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

by Scarlett Cole

  A moment later, her phone buzzed. That was the next best thing to being buried deep inside you, Em.

  Funny, she’d just thought the exact same thing. Yeah, battery-operated boyfriends don’t cuddle.

  Just debated getting in the car to come see you for that very reason.

  She liked that he held her after they’d made love. It affirmed that she was really something more than convenient sex.

  Is it weird that you mean so much after such a short time? she asked.

  There was a pause of a few minutes, and just as her doubts began to crash in, he replied.

  More than dry chocolate brownie with melty ice cream?

  Emerson grinned. He’d remembered their conversation in San Francisco. Perhaps a bit more than that.

  More than the Chinese food in that Cleveland mall?

  She thought for a moment and then typed. That might be stretching it.

  He sent her a grinning emoji.

  Then a heart.

  No, Emerson. It’s not weird. This is like chicken stuffed with lemons and butter and herbs. We had to experience everything else to realize just how special this is. Good night, sweetheart.

  Her heart soared as she hugged her phone to her chest. She wasn’t weird.

  She was falling in love.

  Thank you for the flowers. They smell glorious.

  Connor wasn’t certain what had inspired him to arrange the delivery of white roses to Emerson, but somewhere between getting home to his condo the previous evening and messaging with Emerson, he realized she had become the difference in his day. And it hadn’t been the fact she’d been willing to shock the hell out of him with some fucking sexy pics and an orgasm. It was knowing it was her. Emerson. She was likely in the distillery, building something with her family, fighting valiantly to find out what the hell kind of mess her father had left her in. Yet she still had the capacity to be balanced, sweet, and caring.

  “Connor,” his father called as Connor passed by his office on his way to the supply chain department, interrupting his thoughts.

  “What can I help you with?” he asked, curtly.

  His father sighed. “It’s been nearly two weeks, Connor. Is this…atmosphere…really necessary?”

  Connor took a deep breath before answering. “I’m being professional. I’m surpassing my targets. And my team is assisting every other department in the business with the exception of finance. Do you have any genuine concerns?”

  Sweat dotted his father’s forehead. “That wasn’t what I meant, Connor. You’re being…”

  Connor stood silently and let his father flounder.

  “You know what I mean,” Donovan blustered.

  “No, Dad. I don’t. As I explained to you ten days ago, when I came to see you, I find it unacceptable that you made the decision you did. I find it abhorrent that you did it without the decency to speak with me first. That decision stalls my career aspirations for the next five years. And I’m not prepared to let that happen.”

  A meeting broke out across the hallway, and Connor watched as the participants headed toward the elevator. Men in suits. Another distribution deal. Finch Liquor Distribution was the riverbed through which all liquor flowed, but there was nothing to hold on to. And while he worked hard and did a great job, Connor suddenly realized he wasn’t in love with what he did. It wasn’t passion that got him out of bed in the morning; it was routine. He didn’t show up every day because he loved liquor distribution, he showed up because it was expected, because it had been drilled into him every day since he could remember that Finch would be his one day. Suddenly, not only did he question if that was what he wanted, but worse, the idea that this was all he had going for the rest of his life left him dumbstruck.

  While Connor floundered with the feeling of a man lost at sea without a compass or life vest, his father pressed on.

  “Step into my office for a moment. I have something I want to discuss,” his father said gruffly.

  “Can’t it wait, Dad?” Connor asked. “I have something I need to do real quick.”

  His father shook his head. “This is important, and I’m sure it’s something you’ll want to hear.”

  The sudden seismic shift in Connor’s belief system left him feeling as though he were wide open. He wasn’t certain how to process what had just happened and felt unusually vulnerable. But he took a seat.

  “I know you’re mad at me.” His father sat down behind his desk. “I promised you my job when I turned sixty. And one day, you’ll turn sixty and still feel the bite of ambition and goals left undone like I do. Perhaps then, you’ll understand why I made the choice I did.”

