Love in Numbers: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Love Distilled Book 1)

by Scarlett Cole

  As he finished the final lap, he reached for the side of the pool, holding tight as he sucked in large gulps of air. While his body screamed for rest, his mind calmed and he savored the sacred moments of peace. He pulled himself from the pool and removed his cap and goggles.

  Connor checked his Rolex Submariner, a gift from his father for graduating Harvard with his MBA eight years earlier and joining him at his firm, Finch Liquor Distribution.

  Sixty-seven minutes. Damn, he was slipping.

  Once he’d showered, he slipped into gray sweats and a T-shirt and returned to his room to get formally dressed. The swim made getting to the event that evening a little tight, but he felt better for the exertion.

  His mother had once remarked that he lacked spontaneity. But he’d whittled his routine down to a fine art. Habits were stacked. Performance measured. Results recorded. Why anyone would waste their time without a solid routine was beyond him.

  Back in his room, he caught sight of his dark hair in the mirror. He needed a haircut. Taming the ends was an episode in futility. Bristles met his hand as he ran his palm over his jaw.

  He dressed in his suit, one custom-made to fit him. With his tall height and swimmer’s shoulders, it was hard to find anything off the rack. Deep navy blue. White dress shirt. Silver cuff links that had belonged to his grandfather. Bowtie because it was expected. Black shoes he’d polished to perfection before he’d left home.

  With a final check that he had his wallet in his back pocket and his phone and room key in his suit jacket, he stepped out into the hallway. Moments later, he was inside the elevator heading for the ballroom. What were the chances, Connor thought, that the Ms. Dyer he’d met on the aircraft was the one and only Emerson Dyer, CEO of Dyer’s Gin?

  Donovan Finch, his father, had dreamed of creating an empire like the Bacardi family, a rags-to-riches story. He’d wanted to build a product and establish a world-class distillery and brand. From there, he’d aspired to forge an empire that had global reach.

  But over three decades before, Donovan’s business partner, Paul Dyer, had screwed him over. Just when the distillery they’d built together was about to open, his business partner pulled the company out from beneath him, leaving him penniless with nothing but a vengeful ambition to become the most successful liquor business in North America.

  The previous evening, on the way to the hotel, Connor had looked up the Dyer family as soon as he’d gotten into the cab. His father’s constant ranting about the company had piqued Connor’s levels of curiosity enough to form a periodic check-in to see how the company was performing. He’d already done a cursory study of Paul Dyer several years before. Dyer’s Gin Distillery had never done well enough for Connor to understand why his father’s anger had lasted this long. There had been other deals that hadn’t worked out over the years, and he doubted his father could remember half of them. Perhaps it was because Dyer’s Gin Distillery had been his first major loss, and that made it so…personal.

  But now, as Connor studied the liquor market, he could see a shift toward artisanal brands and an opportunity to acquire a portion of the market.

  Making Dyer’s Gin Distillery a potential target.

  Connor’s cab-ride search had been about the people, not the numbers. Especially the former operations manager, now CEO, known as Emerson Dyer.

  Emerson.

  The name suited her, and the thought irritated him.

  He’d noticed her as soon as he’d boarded. Attractive, with thick brown hair, her delicate gold earring catching the light from somewhere.

  But after the shitty morning he had in argumentative meetings with his Uncle Cameron, the company’s Chief Financial Officer, and the evening’s pending deadline for a new contract he was working on, he’d just wanted to get seated and get on with his work, so his uncle had one less thing to complain to his father about.

  When she’d finally lost her cool, those syrup-brown eyes of hers heated, he’d been distracted…momentarily entertained. She was a flash fire when provoked but was quick to quench it, and he liked it. He’d even considered taking the window seat so he could get to know her a little bit more.

  Until he heard the attendant say her name, and he realized who she was.

  And while taking his seat was not on the same level as stealing a company, Connor guessed that the genetics of taking whatever you wanted had been passed from father to daughter. He guessed she was headed for the same event he was and wondered how he should handle meeting her again.

