Barreled Over

by Jenna Sutton

  Lex snapped his fingers. “I know! You could go on a date with a different guy for every episode.” His eyes lit up. “Or you could go on dates in all fifty states and do something unique to that state, like snorkeling in Hawaii.”

  Snorkeling in Hawaii sounded fun—she’d never done that before. But she had no desire to frolic in the ocean with a stranger while a film crew recorded their every move. Undoubtedly, she’d get a bikini wedgie and sand would stick to her butt cheeks. Her ass would look like a sugar-sprinkled donut.

  “I don’t think guys would watch a show like that, Lex. Plus, everyone looks bad on those shows, and I’m not talking about their physical appearance.”

  Lex’s eyes narrowed. “I know some producers. I’ll talk to them about it.”

  He could talk to all the producers he wanted, but she wasn’t going to participate in a reality TV show. Ava Grace wanted to focus on making music.

  She popped another bite of steak into her mouth. Mmm. Maybe it was worth the exorbitant price.

  “You’ve been on the cover of nearly every women’s magazine,” Lex noted.

  She nodded as she chewed. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d been interviewed and photographed. Unlike a lot of high-profile people who avoided the media, she took a different approach and made herself available. Her visibility made her less of a target for the paparazzi, who were after shots of secretive celebrities.

  Last month, she’d been on the cover of Mesmerize. The pub airbrushed the gigantic pimple on her chin, which she appreciated. It also airbrushed her upper arms until they looked like matchsticks, which she did not appreciate.

  Lex continued, “I want you in men’s magazines too. I’d love to see you on the cover of Rule. I’m making that a priority for our publicity team.”

  Rule. The magazine that featured famous women in a variety of provocative poses and in various states of nakedness.

  The thought of being spread out on the cover of Rule in her underwear made Ava Grace choke on the piece of steak she’d been in the process of swallowing. Covering her mouth, she sputtered and coughed until it dislodged. Lex barely registered her distress. He just continued to chew his wagyu.

  Dabbing her watering eyes with her napkin, she asked, “Are you serious?”

  Lex nodded. “Katy Perry was on the cover of Rule. So was Christina Aguilera.”

  If Katy and Christina wanted to bare their bodies for Rule, Ava Grace fully supported their decision. More power to them.

  But she wasn’t interested in stripping down for millions of people. Her list of life goals did not include being the picture teenage boys used to jack off into their socks.

  “I saw their covers,” she said. “They both looked beautiful. But I don’t want to be on the cover of Rule.”

  Lex exhaled loudly, obviously annoyed. “Except for the Sunday Night Football theme song, you’ve shot down all my ideas.”

  Because your ideas suck.

  “You have two weeks to come up with something else,” he warned. “If you don’t, we’re moving forward with mine.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, confident she could come up with something better than what he proposed.

  Lex tossed back the remainder of his drink and set the empty glass down with a thump. “You’re lucky your looks match your voice. If you were ugly, you wouldn’t have won American Star, and River Pearl wouldn’t have signed you.”

  He didn’t notice the look she gave him—the one her best friend referred to as the “death stare.” His heart should have immediately stopped beating. Too bad it still was.

  After carefully folding her napkin and placing it on the table beside her plate, she fished a hundred-dollar bill from her clutch. She put the money in the middle of the table, right next to the flickering votive candle.

  She slid out of the booth and looked down at Lexington Ross. Aware other people might be watching, she smiled widely. Only someone who knew her well would be able to tell she was struggling against the urge to dump her sweet tea over his head.

  “I won a Grammy for my songwriting. I performed in front of forty thousand people when I was sick with the flu and had a fever over one-hundred-and-two. I finished every album ahead of schedule. And none of that had anything to do with the way I look.” She tilted her head toward the Benjamin on the table. “That should cover my dinner. If it doesn’t, take it out of my next royalty check.”

  She left him sitting in the booth and strolled out of the steakhouse as if she hadn’t a care in the world. At least Wally hadn’t accompanied her to dinner. Her manager was intensely protective, more surrogate father than employee, and he probably would have gotten in Lexington Ross’s face and made a huge scene.

