Barreled Over

by Jenna Sutton

  And he was desperate to know.

  A loud honk jerked him from his thoughts. Once again, he was fantasizing about Ava Grace’s breasts while sitting in traffic. It was a miracle he hadn’t rammed his Jeep into the car in front of him.

  Before he’d met her, he’d been able to drive around the city without endangering himself and others. He’d been able to sleep through the night without having dreams so X-rated they’d make veteran porn stars blush.

  Before he’d met her, he was able to concentrate on Trinity. But now he ignored it. He’d spent nearly every moment of the International Wine and Spirits Show with her when he should have been mixing and mingling with customers.

  He’d wanted to hear her sexy laugh and smell her cream soda scent. He’d wanted to talk to her more than anyone else.

  Before he’d met Ava Grace, he had been fine. And now he wasn’t.

  He groaned, and Chicken pulled his head from the window and turned to look at him. Beck was sure he saw curiosity in the canine’s face.

  “I don’t want to go to LA with Ava Grace.” Chicken gave a little bark, and Beck sighed. “I know you like her. But that’s only because she scratches your belly.”

  The truth was, Beck liked Ava Grace too. There were just so many things to like about her, from her intelligence and inquisitiveness to her sense of humor and smart mouth. If you excluded her fame and tendency to eavesdrop, there weren’t many things to not like about her.

  Beck turned his attention back to the road. Traffic wasn’t too bad, and he and Chicken made it to Gabe’s building faster than expected.

  Gabe lived in a high-rise just south of downtown, and Beck parked in the garage under the building. After fastening the leash to Chicken’s collar, he helped his dog from the Jeep and took the elevator to Gabe’s floor.

  When Gabe opened the door, Chicken lunged toward him. “Hey, guy,” Gabe said, patting the dog’s side.

  Gabe unhooked Chicken’s leash, and he sprinted into the apartment. Beck followed, and once he and Gabe reached the living room, Beck gave his best friend a thorough evaluation. He’d expected Gabe to look like death, but he looked perfectly fine.

  He wore tan cargo shorts, a black T-shirt, and flip-flops. The shirt was printed with a modified food pyramid that included a bottle of bourbon. Bourbon: Part of Every Balanced Meal was written in white block letters below it.

  “I thought you were sick.”

  Gabe covered his mouth and coughed loudly. Beck’s eyes narrowed at the fake sound.

  “You said you had food poisoning.”

  Gabe’s hand fell to his abdomen, and he moaned pathetically. Chicken shot to Gabe’s side and sat near his feet.

  “You bastard,” Beck snarled, tossing the leash on the antique trunk that served as Gabe’s cocktail table. “You’re not sick at all.”

  Gabe’s eyes widened innocently. “Why else would I have called you at six o’clock this morning and told you that you had to go to LA with Ava Grace?”

  Beck crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know. Why would you?”

  Gabe’s lips twitched. “You’re not being very sympathetic. I wouldn’t expect you to go on a business trip if you were sick. I wouldn’t expect you to fly on a luxurious private jet for an hour and a half with only a gorgeous woman for company. And I certainly wouldn’t expect you to stay in the same suite with her.”

  “What the fuck?” Beck burst out.

  Gabe guffawed. “You should see your face,” he gasped around his laughter.

  “I’m supposed to share a room with her?” Beck asked, both aroused and appalled by the thought.

  “No, you’re not sharing a room with her. I wanted to see how you’d react.”

  “You’re such a jackass.”

  Gabe dropped down onto the brown leather sofa and propped his feet on the trunk. Chicken immediately jumped up beside him and settled near Gabe’s hip.

  “So you’re ready to go?” Gabe asked.

  Beck pushed his thumb into his chest. “I’m not going.” He pointed to Gabe. “You’re going.”

  “I can’t go. I don’t have time to pack.”

  “I’ll help.”

  Gabe shook his head. “Sorry. All my dress shirts are at the dry cleaners.” He slowly shook his head. “And I’m sick. Really sick. I hope I don’t have to go to the ER. That’d be a bummer.”

  Beck eyed Gabe rancorously. “You’re not sick.”

  The amusement in Gabe’s eyes faded. “Yes, I am. I’m sick of watching you pretend you don’t want Ava Grace.”

  Beck opened his mouth, and Gabe held up his hand. “Don’t bother to deny it. I saw you with her outside our hotel rooms, remember?”

  “I remember you being a goddamn voyeur.”

  Gabe snorted. “If you didn’t want to be watched, then you shouldn’t have made out with her where you could be seen by anyone who walked by.”

  Closing his eyes, Beck rubbed his hand over his forehead. “You’re right.” After a long silence, he dropped his hand and met Gabe’s eyes. “I just wasn’t thinking.”

