Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Emerson
One month ago . . .
I stand in the parking lot of Foster House Whiskey Distillery and gaze at the tall structure in front of me.
My stomach is wringing like a dishrag, but everything’s been squeezed out.
If I can land Foster House, it will be the biggest account yet.
It’ll attract more clients. The difference in my bottom line would mean buying a brand-new outfit instead of thrifting.
It would mean renewing my lease instead of finding a cheaper apartment.
The man inside could change my life.
As long as he doesn’t pair my last name with anyone he might know in Huckleberry Springs.
The distillery has a site in my hometown.
The smaller Foster House Gold distills more than whiskey, adding vodka and gin to the mix.
But even if anyone associated with the place knows of Hutch and his reputation, they shouldn’t pair my name with his.
I tuck my phone into my purse and stride across the parking lot.
I’m in Denver. I’m not Hutch Langley’s daughter here.
I’m the owner of a fledgling marketing company.
The owner works in Denver, and I’ve heard he has a flat on the top level of the brewery that he stays in when he’s working.
Otherwise, he lives in another small town in Montana.
I’m safe.
Lifting my chin, I enter and nearly trip at the sheer beauty inside.
Four stories of windows let in the natural splendor of the land.
The same timber that made up the mine remains, lining the ceiling and walls between the glass.
To my right, tall silver stills take up their own massive room and shine in the light pouring through.
Four flights of stairs flank the back wall.
Their wooden and metal matches the rugged but elegant atmosphere of the rest of the place.
Thanks to my mom and her yearning for more than what she had, I’m attuned to the quality and expense of something. This place screams it from the inside out.
A man grins at me from behind the desk. Tastefully placed racks of merchandise make a path toward the placard that announces the beginning of a tour line. Beyond that is a wooden bar with a line of stools in front of it. The tasting area.
I’ve studied Foster House—their history, their branding, and their advertising efforts.
I also listened to an interview with the owner, Myles Foster, who strives to keep things fresh while respecting the history.
He might not have been talking about marketing, but he should’ve been.
Myles Foster is notorious for giving a hand up to people who’ve had obstacles in their path to success, especially people who used to be foster kids, like he once was.
I’m not sure if my situation is enough to pour a glass at the Foster House table, but it’s worth a shot.
Besides, the other distillery site is in my hometown, and a curiosity about this place was a stronger motivator than I want to admit.
I’m not going back home, but maybe I can just snoop a little bit, from far away?
“Welcome to Foster House,” the guy in a bright yellow polo shirt says. “How can I help you?”
I smile in return. “I have a meeting with Mr. Foster.”
“Ah. I’ll let him know you’re here.” He types on a keyboard, then looks up. “He’ll be right down.”
Down. His office must be upstairs. Up all those stairs.
A faint ding sounds moments before a tall man turns from a hidden hallway in the back.
He’s married floats through my head, but damn.
A girl can appreciate the view. The black slacks tailored to perfection only make his legs look stronger and more powerful, the material accentuating a powerful stride.
He doesn’t have a tie, and his light-gray shirt has the top button undone, but that doesn’t detract from the confidence he exudes.
His gaze hits me immediately, and I sway. I had a chicken as a kid that laid eggs as blue as those eyes. Wynter Foster is one lucky woman. Though I thought the owner and CEO of Foster House was older, Myles doesn’t look much older than me.
His eyes glitter with a hint of a smile. “Miss Langley?”
“Em, please.” When he’s close enough, I stick my hand out. Perfunctory. Professional. I repress the nervous titter. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Foster.”
His rough palm encloses mine. This is not a guy who’s pushed papers all his adult life. Does he haul the barrels around on his shoulders? How expensive is that watch? Is it one of the ones carved out of whiskey barrels?
“You can call me Lane.”
God, his voice is the richest whiskey. The kind that burns my palate if I don’t concentrate on the sip. Wait. “Excuse me? You’re Lane Foster?”
The corner of his mouth tips higher. “I’m sorry you weren’t notified of the change. You’ll be meeting with me today.”
Tension bunches between my shoulders. Shit. Anxiety swells and makes the room spin. I draw my hand back, missing the heat of his touch.
The six degrees of separation between me and Foster House made it a safe target to pitch despite its Huckleberry Springs connection.
I’m done with my hometown, but my intrigue led me right to the slack in their marketing.
