by Flynn, Avery
Her mouth turned to sawdust and her mind to mush. “Did what?” Damn, that breathy sound again.
“Say flowchart.” Sean took a step closer, not with intent, but as if he couldn’t help himself.
In normal circumstances, a step here or there wouldn’t make a bit of difference. But one stride on his long legs in the tiny, crowded office brought him almost toe to toe with her. Awareness crackled in the air between them, cool and crisp like the first burst of autumn after a decade’s worth of summer humidity. Solid brawn was not on her potential partner attribute list. Neither were broad shoulders or a sharp wit that snapped at her funny bone when she least expected it.
Feeling like she’d been set adrift on a roiling ocean, she grabbed frantically for a lifeline. Bossiness always worked wonders. “You know, you’re a real smartass. Enough stalling, let’s get to work.”
Something dark and hungry swirled in his brown–eyed gaze before it sank to her mouth. “It’s always the chatty ones.”
He was wrong. It was the quiet ones who were dangerous as hell, but she couldn’t get the words out to correct him. She couldn’t even move. Truth be told, she didn’t want to put even a millimeter more space between them. The foot between them was too much already.
Wrong. It was so achingly wrong, but it felt so good in the short term that she didn’t care. Which was exactly what had gotten her to the point in her life where she compartmentalized sex so much that fuck buddies had become a way of life. She’d relationship–blocked herself one time too many and she was done with it. But something about Sean was different. He wasn’t like her past boyfriends, the ones she could steamroll right over and remold into her preferred type.
It took everything she had, but she took a step back, far enough that the metal filing cabinet handles jabbed her in the spine. The pain was a physical manifestation of the yowling protest deep in her core.
Sometimes fixing a problem hurt like a bitch.
As if waking from a hypnotic state, Sean shook his head. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his thick, wavy, jaw–length hair, revealing a three–inch jagged scar. At that angle, with the light hitting him just right, a memory struggled to break through the haze. Something familiar and yet unknown tugged at her subconscious.
“What?”
An electric spark danced up her arm, setting off a chain–reaction tingle that put a little loosey–goosey in her step. “You remind me of someone.”
He jerked the hat back on and hunched his shoulders. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t know, but it’ll come to me.”
He shoved the hat back on and pulled the brim low. “Must have one of those faces.”
“No, it’s more than that.” A picture formed in her mind. A man. A porch swing. A bunch of daisies. Damn, it was so clear and yet so fuzzy. “It’s right on the edge of my brain, like when something’s right on the tip of your tongue but you can’t remember it for the life of you.”
He grunted.
She opened her mouth to tease him for his normal noncommittal response—
But the emergency siren blared in the hall and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Chapter Five
Sean was out the door before his brain had finished processing the blaring alert loud enough to wake the dead three states away. Natalie matched him step for step as he booked it down the narrow hallway toward the swinging brewery doors.
In a brewery, things could get Chewbacca hairy in a heartbeat.
For example, a guy in Maryland had passed out while driving his forklift in the cooler because the area hadn’t been properly ventilated and the carbon monoxide emitted from the forklift got to him. He wasn’t discovered in time and ended up dying from carbon monoxide poisoning. And a man in California had lost several fingers when they got caught in the metal shaft of the conveyor system. Bottling machines across the country had maimed dozens of brewery employees.
They’d already dealt with the fermentation valve malfunctioning this morning. He hated to even imagine what unholy hell awaited him on the other side of the brewery doors.
No one would set the emergency alarm off just for shits and giggles.
He paused, his palm flat against the wood, his protective instincts rushing to the forefront. “Wait in the office.”
Natalie angled her chin up, showing just how ready she was for a fight. “Why?”
Realization, armed with flashy brass knuckles, gave him a quick one–two to the jaw.
Because it matters if she gets hurt. Not that it didn’t with anyone else at the brewery, but…Sean shoved whatever thought came next into a deep hole.
“Just do it.” He pushed the door open and walked straight into the all–encompassing arms of total fucking chaos.
In the middle of the brewery floor, three guys were wrestling an out–of–control hose the size of a fireman’s water hose that was flying around like a python on steroids. The hose twisted and turned, cutting off access to the shutoff valve that controlled it. But water wasn’t spraying out of the nozzle, so what in the hell was making it do that? One of the men, Mike, dove for the hose and flattened it.
“Turn the hose off,” Sean hollered.
“We already did, the valve won’t shut off,” Mike said.
He started to sprint toward the commotion when someone grabbed his T–shirt and yanked him backwards.
“Watch out!” Natalie yelled over the uproar on the brewery floor.
Two women whizzed past him in a blur.
Hailey had abandoned her post in the front office. Armed with a high stack of towels, she hightailed it over to a crowd gathered by the fermentation tank spill. Epie followed in her footsteps with the oversized first–aid kit. Blood splattered her white brewery T–shirt.
Billy sat at the center of the circle of people on the other side of the room, bleeding like crazy from a small cut on his forehead but still talking a mile a minute.
“Fuck.” His fingers locked around Natalie’s wrist, halting her in mid–stride as she attempted to follow the women. “It may not be safe.”