  She’d had a great relationship with Jim Healy, the previous head of River Pearl Records, and had been upset when she heard he’d been fired. Now that she’d met his replacement, she was even more upset.

  As she waited for the valet to retrieve her Camaro, she huddled next to a planter overflowing with vibrant purple crocus. Although the calendar said spring was only a month away, the chilly evening air made goose bumps pebble up and down her arms.

  Her hands were shaking, but not from cold. Anger made them shake. Only one person could calm her down right now: her best friend, Amelia O’Brien.

  Ava Grace checked the time on her phone. Amelia lived with her husband, Quinn, in San Francisco, which was on Pacific Time. It was nine o’clock in Nashville, so it was seven o’clock on the West Coast. Amelia should be home from work by now.

  Once Ava Grace was in her car and heading out of downtown on Interstate 65, she used her Bluetooth to call Amelia. Her BFF picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, chickadee.”

  Amelia didn’t sound as upbeat as she usually did, and Ava Grace immediately pushed her own problems to the back burner. “Everything okay, Millie?”

  “Yes. I’m just tired.”

  “Did Quinn keep you up all night again?”

  “No.” Amelia snickered. “But he woke me up early.”

  Quinn couldn’t keep his hands off his petite, redheaded wife. Ava Grace was glad her best friend had married a solid guy who adored her. No one deserved love more than Amelia.

  “Is your dinner already over?” Amelia asked.

  “Yes. I just left the restaurant.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Not great. Lexington Ross is an asshole.”

  Ava Grace spent a few minutes filling Amelia in, explaining what Lex said about her fan base and his suggestions to attract male fans. She also repeated his insult, the taste of the words bitter on her tongue.

  When she finished, Amelia said, “William Howard Taft.”

  Despite her lingering anger, Ava Grace smiled. Her best friend didn’t curse like most people. Instead, she used the names of U.S. presidents as imprecations.

  Ava Grace heard Quinn’s voice in the background, but she couldn’t make out his words. “What did he say?”

  “He wants to know how your dinner went. Alright if I tell him?”

  “Go ahead.”

  While Amelia shared the details, Ava Grace moved into the left lane to pass an eighteen wheeler. She lived about an hour outside the city, in a town called Hendersonville. Before Amelia had moved to San Francisco, she and Ava Grace shared an old farmhouse.

  “Quinn wants me to put you on speaker,” Amelia said.

  Suddenly, Quinn’s baritone filled the car. “Hey, AG.”

  Before Ava Grace had met Quinn, no one had ever called her anything other than Ava Grace or Miss Landy. But Quinn had a habit of giving people nicknames they didn’t ask for—he called his wife Juice, for God’s sake—and he’d shortened Ava Grace’s name to AG.

  “I think I have a solution to your problem,” Quinn said. “You should partner with Trinity.”

  This wasn’t the first time Quinn had mentioned partnering with Trinity Distillery, a small company in San Francisco that produced bourbon. Quinn and Trinity’s CEO, Jonah Beck, had
been in the same MBA program at Stanford.

  When Beck had launched Trinity with his buddies, Gabriel Bristow and Renner Holt, Quinn provided the start-up capital. Supposedly, he was a silent partner, but Ava Grace couldn’t imagine him being silent about anything.

  Quinn continued, “I can get in touch with Beck and set up a meeting.”

  Beck.

  She clearly remembered the first time she’d set eyes on Jonah Beck, more than two years ago at Quinn and Amelia’s wedding. Beck had been a guest too.

  His deep laugh caught her attention from across the room … that and the way his broad shoulders filled out his light blue dress shirt and the way his butt looked in his charcoal suit pants.

  With his wavy, chocolate-colored hair, Beck was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. And that said a lot, since she was acquainted with famous musicians, movie stars, and pro athletes.

  Beck was more than just handsome, though. He was one of those guys who had it—that special something that made women fluff their hair and swing their hips.