  Usually, he knew how to respond to his father, but right now, his head was full of questions about his own ambitions and goals, so he remained silent.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” his father said. “Cameron says you’ll wait, but I’m not so sure. You mentioned your career stalling. As a result, I’m creating a new C-level position. Chief Strategy and Marketing Officer. It will put you on the same level as Cameron. The head of Marketing will now report to you instead of me.”

  The idea should have quelled Connor’s growing unrest, but it didn’t. If anything, it fueled it.

  “I’m giving you a pay raise, starting immediately. One that would bridge the gap between what you get paid now and what you’ll get paid when you take this job. It will be an extra seventy-five thousand a year. And I’ve arranged for a retention bonus to be given to you. An additional one-hundred-thousand-dollar one-time, no-strings payment in the hope you’ll stay on.”

  So many thoughts raced around Connor’s head. It was certainly a lot of money. A one-third increase in his salary. And the bonus would lower his mortgage. But the idea that Cameron was continuing to interfere with the way his father treated him and the business concerned him.

  “Cameron doesn’t know shit, Dad. He’s a mediocre CFO who knows which side his bread is buttered because he knows you’ll never fire him.”

  Donovan tapped his fingers on the table. “That’s your uncle and my brother who’s given me decades of great service without complaint—you’ll show him the respect he’s due.”

  Connor coughed. “Due? He’s not due anything. You’ve paid him way beyond his market value for all that time.”

  “You need to take care of him when I leave, Connor. You need to leave him in place.”

  Connor’s anger rose, a burning tide in his gut. “Given that’s five years from now, we don’t need to worry about it. A lot can happen in five years.”

  “Son,” Donovan warned. “Five years is the blink of an eye. Trust me. This will be yours then. I hadn’t realized it was such a fucking imposition on you for me to keep control of the business I built until then.”

  Connor shook his head. “That isn’t the point and you know it.”

  Silence settled on the room, a heavy mantle that Connor could feel on his shoulders.

  “Anyway,” his father said, his tone now lighter, as if the words they’d exchanged no longer mattered. “I’ve given our conversation some thought. The one about the next five years. And the downturn you suggest will happen has me concerned.”

  There were too many U-turns and zigzags for Connor to keep up with. “In what way?”

  “I’m fully aware I’ve built a business on solidly drinkable mass-market liquor. That I’ve gone for volume consumption rather than highbrow lines. And you might be right. In the longer term, that won’t be enough.”

  Connor studied his father carefully. “And?”

  “And I want you to draw up a list of artisan producers with the capacity to increase production to midlevel volumes. Don’t bring me places that can make a thousand cases here and there. I want someone who can make it to at least half a million bottles within a year of us buying them.”

  Connor’s pulse began to increase. Was his father giving him the go-ahead to start putting his long-range plans in place now? “You want me to look at acquisition targets?” he cla
rified.

  “I do. Stick with white spirits only. Look at those which could possibly gear up to diversify. Bring me a vodka distiller who, with the right investment, could be tooled up to make tequila, you get the idea. And when we build this business, it can all report to you.”

  Connor’s mind churned with everything his father told him. It must have been kismet that he’d realized the business wasn’t what he wanted. That a title change and a lot more money were never at the crux of his ambition. The challenge was. That was what he needed more than the other two. This was the universe giving him what he’d wanted to manifest. A pivot into something he cared deeply about.

  “I’ll get my team on it,” he said. “We’d already made a start, kicked the tires on a number of firms. I’ll get that list of distilleries, clear out any non-white spirits, review the list against the criteria you laid out. I’ll add and subtract potential targets based on that.”

  He mentally flicked through his presentation, recalling what had been included. “When did you want it by?”

  Donovan stood. “I think you should make it a priority. Think a five-year plan, starting at somewhere in the region of twenty million for the first year, forty million in the next, and so on, going up in twenties over the five years, to a hundred million in year five.”