  Gabe studied him intently. “You’re so on edge, you’re almost vibrating.”

  Beck didn’t respond because he knew the other man was right. He’d never been this worked up over a woman. He felt like nitrogen triiodide. He’d done experiments in college with the highly unstable chemical compound, and it had exploded at the lightest, briefest contact, leaving behind a stinky, purple cloud.

  “What’s going on in your head?” Gabe asked. “Why aren’t you taking what she’s offering, free and clear?”

  Beck sat on the arm of a leather club chair. “Nothing is ever free and clear, Gabe. There’s always a price.”

  If he got involved with Ava Grace, he’d pay a hefty price. Maybe not now, but later.

  “I know you don’t want to feel anything for Ava Grace. I know you’ve tried to stay away from her.”

  “If you know those things, then why are you so determined I go to LA with her?”

  “Because you need to accept the reality of the situation.”

  “The reality of the situation?” Beck repeated. “What reality is that?”

  Gabe speared him with his blue gaze. “The reality in which you have sex with her in the rickhouse and grope her in a hotel hallway.”

  “I shouldn’t have done those things.”

  “I think it’s time for you to wave the white flag of surrender to Ava Grace.” Gabe shrugged. “And if you can’t find a flag, just use your underwear. It’ll send the same message.”

  Beck scowled. “You may think it’s time for me to wave the white flag of surrender, but I don’t.”

  Are you sure about that?

  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “The possibilities are endless. Nuclear war. Zombie apocalypse. Epic flooding.”

  Gabe chuckled. “Possible but unlikely.”

  “You saw all those articles and pictures of her—the ones that said she was pregnant.”

  “Yeah.” A frown creased Gabe’s forehead. “You’re worried about getting her pregnant?” His lips twitched. “You know, there are ways to prevent pregnancy. Have you ever heard of a condom? It’s a useful contraceptive device that shrink wraps your dick. It also helps prevent disease.”

  Beck barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “She has no privacy. Everything in her life is fodder for public consumption. I don’t want to be part of that. I don’t want the whole world knowing my business.”

  Gabe balanced his elbows on his thighs. “I don’t know what to tell you, chief. She is who she is.”

  “When I get back from LA, I’m going to force-feed you rotten sushi for faking food poisoning and putting me in this position.”

  “I doubt it.” Gabe rose and faced him. “When you get back from LA, the only position you’re going to remember is Ava Grace’s favorite one.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Five minutes, Miss Landy.”

  Beck glanced toward the stage
manager for the Roarke show. The forty-something woman wore a bulky headset over her hair and carried a tablet computer. She adjusted the small black mic hooked to Ava Grace’s dress before moving a few feet away and speaking softly into her headset.

  Next to him, Ava Grace closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. His gaze touched on her long, feathery lashes and the glittery gold eye shadow before trailing to her glossy mouth. It was the same shade of grapefruit pink as her dress.

  “Are you nervous?” he asked, making sure to keep his voice down.

  She snapped her head toward him, their faces only inches apart. They were so close he could see the dark gold starbursts around her pupils.

  “Of course I’m nervous,” she replied, a hint of laughter in her voice. “Why does everyone think I don’t get nervous?”

  Feeling compelled to ease her nerves, he said, “You’re going to be great. You always are.”

  Every time he saw Ava Grace perform, he was impressed. She blew him away with her talent and her stage presence.

  She wasn’t just a songstress or a musician. She was a performer.

  If he’d been born to distill bourbon, she’d been born to perform. He couldn’t imagine her doing anything else. She was too extraordinary to do something mundane.

  “Are you trying to calm my nerves by flattering me?” Ava Grace asked, her lush lips tipped up in a small smile.

  “It’s not flattery. It’s the truth.” He arched his eyebrows. “Is it working?”

  She laughed softly. “No. But I appreciate the effort.” She bit her lip. “I know something you can do that would calm my nerves.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me your middle name.”

  Her persistence made him chuckle. “Guess.”

  “Abernathy.”

  “No.”

  She licked her lips, and his stomach muscles tightened with arousal. Blood pooled in his groin, making his cock throb, and he glanced away and stared up at a thick cable hanging from the rafters.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  Reluctantly, he brought his gaze back to her. She smoothed a hand over her shiny hair, the hammered gold bangle on her wrist glinting as she fiddled with the sleek bun near her neck. Little crystals sparkled in the pale blond strands, and delicate gold earrings dangled from her earlobes.

  “Beautiful.”

  So beautiful you make my throat tight and my chest ache. So beautiful I can barely breathe.

  The stage manager stepped closer. “Two minutes, Miss Landy. We need to move you to the center stage.”

