Eight weeks, and thinking about that day still had the ability to take her breath away. She’d never get to hear another of his ridiculous dad jokes, tease him for his vast collection of blue shirts, or plant seeds with him in his greenhouse.
She swallowed deeply and tried to shake the image from her head. She’d barely stepped into his office since then, beyond grabbing the occasional piece of paperwork. Piles of unopened envelopes sat on the desk, and her stomach lurched at the thought of dealing with them. While it was hard to admit it to others, she knew she was overwhelmed. But the letter in her father’s will left her with no choice but to step into his shoes, shoes that were impossible to fill.
My darling Emerson, he’d written.
If you are reading this letter, it means I’ve gone exactly when I was meant to, and way sooner than I hoped. I hope you know how proud I am of you. You have been my rock since your mom died, and now I have to ask you to be the glue once more. Jake and Olivia are going to need you more than ever. They’ll drift without you, you’ll all drift without each other. You have to run the distillery, keep everyone together. You are all each other has got. I have faith in you, Emsie-bobs.
With all my love,
Dad xxx
Her father had never realized it, but his belief in not owing anybody anything had put the family-owned distillery at risk without any savings net or loans to pad their expenses. Ever since their mother had died, her father had been terrified that something unexpected was going to happen to him. And the idea of the three of them being left with a business in debt was more than he could process. As a result, they had been running month to month because her father had remained entrenched in his position.
Every day was a struggle to balance it all.
“Knock, knock.” Jake burst through the door, running his hand through his shoulder-length, dark hair that matched her own. She envied the natural waves he’d been blessed with, compared to her own pin-straight locks. “Wanted to catch you before you head out to the airport. Have you got the preliminary production schedule for the month?”
“It’s on my desk next door. I can’t believe it’s the start of October already,” she replied. “Are you sure you don’t want to switch places and go to the liquor awards in my place? You know you love San Francisco.”
Jake looked down at his gray jeans with holes in them and his black-and-red plaid shirt. “Not exactly dressed for it. And unless you want to do a twelve-hour production shift every day for the next three days, you’re the only one who can go.”
Emerson slipped her purse off her shoulder and pulled out the large black bags she brought with her. “I wish Liv felt better so she could go.”
At the beginning of June, a violent storm had ravaged the distillery’s events hall, leaving it partially roofless and flooded. They had been forced to close it and had done everything they could to accommodate all of the weddings they had booked. The tasting room and bar in the main building had the same rustic ambience—red brick, faded wood, and a hint of contemporary in the bar and seating area, but it was designed for something a lot more intimate. Private tours, tastings, even the occasional book club. There had only been so many wedding parties that had been small enough to fit. They’d had to cancel the majority of weddings for the summer months. Losing out on peak season weddings had been ruinous to their cash flow. As damage control, her father, just before he’d died, had offered cancellations without loss of deposits to wedding parties as far out as March the following year, a decision that had exasperated Emerson.
As the distillery’s event planner, social media manager, and all-around administrator, Olivia had carried the brunt of informing all the wedding parties about the flood. They’d ranted, sworn at her, and even made threats against Olivia and the company. One groom had taken to stalking Olivia on her personal social media profiles. Dyer’s Gin Distillery’s social media pages had been flooded with hateful comments, fueling online trolls until it became too much for Liv. The deep depression and frightening levels of anxiety had shown signs of lifting as of late, but it was still too early to expect their youngest sibling to return to work.
“Me, too. But we can keep it together until she gets back, right? You starting on Dad’s office?” he asked.
“I was going to, but now I’m here, I don’t know if I can face it.”
In the past, when she’d thought about how her father would have handed over the reins to the three of them, she’d always imagined it would be at least a decade away, and involve a big cake wishing her father a happy retirement. They would cut it on the production floor instead of in the office so everyone could be involved. They’d talk through her plans—the ones that included turning the distillery into a state of the art environmentally friendly masterpiece. He’d have tidied his office, removing the personal debris built up over a lifetime. The pictures of her parents’ wedding, of Jake holding a glass of his first distillation, of Olivia’s first wedding event, of Emerson’s graduation.
But now it was up to her, and she didn’t feel even close to being ready. She put her hands on her hips, and looked at the piles of papers, the tchotchkes.
Jake threw his arm over her shoulder. “I have faith in you, Em.”
Her father’s letter had assured her the same. But somehow, she didn’t feel as though she deserved the faith placed in her.
Four hours later, Emerson was at the airport ready to board. “Ms. Dyer, there was a problem with seating a family together, so with your permission, I’d like to give you an upgrade,” said the attendant.
Doing a mental high five, Emerson smiled. “That would be wonderful, thank you.”
The flight was only two and a half hours, long enough to have a drink to calm her nerves and perhaps watch a movie—anything to take her mind off the thousands of feet between her butt and the ground. Plus, she fully intended to embrace the time as her first period of enforced relaxation in months. Two and a half hours without calls, interruptions, and emails. Any work could wait until she was safely ensconced in her hotel that evening. She placed her laptop bag in the overhead compartment and slid her purse under the aisle seat in front of her.
“Wine?” asked the flight attendant.
Emerson took a glass from the tray. “Thank you.” She took a sip, acidulous flavors exploding on her tongue. It was a touch fruity for her personal tastes, but it was free and available. She switched her cellphone off and let her head fall back, eyes closed, on the headrest. Two and a half perfect hours without being bothered by a soul.
“Excuse me, you’re in my seat.”