  A part of him wanted to tell her where she could get off. Ask her whether her father had been able to live with the shady decisions he’d made. A part of him wondered if he should play nice, get to know more about the woman—or rather, get to know more of her distillery. It wasn’t unthinkable that Dyer’s could be their first acquisition of a successful small-batch distillery, once he convinced his father. But perhaps he didn’t need to. His father was due to retire, the company becoming Connor’s on the first day of January. Perhaps it could be his first decision. No, the first decision was already made—to get rid of his uncle.

  And another part of him, a small part he wasn’t overly proud of right now, wanted to know a little more about the attractive firecracker who had set him in his place.

  To do all but one of those things, he’d need to use some charm. The idea of apologizing flashed in his brain. On the one hand, it felt almost disloyal to his father to apologize to any Dyer. But on the other, as a man who held himself to a high moral standard, he knew he’d been a dick.

  Fuck it.

  Why was he so concerned about what Emerson Dyer thought?

  He shook his head to clear thoughts of the woman from his mind.

  The ballroom was filled with tables covered in blue damask cloths with large white floral arrangements in the center. A DJ played gratingly cheery pop songs as servers circulated the room with trays of glasses filled with champagne, and he immediately thought of Emerson again.

  She’d been as good as her word. She’d worked damned hard on the flight, poring over spreadsheet after spreadsheet at speeds even he felt were impressive.

  His thoughts were restless, and he needed some air before the ceremony began. The ballroom had large doors along one side that appeared to open out to a patio, and he wandered outside. He followed the steps into the lit gardens.

  A warm breeze ruffled Connor’s hair, blowing through his suit and white dress shirt. The bright lights of the ballroom flickered in his peripheral vision, but for now he simply wanted to breathe.

  “Goddamn stupid heels,” a voice muttered behind him near the stairs.

  The frustration made him smile, and he turned to offer his assistance. All he could see was the top of a chestnut brown updo, and a woman with a heel seemingly stuck in the hem of her full skirt.

  “Here,” he said, walking to her side. “Take my elbow.”

  A pair of familiar almond eyes the color of dark maple syrup looked up at him. “You,” Emerson said, taking his elbow with a scowl. Her fingers were slender and unadorned, nails short and painted in a pale pink.

  “A pleasure to see you again,” he said curtly. “Do you always like to make a scene?”

  She released the heel from the hem and stood. The black dress was simple, fitted to the waist and falling in voluminous waves to her calves. Only a fool would have missed the way it skimmed her body to perfection.

  Her body was trim, her breasts pressed delightfully against the scooping neckline of the dress.

  “I didn’t make a scene earlier.” She appeared to be unaware that her hand was still on his arm. Her eyes were focused on him, and he found that he liked it. “I merely responded to your rude behavior. And lamenting my decision to wear heels with a low hem dress is a wardrobe malfunction, not a scene.”

  “That sounds a lot like semantics.”

  “That sounds a lot like avoidance of your role in the earlier matter.”

  Connor sighed. “You are right. I was in a foul mood wh
en I stepped on the airplane. I apologize for the way I handled finding you in my seat.”

  Emerson rolled her eyes. “My seat.”

  “I suppose that technically it was our seat. It’s called the ‘And Stance.’ You were in my seat, and I was in your seat. Both of us are correct. Both statements are true.”

  Emerson paused for a moment, then cocked her head slightly. “I can agree with that. But seeing as I was there first and possession being nine-tenths of the law and all that…”

  Now Connor grinned. “Are you always this friendly with people you don’t know?”

  Emerson smiled, and he was taken aback by how it completely changed her face. “In this case, you are right. I’m being rude. Sorry. I told my sister, Olivia, I would have been better in flats, but she assured me flats would look stupid with this dress.”

  “If I told you that your shoes aren’t what people will be looking at, would that be offensive?” he asked, before mentally kicking himself.