  Three hundred million across five years in total…and to think that at the party he was convinced all hope was lost. “You won’t regret this,” he replied.

  Donovan huffed. “Maybe. Maybe not. And listen. About Cameron…he’s not fully on board with the plan. I’ll talk him round.”

  Connor debated his next comment mentally before he spoke. “Cameron doesn’t have your business acumen. He’d never have the lifestyle he has now if it weren’t for you. Make sure his counsel to you isn’t heavily influenced by that.”

  “I’ll do that.” Donovan walked toward the door. “Your retention bonus will be in your bank account by the end of the week. And one final thing…in the review of potential assets…include Dyer’s.”

  It felt as though his father had sucked all the air out of the room.

  Include Dyer’s.

  His father had resolutely rejected the idea of procuring Dyer’s. He’d wanted no part in buying something he felt he should have owned. No matter what tactic Connor had tried, he hadn’t budged from his position.

  But now he wanted it. Now, after Connor had let go of the idea of acquiring it himself. Now, after he’d confessed his growing feelings to Emerson.

  The idea of his father getting his hands on Emerson’s company was against everything Emerson stood for. Quality over quantity. She’d told him enough times.

  What would it do to their fledgling relationship if Emerson understood it was a possibility? He’d asked her so many questions about the business in their conversations, she’d assume he’d been plying her for information.

  Which he had.

  At the start.

  Before he’d realized how much the business meant to her, before he’d realized what a wonderfully caring woman she was, the way she put her family first. Before he had seen her in her element in the distillery, before he’d seen her raw and naked and vulnerable in his bed.

  Before his father had made it clear he was never going to purchase it.

  Fuck. His father had played the one move he hadn’t seen coming.

  He couldn’t include her distillery without risking their relationship, and he had to do everything in his power to make sure that didn’t happen.

  Chapter Eight

  “We are so ridiculous,” Emerson said, looking at Ali who sat opposite her, tucking into a stack of pancakes.

  Ali’s cheeks were stuffed with food, but she pointed her fork in Emerson’s direction, chewing until she could swallow. “Yes, but this is way better than suffering through another workout.”

  Instead of going to their class as planned, they’d left their cars in the gym lot and walked until they’d found a spot to eat breakfast. Emerson looked down at her own plate. Waffles, strawberries, and a side of whipped cream. Oh, and syrup. Lots of syrup.

  “We’re stuffing our faces while wearing active wear.” Emerson sighed as she took another gooey mouthful.

  Ali laughed. “This is true. But tell me this. Would you rather be here or doing burpees?”

  Emerson shook her head. “Is that even a real question?”

  “What can I get you?” she heard the server ask behind her.

  “Could I get a Greek yogurt, plain. Blueberries on the side. Two egg white burritos, and no salsa.”

  Emerson knew that voice and turned to see Connor checking his phone, his brow furrowed. He was dressed in a black suit, his hair still wet. She knew he’d been to the pool. Her body lit up at the sight of him. God, he was so delicious.

  “That sounds like a disgustingly healthy breakfast,” she said.

  Connor looked up and flashed a smile that showed his dimples. He checked out her plate as he walked to her table. “And that looks like something we should eat on the weekend…in bed. Oh, sorry,” he said, glancing over at Ali. “Didn’t realize you had company.”

  Emerson laughed. “Connor, this is my best friend, Ali. Ali, this is Connor.”

  They shook hands as Emerson scooched over in their booth. Connor sat down next to her, placing a gentle kiss on her lips.

  “Would you like some while you wait for your order?” she asked.

  His hand slid along her leg beneath the table. “Don’t tempt me. I love waffles.”

  In response, she dipped a piece of her waffle in the cream, added a strawberry, and ate it in one bite, over-exaggerating her moan as she chewed.

  Connor raised his eyebrow as Ali laughed. “So, did you two just finish up at the gym?” he asked.

  Emerson shook her head and grimaced. “We parked at the gym. Does that count?”