“I’ll take the chance.” She yanked free and hustled after the two women.
The hose broke free from Mike’s grasp, clipping him in the head as it flew into the air. Blood rained down the foreman’s face and he crumpled into the fetal position, clutching his head.
The other two men ran to his aid while the hose clanged its metal nozzle against the concrete floor.
Sean bolted across the open space, his gaze locked on the hose whipping back and forth. He paused outside of its vicious reach. He had to time it just right. One wrong move and he’d be bleeding as bad as Mike—and that was his optimistic assessment. It could be worse. One guy he’d heard about in California got clipped in the head with a hose fired up with carbon dioxide instead of water and had ended up in the hospital for five days, three of which he had no idea who or where he was.
Carbon dioxide.
Fuck.
Odorless. Tasteless. Fatal at high doses. The Sweet Salvation Brewery used the carbon dioxide produced during the fermentation process to purge the beer bottles of air prior to filling, and to protect the beer from getting a funky oxidation taste. If carbon dioxide was building up inside the brewery, everyone was in danger, not just those close enough to get whacked by the out–of–control hose.
He leaped forward and wrapped his hands around the thick hose near the nozzle—a real nasty piece of business made up of metal and bad intentions. It bucked against him as if it were alive and pissed off. Beads of sweat popped out along his hairline and snaked their way down his neck. His muscles strained with the effort of keeping the hose flattened down. His grip slipped a fraction and the hose reared up, coming within an inch of his head. Close enough he could hear the high whine of gas streaming out.
Straining with effort, he clamped down tight on the hose and pushed it to the concrete floor hard enough that the nozzle clanged in protest. He straddled the line and leaned all his weight fo
rward into his arms.
“Turn off the valve!” he yelled, his attention never wavering from the beast in his grasp.
“It’s already off,” someone hollered back.
Sean shook his head. “Turn off the carbon dioxide valve.”
Feet pounded the floor behind him.
A second later the squeak of the valve sounded.
The hose slackened.
Relief slackened the tension in his muscles and his arms went limp. He rocked back to his heels and stood before pivoting to take stock of his crew.
On automatic pilot, his gaze found Natalie. She was pressing a fast–reddening towel to Mike’s forehead. Sean’s gut tightened, but he continued to scope out the situation. The rest of the crowd by the fermentation tank looked as if they’d just finished running a marathon with zombies hot on their heels, but other than Billy and Mike, everyone was unharmed. At least for now. They’d all suffer if they didn’t get some fresh air in to dilute the carbon dioxide thickening the air.
“Open the bay doors,” he yelled.
One of the younger crew members sprinted over and pulled the heavy chains that raised the metal doors, letting in a blast of cold air.
Hailey, her face pinched and pale, stepped into his line of vision.
“Damage report,” he snapped.
The unflappable office manager, didn’t even blink at his sharp tone. “Ambulance is on the way. Billy’s head is bleeding like crazy and he’s going to need stitches is my guess, but he’s still cracking jokes. Mike should go in the ambulance with him. He’ll probably need stitches too.”
Sean nodded. “Everyone else is okay?”
She shrugged. “A little freaked out, but good.”
Relief loosened the iron grip squeezing his shoulders tight. Still, he needed to confirm Hailey’s report with his own eyes. He hustled over to Mike and crouched down, close enough that Natalie’s honeysuckle scent twisted around him, calming his jumpy nerves.
“How you doing, man?”
“I’ll live.” Mike’s grin, though strained, was genuine. “If I had to get hit somewhere, the head was probably the spot to take the beating.”
Sean patted him on the shoulder and glanced at Natalie, who was running her fingers up and down that necklace as though they were prayer beads. “You okay?”
She nodded, not even a single strand of light–brown hair daring to shake free from her bun. “Fine, but I need to talk to you.”
Hailey took over as Mike’s temporary nurse and Natalie walked Sean over to the shut–off valves. He bent down and double checked that both were completely closed. Masking tape labels were stuck to the front of each valve, and water was clearly written across one in big bold lettering, CO2 across the other.
Worry itched its way up his spine. His trouble detector had been honed to a fine point by spending his formative years under the control of a man faster with his backhand than a Ferrari could get to sixty miles per hour.
“Look.” She pointed to the masking tape labels. “Somebody added these.”
He peered closer. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, but that didn’t mean shit. Of course, that didn’t stop the hair on his forearms from standing at attention. “How can you tell?”
“Check this out.” She peeled back one corner of the tape, revealing a water drop etched into the valve handle. “That’s not a mistake.”
Sean pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to make him almost sneeze. “Agreed.”
“So what are we going to do about it?” Natalie asked.
Sean watched Deputy Epson walk to the middle of the brewery floor and take a long, quizzical look at the fermenting tank that stood about twelve feet high. With careful steps he circled the tank, careful to avoid the beer pooled on the floor and the blood droplets from Mike’s and Billy’s injuries, all the while tapping his department–issued hat against the flat of his fleshy palm.
The soft thwap, thwap, thwap sound was starting to reverberate in Sean’s head like the thunder of a fast–approaching summer storm. It was no secret that the Sweet family and local law enforcement had a long and colorful relationship that encompassed everything from nude protests on the courthouse lawn to running moonshine in the old days.