  “Urgh. Not offended. And I knew it. I could have saved myself three hours of agony in these torture devices.” She removed her hand from his arm. He felt the loss of the warmth immediately. Perhaps it had been too long since he’d last dated if he was lamenting the loss of Emerson Dyer’s touch. His father would be appalled at what he was thinking. And he loved the way she’d glossed over his compliment without acknowledging it.

  “Connor Finch,” he said, offering her his hand. “We got off on the wrong foot. Can I suggest a temporary cessation of hostilities? At least for this evening?”

  She reached for his hand, and he could feel the calluses on her palm. “Emerson Dyer. Are we late?”

  They both looked to the stairs that had begun to empty of people. Connor reluctantly let go of her hand and checked his watch. “Right on time by my estimate. Not a minute sooner than we need to be.”

  He shifted his elbow in her direction for the second time that evening. “To avoid further hem and heel mergers, let me assist you up the stairs.”

  Emerson grimaced. “I feel like that’s a good idea.” She reached for him again. He placed his hand over the top of hers. Her skin was soft and warm.

  “So, Emerson, what brings you here tonight?” For some reason, he wanted to slow their ascent of the stairs, take a few extra moments to get to know the annoying woman who smelled like summer evenings.

  “Oh, you know these things,” she said, casually. “Network, socialize, enjoy some overcooked chicken and house white.”

  “You enjoy overcooked chicken and house white?”

  Emerson laughed, and the sound made him grin in response. “Lord, no. But sometimes you’ve got to eat crap chicken to remind you to enjoy it when it’s stuffed and cooked to perfection. You know, when it tastes a little of tart lemon mixed with the smoothness of rich butter all melted together.”

  Her description made his mouth water. They reached the top of the stairs, and Emerson’s hand suddenly flew into the air to wave to someone she knew.

  “One second,” she said in the direction of the man she had waved at, and Connor felt a twinge of envy. The woman in his presence was quite the dichotomy, and he wanted to know more about her.

  He didn’t know much beyond her quick temper and her hatred of heels, which actually made her toned calves look delicious. Even her description of chicken had him hanging onto her every word.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, breaking his curiously errant thoughts. “I’ve got to go. I was supposed to be seated by now. It was nice talking with you, Connor. I hope you have fun this evening.”

  And before he had time to say anything in return, she was gone. He smiled as she hurried to her friend with the occasional wobble on the paving stones. She was right, she really didn’t look comfortable in heels, but she looked kind of cute trying.

  He was just about to step toward the doors to the ballroom when she turned to look at him, a soft smile dancing on her lips.

  He held her gaze, as curious about their encounter as he imagined she was.

  That was it. His decision made.

  Before the night was over, he was going to find out more about the woman.

  And her distillery.

  And figure out if there was a way to have both.

  Emerson tried to listen as Sven, a botanicals trader who had assisted with the sourcing and procurement of some of the rarer ingredients Jake had required, explained his latest thought on growing unique botanicals for the distillery in heated greenhouses.

  But her thoughts were on Connor Finch. Who’d told her that nobody would be looking at her shoes. She’d felt a flutter of excitement at his appreciative comments and glances that had left her unable to come up with anything remotely flirty to say in response.

  When she’d seen him the day before on the plane, he’d looked like the consummate businessman. But in a dark navy suit and bowtie, he looked debonair.

  A little bit Gatsby.

  Emerson smiled at the reference. When she’d placed her hand on his arm, he’d felt so…solid. Like an unmovable rock.

  “Where are you seated?” Sven asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Table three,” she replied. “Over there.” She pointed toward the stage, grateful to be seated near the front, meaning there was less carpet to maneuver if by some miracle Dyer’s did win a medal. Less chance to fall flat on her face.

  “Cool, well, good luck. I’ll see you later?” It sounded like a question, and there was a hint of hope in Sven’s eyes that she hadn’t seen before. Her father had instilled in her that business and pleasure did not mix, but Emerson certainly didn’t think of Sven in any other way than a man who was able to supply seaweed from the Welsh coast for Jake’s latest inspiration.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you around,” she said noncommittally.