  They hadn’t spoken at the wedding, but when they were officially introduced several months later, she realized he was even better-looking up close. His eyes were the same color as a triple shot espresso, and just like that highly caffeinated drink, they gave her a jolt.

  When he looked at her, she felt it everywhere. She’d never experienced anything like it.

  “Are you there, AG?” Quinn’s voice dragged her back into the phone conversation.

  “I’m here.”

  “Do you want to come to San Francisco and meet with Beck or not?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The heavy steel door banged shut behind Beck as he entered the warehouse that held Trinity Distillery’s grain boilers and fermentation tanks. Gabe insisted they needed to name all the buildings to avoid confusion, but so far, no one had come up with anything more creative for this one than Warehouse Number Two.

  Located in the trendy South of Market neighborhood in downtown San Francisco, the warehouse was part of a four-building complex. It had been vacant for more than thirty years before they’d moved in.

  The warm, moist air from the boilers filled the cavernous building with the smell of baking bread. The aroma always reminded Beck of his childhood in Kentucky, of visiting his dad at the family distillery after school, watching the yeast work its magic in the fermentation tanks and running through the maze of stacked oak barrels.

  His memories were bittersweet. He hadn’t stepped foot in the Jonah Beck Distillery in more than fifteen years, not since he was a senior in high school and his world fell apart.

  Beck’s ancestor, Jonah Martin Beck, built the distillery in the early 1800s in rural Nelson County, near Lexington. It had operated continuously, even during Prohibition, thanks to some very powerful men who refused to give up Beck bourbon.

  Today, the distillery was the largest producer of bourbon whiskey in the world. But the Beck family didn’t own the Jonah Beck Distillery any longer. A British company had bought it when Beck was a sophomore at the University of Kentucky.

  After passing the massive grain boilers, Beck reached the industrial stairs that led to the suspended catwalk. His boots thumped on the grate treads as he climbed the stairs, and once he arrived at the top, he took a moment to survey the six round fermentation tanks.

  Measuring fourteen feet in diameter and ten feet tall, the tanks were constructed of cypress wood. Each one was filled with Trinity’s mash bill, a proprietary blend of boiled corn, barley, and rye. Once yeast joined the party, the fermentation process began. It took several days and created enough heat to make sweat bead on Beck’s forehead.

  The catwalk shuddered under his feet, and he glanced over his shoulder to see what caused the movement. He grinned when he saw his master distiller heading toward him wearing tan canvas work pants and a black T-shirt with You had me at bourbon in white block letters.

  Ellis Oglesby reached Beck’s side and slapped him on the back in greeting. “How’s it going, boy?”

  Beck shook his head in amused exasperation. Ellis never called him anything but boy. He doubted the wiry old man ever would, regardless of the fact Beck was nearly a foot taller and outweighed him by at least eighty pounds. He didn’t know if Ellis called him boy because every male in Beck’s family was named Jonah or because Ellis had known Beck since he was in diapers.

  “Afternoon, Ellis.”

  “Whatcha doin’ up here?”

  “Checking the mash.”

  “You pay people to do that.” Ellis raised a bushy gray eyebrow. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

  Beck shrugged. “I like doing it.”

  Bourbon was in Beck’s blood. Hell, his last name was synonymous with the spirit. When people walked into bars, they asked for Beck and Coke or Beck on the rocks.

  He’d learned to distill bourbon before he had been able to drink it … legally, that is. He enjoyed his first sip of bourbon when he was ten years old, and he’d eaten food flavored with bourbon for as long as he could remember—French toast with bourbon syrup, bourbon beef tenderloin, bourbon-roasted vegetables. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out his baby food had been laced with bourbon.

  Sighing loudly, Ellis leaned against the side of the nearest fermentation tank. “You only come up here when somethin’s botherin’ you.”

  He studied Beck, his pale blue eyes clear and astute despite the wrinkles around them. Beck looked away from the older man’s penetrating gaze and focused on the little yeast bubbles covering the surface of the mash.

  “Aren’t you meetin’ with that singer this afternoon?” Ellis asked.

