafted out softly from inside, and before I could sit down, Mik pulled me onto his lap.
“Oops,” he said.
My instincts should have been telling me to jump up like he was made of fire, but I only snickered. “Was that a mistake?” I asked.
Continuing to sit on his lap, breathing in his cologne, I enjoyed my light beer buzz and the feel of his hands settling on my waist.
“You tell me.”
Oh boy, now it was up to me to ignore his boyish grin, the way his fingers were tightening, the heat of his palms sinking through my top. Now I should really reprimand him and move to the other chair. No, I should call it a night and demand to be taken back to the hotel.
But instead, his lips brushed against mine. Barely.
“There’s no way you’re drunk,” I said, my chest rising, one of my hands moving to his strong bicep and giving it a little squeeze.
“Not even close,” he told me.
So he knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted me on his lap, wanted to kiss me. I wasn’t really drunk either. Not really, not a lot. I could use it as the perfect excuse, though, because damn it, that teeny tiny, soft but firm kiss made me crave more.
Lots more. I thought I was supposed to be immune to this.
I ducked my head down, and his forehead bumped lightly against mine, resting there, just as his hands were resting on my waist, ever so subtly pulling me closer. That strange confidence he gave me on the dance floor was still riding high, still in control.
He’s your boss, Laurel.
That voice was all my own, ringing out loud and clear through my tipsy, lust-filled haze.
This was something I truly believed I’d never feel again, floating in the clouds and full of anticipation. I thought that part of me died, never to be resurrected.
Just one.
I tipped my head back up, and his lips were right there, connecting with mine. He gripped me tighter as I ran my hand up his arm to tangle my fingers in his hair. A slight twitch under my lap had me gasping. He smiled against my mouth and ran his tongue along the seam of my lips.
Then there was a vibration. Long and angry, coming from somewhere near my other hand, which had slowly begun to work its way up Mik’s chest.
“Damn it,” he muttered, pulling away. “It’s only set to take certain numbers. Sorry.”
Clamping his hands firmly around my waist, he neatly tipped me off his lap and pulled out his phone. I stood on shaky legs as he rose and stepped over the low picket fence like it wasn’t there to take the call in privacy.
I stared at his back, trying to decide if that kiss actually happened or if I was still deciding whether or not to lift my chin. Was the whole thing a daydream? Was I drunker than I thought?
The tingle of my lips and the heat where I could still feel his hands told me the kiss happened. I kept staring at him, wondering if I wished it hadn’t or wished it was still going, and after less than a minute, he turned back, stepped over the fence again, and looked down at me with a frown.
“We have to go.”
“Is everything okay?”
“No.”
In less than a minute everything was back to normal, and I should have been grateful because I probably wouldn’t have come to my senses as quickly as I should have.
But did he have to go back to being such a jerk?
If there was some unseen switch, I wanted it back the way it was before he got that mysterious phone call.
No, I didn’t. Because then I’d be making a huge mistake. There was no arguing with myself on that one. The kiss would have kept going, and then who knew what would happen back at the hotel.
“Is there anything you left in your room?” he asked.
“Just a new toothbrush I can live without,” I said.
“Good. And, sorry.”
It was too brusque to warrant an answer. Was he sorry we were cutting the trip short and couldn’t visit the other wineries, or was he wishing I was still on his lap? His curt tone and taut face told me it was the former.
Or he was just trying to be polite and failing. We traveled to the airport in silence, and he got back on the phone, pacing twenty feet away from where I sat while we waited for the plane to be ready.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked when the pilot let us board.
“No,” he said, moving to a seat at the front. “But thanks.”
I rolled my eyes at the continued, stiff politeness, unaccountably hurt that he didn’t want to share what was wrong, when something clearly was.
Well, why should he? A couple of hours of fun didn’t mean we were suddenly friends.
And that kiss was so, so much of a mistake it was better that it was interrupted.
Once the plane landed, he was just as preoccupied on the ride back to the restaurant. I tried one more time to ask if everything was okay. “It’s not Emerson, is it?” I asked, hoping she wasn’t having complications so early in her pregnancy.
He looked completely confused for a second, then shook his head. “She’s fine.” Then he told me to put cab fare on the company card and gave me one final command. “Do not take the bus home at this hour,” he said. “Do I need to wait inside with you until the cab comes?”
“No, your highness. I’ll stay behind the locked door until it pulls up to the curb and then make a run for it. Should I carry one of the kitchen knives?”
He pursed his lips and scowled as he slid back into his car. “Don’t run with a knife.”