  “And we walked lots of steps here. Like all the steps,” Ali added.

  Connor grinned. “It’s all about balance, right?”

  “Two egg white burritos and Greek yogurt,” the server called.

  “I gotta go. Have a meeting in half an hour.” He kissed her cheek. “Nice meeting you, Ali.” He stole a strawberry from her plate and dipped it in the cream before popping it into his mouth. “Mmm. You are such a bad influence. Call you later.”

  She watched as he grabbed his food and disappeared onto the street.

  “Okay. You did not tell me he was that cute,” Ali said, waving her fork accusingly. “Like, holy shoulders, Batman.”

  “It’s ridiculous how good looking he is. Clothed and naked. And he’s a good human being, too.”

  “This sounds like more than a casual thing.”

  Emerson took another bite of her waffle, thinking she might make them for him on the weekend. “I think it is. It’s just a struggle to find the time I want to spend with him.”

  Ali reached for her hand. “Em. I love you. With my whole heart. Your dad put so much responsibility on you, it’s almost not fair. But if something is really important to you, you’ll find time for it. Even if it means eating breakfast at stupid o’clock. Right?”

  Emerson knew Ali had a point. She just didn’t know how to reprioritize.

  She was still thinking about Ali’s words later that afternoon as she discussed pricing with Jake.

  “We can only make what we make,” Jake said with a shrug of the shoulders. “That’s the volume we can sell. If we can’t afford to refurb right now, we’ll deal. If we can’t buy a new still, we’ll deal. Have you considered increasing the retail price for Dyer’s Medallion?”

  They’d market reviewed and tested that price a million times. “You know why we settled on it.”

  Jake nodded. “I do, but that was before we knew it was going to win a medal for us in San Francisco. And now we have a supply and demand problem. Because of its popularity, it’s more in demand. So let’s test if people are willing to pay more for it. I’m only talking about a couple of bucks a bottle.”

 
; Pricing elasticity was something she’d studied. It was more work, but as Ali had said, if something was truly important, she’d find time. “That’s not a bad idea, Jake. I’ll look into it.”

  Her phone rang, and she looked down at it. It was the bank, hopefully it was Dawson. “Sorry, I have to take this,” she said.

  She headed for the exit at the rear of the warehouse as she answered. “This is Emerson.”

  “Emerson. It’s Dawson. I have that information for you. Sorry it took so long to gather the checks.”

  She sat down on the step by the door to the warehouse. It was the only sunny spot, evading the shade thrown by the main distillery building. “No worries. Who were they to?”

  “They weren’t paid to companies. They were sent to personal accounts. That doesn’t mean they weren’t for services. Do you have a pen?”

  Emerson flipped the productions schedule over. “Hit me,” she said.

  “Forty thousand was to a Robert Harding. Twenty thousand to a Kim Lee. Fifteen thousand to a Henry Haverstock.”

  She began to write them down, but as soon as she heard the surnames, her heart dropped to her stomach.

  Holy shit.

  Emerson kept writing the names and amounts, trying to fight back the tears.

  Anderson Laurence.

  Thomas Dunn.

  She wrote down about fifteen more names.

  “So, that’s the list, Emerson. I hate to do this, but we’re going to need an explanation within fourteen days as to what these payments are for. You’ll get copies of all this in writing to assist you in your investigation.”

  Fighting down the wave of nausea, she swallowed deeply. “That’s a great help, Dawson,” she said, her voice too bright, too sharp. “I’ll be in touch.”

  She hung up the call and placed her head on her knees.

  What did you do, Dad?

  Robert Harding had hounded Olivia, in and out of work, to the point of her breakdown. Disappointed groom or not, he’d shown her sister no care. Kim Lee, the sweet mother of Laura Lee, who had wanted the perfect wedding for her daughter and had threatened them with a lawsuit. Henry Haverstock had unsuccessfully reported them to the city council to see if he could get the distillery’s permits revoked.