  “Yeah. At two o’clock.”

  When Quinn had called to let him know Ava Grace Landy and her manager wanted to have a conversation about a possible partnership, Beck was floored. He never imagined she’d be interested in working with Trinity, but he was thrilled she was willing to consider it.

  Trinity had reached the point where it needed a spokesperson, and Ava Grace Landy would be perfect. Although Beck was the founder and CEO, he had no desire to be the face of the company. He wanted to stay in the background as much as he could. He wanted to focus on making great bourbon while someone else—preferably Ava Grace—told the world about it.

  “You’ve met her before, right?” Ellis asked.

  Beck nodded. He and Ava Grace hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot when they were introduced. She told him she didn’t like Trinity “all that much.” Her dismissive attitude stung, more than he liked to admit.

  If someone else had disrespected his bourbon, he would’ve ignored them. But when Ava Grace did it, he retaliated by tossing her words in her face, saying he didn’t like her music “all that much.”

  The moment the words had shot out of his mouth, he was ashamed of himself. He was still embarrassed by what he’d said to her.

  “What do you think of her?” the older man prodded.

  I think she’s hot enough to melt the polar ice caps.

  And Beck wasn’t made of ice. He was just a flesh-and-blood man … a man who was attracted to her, even though he didn’t want to be.

  The first time Beck saw Ave Grace in person, he was at Quinn and Amelia’s wedding. She was the maid of honor, and she outshined every woman there, even the bride.

  They hadn’t officially met until Amelia introduced them several months later during a group outing at a bowling alley. When he’d looked into Ava Grace’s face and clasped her hand, her beauty slammed into him so hard, he felt as if a heavyweight boxer punched him in the gut. He hadn’t been able to form a single word so he just nodded like a mime.

  “I saw her on TV the other day,” Ellis said. “A woman like that improves blood flow to a man’s most important organ.”

  Although Beck knew exactly which organ Ellis meant, he replied, “You could use some extra blood flow to the brain.”

  Ellis chuckled, his voice raspy from decades of pipe smoking. “That’s not a man’s mos
t important organ, boy. I’m talkin’ about the power sprayer, the hot rod, the jackhammer, the broadsword—”

  “Ellis,” Beck groaned, “shut up.”

  Ellis’s booming laugh bounced off the high ceiling. “Did I tell you I went out with that sweet thang I met at the farmers’ market?”

  Everywhere Ellis went, he attracted women. He picked them up at gas stations, grocery stores, in the park, standing in line at the bank … just about anywhere. Despite his puny stature, sun-weathered countenance, and sparse gray hair, women of all ages seemed to find him irresistible. It baffled the hell out of Beck since Ellis reminded him of a scrawny rooster.

  “No, you didn’t tell me,” Beck answered before rushing to add, “and I really don’t want you to. Please don’t.”

  Ellis ignored his plea. “Mmm, mmm, mmm.” He smacked his lips. “Her tits were so—”

  “Jesus Christ.” Beck shook his head, both awed and disgusted by Ellis’s active sex life. “You’re such a poonhound.” He pointed his forefinger at the horny old goat. “Are you aware there’s been a spike in syphilis, chlamydia, and HIV among seniors? I hope to hell you’re using a rubber when you screw these women.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve been pumpin’ for nearly sixty years, and I haven’t caught anything yet.” Ellis patted the front pocket of his worn pants. “I always carry protection. Don’t you?”

  Beck barked out an incredulous laugh. “No, Ellis, I don’t carry condoms, hoping to get laid. I haven’t done that since I was a teenager.”

  And back then, Beck had sex with only one person: Callie Boone, the most beautiful girl in Nelson County. She’d been his first everything.

  The first girl he’d ever loved. The first girl he’d had sex with. The first girl who’d broken his heart. The first (and only) girl who’d tried to ruin his life.

  “I worry about you, boy. I really do.” Ellis shook his head sorrowfully. “When’s the last time you got some?”

  “I don’t kiss and tell,” Beck quipped. “You shouldn’t either.”