I wasn’t about to let my past get in the way of possibility.
Now here I am. Only it’s not Myles from Bourbon Canyon.
It’s his younger brother. Who lives in Huckleberry Springs.
Hutch’s nearest neighbor. My dad loves him.
He tilts his head, studying my reaction. “Is that okay, Em?”
The smooth richness of his voice centers me when it should send me spiraling, but he’s not looking at me with pity. There’s no recognition in his eyes. Just that calm scrutiny.
He doesn’t know I’m the daughter Hutch decided not to raise. He doesn’t know my dad basically shoved me out the door with my brother after years of ignoring our existence. Okay. I can do this.
I’m here for a reason. I’m here to push my fledgling company out of the nest. I have the meeting.
Better not fuck it up. “It’s great. No trouble at all.
I know you and Myles take turns working here.
” Do I sound like I stalk them? I mostly researched Myles, since he’s the one I was supposed to be meeting with.
I watched his interviews and not his brothers’. “I’m sorry. I mean you and Mr. Foster.”
He chuckles, and it rumbles right to my core, settling between my thighs.
It’s been a long time since I’ve dated, but I’m not getting turned on during a pitch.
“He’d insist you call him Myles. It gets confusing otherwise.
He’s in Bourbon Canyon for his son’s birthday. You’ve got me. Let’s go to my office.”
A lot of girls would love to hear those words.
I steel myself as I follow him. I can do this. I’m competent. People want me. They want to work with me. I continue reciting my mantra until he stops at the elevator. He presses the button and stands back so I can enter first.
“Do you, uh, live here?” I’m probing, but I have to know he doesn’t recognize my name.
“When I’m on site, yes. Myles doesn’t leave home for too long anymore.”
Most of my tension drains out of me, but some stays in reserve. Good thing I used “Em” just in case. It’s not a big jump from Emerson, but maybe it’s enough.
The doors open to a sprawling office. One entire wall is windows.
“Whoa,” I breathe as I get off. A front-row view of the mountains right from his desk.
I used to have that from my front porch in Huckleberry Springs. Longing drags on my heart, but I push it aside. Denver has mountains too.
“Sometimes I take it for granted.” He gestures to a chair, but he doesn’t go behind the desk. “Would you like a tasting?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t, but thank you.”
“It’s not a drink. A taste.”
Intrigued, I sit and cross one leg over the other. His gaze dips to my bare skin and skates away.
Pleased that he might be affected a fraction of what I am, I consider his offer. “If it’s not too much.”
Then I’ll leave. After all, a handsome, successful man is only ever good for me when it comes to business.
“I can’t help but show off our product.” His sexy smirk buries itself in my belly and ignites a tiny flame. He goes to the bar along the wall.
Yes, I’ll definitely leave after this. “It’ll help me to confirm the quality you’re selling.”
He shoots me a grin over his shoulder, and it detonates the butterflies in my stomach, sending them tumbling in a million different directions.
He returns with a wooden holder containing four small plastic tasting cups and sets them on the edge of his utilitarian desk.
“I could use a Glencairn glass, but it’s easy to get too much with those.
” Instead of going behind the desk, he takes the chair next to me and hands me one with the lightest amber whiskey.
“It’s the weakest proof. Have to get your palate ready. ”
Amber whiskey barely covers the bottom, but it’s enough for a taste.
I roll it around on my tongue and ponder.
If only he’d told me which line it was. I studied them all.
Racking my brain, I summon all the descriptions I can and pair them with what’s in my mouth.
“Notes of oak, cherry, and . . . vanilla.”
Surprise lights his eyes. “You’re good.”
I preen like he gave me a gold star, but I just picked some common descriptions. “I enjoy going to tastings.” I’ve gone to two. “But I don’t like to drink a lot.”
Understanding flickers in his eyes, and the stress from earlier returns. Does he know who I am? Worse, does he feel sorry for me? An alcoholic dad, heartbroken after his wife left. I can’t take the pity. I select the second cup.
“You’ve likely done your research on the company.” He leans forward, his powerful torso stretching his shirt tight. When I nod, he mirrors it. “So you know our mother had addiction issues.”
I swallow a stronger, but less complex whiskey. It’s still excellent. “Yes, I’ve read some articles.”
“I enjoy spirits. I respect them. But I don’t over imbibe. It’s important to me not to.”