He crossed his fingers behind his back, an old but comforting gesture. Judging by the way Natalie practically hummed with nervous energy beside him, he wasn’t the only one waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Walk me through this whole thing again.” Deputy Epson settled his brown hat back on his freckled bald head. “Start from the beginning.”
Natalie groaned beside him. They’d already told the story three times, and her tone had turned from annoyed to glacial by the third telling. The fourth might make her snap, which was the last thing she or the brewery needed right now.
He placed his hand on the small of her back to warn and reassure her. She slid a sideways look his way, but her muscles relaxed under his touch. He wished he could say the same. Just the little bit of contact, buffered by her softer–than–soft sweater, jangled up his arm and expanded in his chest like a hot air balloon, filling him up and making him empty at the same time.
Unsettled and annoyed, he jerked his hand away and shoved it into his jeans pocket. “Billy was cleaning a beer spill.”
Natalie cleared her throat and trailed her fingers across the line of pearls circling her delicate throat. “Because the fermentation valve malfunctioned for reasons we’ve yet to determine, but I’m telling you now I’m pretty suspicious about it.”
Epson’s face remained stubbornly neutral and he kept quiet despite the pause in the conversation. The deputy might think he had the silent treatment’s intimidation factor down pat, but he failed to deliver the underlying current of aggression that had always made Sean’s dad’s quiet explosions so much more deadly.
“Billy hooked up the hose to that line there to clean up the beer mess on the floor after we got the formation tank leak contained.” Sean pointed to where the three–inch brass fitting was screwed onto the line labeled water.
Natalie squatted down by the valves and ran her long fingers across one knob. “But if you look closely, you’ll see someone swapped the labels on the water valve and the carbon dioxide valve.” She flicked the edge of the masking tape and pulled it back an inch to reveal the water droplet etched into the metal behind the handmade carbon dioxide label. “He hooked up to a carbon dioxide line instead of the water line. The pressure ripped the hose from his hands and the nozzle caught him right between the eyes.”
Epson scribbled in his notebook. “And another man was injured?”
Sean nodded and glanced at the clock above the deputy’s head. “Mike got clipped by the hose too.” Both he and Billy were at the Salvation County Medical Complex. Hailey had promised to call as soon as the docs got done with them.
“What makes you think this is foul play as opposed to…” The deputy paused and pursed his lips, as if trying to think of an appropriate way to phrase the rest of his question. “A sloppy operation?”
First Natalie and her flowcharts, and now this. Did everyone think he ran a shoddy shop? Sean clenched his jaw tight enough to crack his first molar. Tension throbbed in his shoulders and the corded muscle in his neck twanged like a banjo in a speed–playing match.
“It’s part of a pattern.” Natalie clamored to his defense—or at least the Sweet Salvation Brewery’s defense. “We’ve had dropped deliveries, the fermentation tank leak, and now this.”
Epson quirked an eyebrow. “You have internal reports on any of these problems?”
Sean slid his gaze toward Natalie, whose face had gone from pale to pink to cherry in about three heartbeats. “We’re working on gathering that now.”
“No problem.” The deputy took three steps toward the door leading to the offices. “Let me see what you’ve got so far.”
Sean pictured the papers flooding every available flat surface in his office and wanted to kick himself in the ass for letting it ge
t that bad. “We can’t.”
The deputy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why not?”
“We were in the middle or an organizational overhaul when all this started happening, and our files are in a bit of disarray right now.” Natalie’s normally honey–smooth voice came out twisted and strained.
“That seems to be the case for a lot of things around here,” the deputy deadpanned. “You folks keep in touch, let me know if anything else happens.” Epson slid his notebook into his shirtfront pocket and sauntered over to the door.
Sean watched the deputy disappear through the swinging doors, knowing that despite the circumstantial evidence, the local sheriff’s office wasn’t going to expend many man hours over a problem at the brewery run by the most disliked family in Salvation. The Sweets weren’t exactly pariahs anymore, but that didn’t mean the townsfolk welcomed them.
Natalie crossed her arms and gave him a hard stare. Without her seemingly ever–present clipboard, the move squeezed her tits together until the top button on her fuzzy cardigan looked like it was about to wave the white flag. His dick twitched behind his zipper.
Yeah, he was a real bastard for checking her cleavage out at a moment like this, but he was also a man who’d become a little too intimately acquainted with his right hand lately.
“My face is up here, Sean.”
Natalie’s declaration blasted him back to the here and now.
Busted. Smooth move, dude.
Heat throbbed in his cheeks, but he managed to raise his gaze to her icy blue eyes. “We’re going to have to find the bastard on our own.”
She nodded. “Agreed, but we need to make a plan.”
“Come by my house tonight.”
“Why your house? Why not here, now?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the commotion picking back up on the brewery floor. “Because we don’t know who’s listening.”
She looked around at the staff members getting back to work. No matter what might happen, she had to know the beer wouldn’t wait, a fact even the most nervous of workers knew. “Point taken.”