Emerson opened her eyes with a start. A tall man, looking way too handsome for his own good in a fitted navy suit, stared at her like a rather deliciously imperious Clark Kent with his black hair a little on the long side and most definitely ruffled. He looked down at her through glasses that quite possibly made him even hotter.
“I’m sorry.” Emerson placed her glass down and pulled the ticket out of her purse. “I was upgraded; they gave me a new ticket as I boarded. Perhaps they made a mistake,” she said, wondering why she felt the need to apologize to the ungracious man glaring at her.
She looked at the ticket, then up again at the numbers above the row of seats. 3B. The aisle seat. She was in the right spot. “There must be some mistake,” she said, showing him her ticket.
The man growled. It was low, and quiet, but it was most definitely a growl. “I so don’t need this today,” he muttered under his breath, before leaning over her to press the buzzer for the flight attendant.
In spite of his rude behavior, he smelled delicious. Nothing floral. Decidedly woody. And the move revealed a shirt that fit his taut frame as if it had been painted on.
“Are you sure you aren’t in A?” Emerson offered quietly, pointing toward the empty seat next to her, not that the jerk was worth any of her time. But other passengers were looking, and she’d rather fix the problem than continue to cause a scene.
“I never sit by the window,” he
said, as if that explained everything.
A flight attendant arrived and smiled so hard Emerson’s jaw ached at the sight. Perhaps, Emerson thought, she was the only one immune to Mr. Grumpy’s style of charm. “How can I help?”
Mr. Grumpy explained. Emerson offered her ticket as proof.
“I see the problem,” said the flight attendant, taking a look at both their tickets before placing her hand on Mr. Grumpy’s arm. “You’ve both been given the same seat. It’ll just be a moment while I figure this out. Please, take a seat.”
Mr. Grumpy looked at her expectantly. Emerson scoffed. He wanted her to move. And while she half expected she’d have to move back to the economy cabin any moment, she wasn’t going to make this easy for some smooth-talking idiot. Even if he did have the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
“It would make more sense for you to move over,” Mr. Grumpy said.
Emerson tucked her legs up against the seat. “There’s plenty of room for you to get by.”
“I can’t work if I sit by the window, too much light on my laptop screen,” he said, pointedly.
“What, so a woman on a plane can’t possibly be wanting to work because…?” She let the words hang.
Mr. Grumpy’s jaw twitched and, for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of dimple. “That wasn’t what I was implying.”
“Oh, so you just want it to be more convenient for you to work than me?” Damn. She hadn’t intended to work, but if she ended up staying in the aisle seat and not back in 34E, she would need to work just to make her point.
Now it was Mr. Grumpy’s turn to scoff. His glacial eyes looked toward her glass of wine for a moment, then back at Emerson. “I can only imagine how focused you’ll be.”
Standing, she quickly realized that there was still a good six inches in height between them. “Are you honestly trying to shame me and my ability to work because of one miniscule glass of wine, taken because I happen to be terrified of flying? Which, by the way, is the reason I don’t want to sit next to the goddamn window. First you get mad because of an administrative error that I did not cause. Then you invade my personal space to call for assistance… assistance you could have gained had you walked ten feet to the cabin crew. Judgmental and rude is really not a good look for you.”
Mr. Grumpy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hmm. That’s a lot to tackle in one go. You want me to take them one by one, or—”
“Problem solved,” said the flight attendant brightly. “There’s another aisle seat that’s empty over there.” She pointed to the other side of the cabin a few rows back. “Or one of you can take the window. Which would you prefer, Mr. Finch?”
Feeling somewhat embarrassed yet unapologetic over her outburst, Emerson reached for her purse. “Look, I can go back—”
“I’ll go,” Mr. Finch said, although he’d always be Mr. Grumpy to her.
“Thank you,” the flight attendant said, casting a look in Emerson’s direction, as if she’d been the problem all along. “We’re grateful for your cooperation.”
Silently seething and mortified, Emerson sat back down.
“Thanks for taking your seat, Ms. Dyer. Mr. Finch, if you’d like to go and take your seat, we’ll be departing shortly.”
Mr. Grumpy’s demeanor shifted. His spine straightened and his pale eyes glared at Emerson. He spun on his heel and marched in the direction without another word.
It was the oddest part of their whole encounter.
Emerson raised the wine to her lips, it tasted sour on her tongue, the enjoyment taken away by a man she didn’t know and shouldn’t possibly care about.
In an attempt to reclaim the positive mood she’d been embracing just before Mr. Grumpy’s arrival, she forced herself to sip the wine anyway.
But she couldn’t resist one last look in his direction, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she found him staring right back at her.
Catch. Power. Recovery.
Catch. Power. Recovery.
Connor Finch focused on the repetition. He kicked his legs, propelling himself forward, turning his head every second stroke to gulp for air. When the end of the pool came into view, he tucked his head and turned, kicking off the edge of the pool to gain momentum.
Catch. Power. Recovery.
His arms burned, muscles already tired from an hour spent in the gym. His mind was empty of any other thought than lap count and form.
The hotel pool was less than ideal, but thankfully it wasn’t busy enough to stop him from achieving his goal. Five kilometers. Six days a week.
As he finished the final lap, he reached for the side of the pool, holding tight while 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 got into the cab. His father’s constant ranting about the company had piqued Connor’s levels of curiosity enough to form a periodic check 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 been doing so well as 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 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.
The Sweetest Gift Page 12