  There were two seats left when she arrived at her rather crowded table, and she took one of them, placing her purse next to her wine glass.

  “Emerson Dyer, Dyer’s Gin Distillery,” she said, offering her hand to the matronly looking woman next to her.

  “Mary-Anne Dowler,” the woman replied with a Texan accent. “Editor for Liquor and Spirits magazine. Good luck tonight. We’ve a review of Dyer’s Medallion coming up in our quarterly issue.”

  “Oh, that’s very generous of you. Wait, did you like it?” she asked before mentally berating herself for such an impolite question. She was certain Olivia or her father would have come up with a more suitable response than she was capable of.

  Fortunately, Mary-Anne laughed. “It was a very favorable review. If you give me one of your business cards, I’ll send you a link to it when it goes live.”

  Emerson rummaged in her purse, pulled out a card, and handed it to Mary-Anne. “That would be very kind, thank you.”

  The lights dimmed, and a presenter appeared on the stage at the front of the room.

  “We must stop meeting like this,” a familiar voice whispered in her ear. His breath was warm, and his scent familiar with tones of frankincense and neroli.

  She turned and came face-to-face with Connor. Those pale blue eyes of his revealed nothing as they held her gaze.

  Words would be really good, but she couldn’t think of any.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the presenter began.

  The corner of Connor’s mouth lifted in a smile as he shifted away to his chair and sat up straight, as if the speaker on the podium were sharing the secrets of the universe rather than explaining the order of ceremony.

  As the speaker droned on about cellphones and exits, she couldn’t help but glance at Connor. His wide shoulders filled the seat, his thighs strong and firm. And he never moved, sitting still as a statue until the introductory formalities were over and food was being delivered to their table.

  “So, what is it you do, Connor?” she asked, finally coming up with some safe ground she could talk to him on.

  “I manage strategy and M&A, mergers and acquisitions, for a liquor distributor.”

  “Ah,” she sai
d. “Mass market quantities then?”

  His eyes narrowed as he turned to face her. “Was that scorn I heard?”

  Emerson bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to be so…forthright. “No. Honestly. There’s certainly room in the market for artisan and mass products with the inevitable quality and quantity tradeoffs.”

  Connor laughed. “Would you like to borrow my spade so you can dig that hole a little deeper?”

  Emerson put her palm to her face. “I think that maybe I should stop trying to talk to you.”

  He reached for her wrist and playfully pulled her hand away, and Emerson was certain he could feel her elevated pulse. When he let go to reach for his silverware, she was a highly contradictory mix of relieved and disappointed.

  “No, please. I find you thoroughly entertaining.” They both took a bite of their food. “You were right,” he said. “Overcooked chicken and what I’m guessing is a mediocre house white.”

  Emerson noticed the swift change of subject but decided not to push further. It wasn’t like Dyer’s gin needed distribution help right now, and she hadn’t meant to sound so darn snooty about it. She leaned toward him conspiratorially. “Wait until dessert…it’ll be dry chocolate brownie with melty ice cream on top, I’ll bet.”

  Connor glanced at her. There was something about his gaze that caused her heart to flip-flop. “You sound almost excited.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s second on my crap-but-delicious food list.”

  Connor laughed. “You have a crap-but-delicious food list?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Unable to resist, she leaned a little closer. “You know, food that you can get great quality of, but somehow the lower quality food tastes just as good?” She knew that she should quite possibly be smooth-talking the other people at the table, but she glanced around quickly to find them either eating or having private conversations.

  “I’m intrigued, Em. Tell me more.”

  “It’s Emerson. Please don’t shorten it.”

  “My apologies.”

  She paused and took a sip of wine. A shortened name was a sign of friendship, occasionally affection. The idea of Connor using her name in that manner was more than she wanted to deal with. Plus, the sound of it rolling off his tongue made her shiver in the best of ways, something she really should work on suppressing.