  Ava Grace nodded before her gaze swung back to him. She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his in a soft, fleeting kiss. “For luck,” she whispered.

  He froze, his mouth tingling from the warm imprint of her lips, and watched her walk away. Her heels were outrageously tall, yet her gait was smooth and graceful, her hips swaying under her short dress and the lean muscles of her long legs flexing with each step.

  A brightly colored gift bag swung from her left hand. A bottle of bourbon nestled inside the bag—a present for Roarke and a shameless product placement for Trinity.

  “Mr. Beck.”

  He jerked his eyes away from Ava Grace and focused on the young stagehand next to him. “Yes?”

  “You can sit in the audience or watch the show from the wings,” the guy explained. “Which do you prefer?”

  “The wings,” he answered, knowing he was too antsy to sit still.

  The stagehand led him to an alcove that held a large stationary camera. An older man stood behind the camera, a dingy baseball cap covering his hair along with a black headset. He gave Beck a thumbs-up.

  “Try not to make any noise,” the stagehand told Beck before pointing to a steel door with an illuminated exit sign. “If you need to leave for any reason, there’s the exit.”

  Nodding, Beck tucked his hands in the front pockets of his black dress pants and focused on the stage. The Roarke show taped in front of a live audience and would air later tonight. Although people watching at home would have commercial breaks, no breaks occurred during the live taping.

  The tall talk show host rose from his chair and made his way to a large curtained stage. “Our next guest is one of my favorite people. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the lovely, the talented, the incomparable … Ava Grace Landy!”

  The blue curtains opened to reveal Ava Grace, and the audience went wild. A cacophony of loud cheers, earsplitting whistles, and deep catcalls filled the studio.

  Ava Grace gave Roarke and the audience a blinding smile as she met him in the middle of the stage. He grabbed her in a bear hug, picked her up, and spun her around. She laughed and clutched his shoulders, the gift bag bouncing against his suited back.

  “Put me down,” she demanded with mock outrage.

  Roarke complied, and Ava Grace turned to the audience and waved. “Thank y’all for such an amazing welcome.”

  Ava Grace settled in a blue chair next to Roarke’s desk. After placing the gift bag on the floor, she crossed her legs, exposing a smooth, tan thigh.

  “I’m so happy to be here.”

  From behind his desk, Roarke looked out over the audience. “I’m the one who’s happy.” He waggled his coppery eyebrows. “Every time I see you, you look better than the last time.”

  Amen, brother.

  The talk show host curled his hand into a claw and made the signature growling noise he reserved for attractive female guests. And then he did it again for emphasis.

  Ava Grace giggled. “Thank you, Roarke.”

  “What’ve you been up to since your last visit? You just got back from the International Wine and Spirits Show in Seattle, right? How was it?”

  “It was a lot of fun. I’d never been to a show like that before. Hundreds of wineries and distilleries attend.” She flashed a smile toward the audience. “And they give out free samples.”

  The audience cheered wildly, and she laughed. “It doesn’t sound like there are many teetotalers in the audience.” She looked directly into the camera. “Did you know teetotalers are more likely to be depressed than people who drink moderately?”

  Beck laughed under his breath. He could never accuse her of not paying attention.

  “Really?” Roarke asked.

  She nodded. “It’s true. Research shows moderate drinking makes people happier, probably because of the social aspect.” She paused meaningfully. “Moderate drinking, people. Moderate drinking.”

  “Why were you at the show?” Roarke asked.

  “I was there with this fabulous craft distillery called Trinity. They make the best bourbon in the world. They won the gold medal in the whiskey category at the show.”

  Beck smiled. Who would’ve guessed Ava Grace Landy would become Trinity’s most vocal supporter?

  “Tell us about Trinity,” Roarke requested. “What is a craft distillery, exactly?”

  Beck frowned. He and Ava Grace hadn’t talked about the differences between larger distillers and small distilleries like Trinity.

  “The short answer is craft distilleries make bourbon in smaller batches than the big guys, and they produce fewer barrels.” She smiled. “And I’d argue craft distilleries make better bourbon. But that’s just my opinion … and the opinion of the experienced judges at the International Wine and Spirits Show.”

  Her subtle put-down of the larger distilleries made Beck smile. He’d been saying the same thing for years.

  Roarke picked up his notecard again. “It says here the guy who started Trinity is a descendant of Jonah Beck, the founder of the oldest distillery in the U.S.”

  “That’s right,” Ava Grace replied with a nod. “His name is Jonah Beck too, and he’s a bourbon genius.”

  Bourbon genius?

  Beck realized Ava Grace was still talking. “Nowadays, Trinity is the only distillery in the world still owned by a descendant of Jonah Beck,” she explained with a smile. “Jonah Beck Distillery, which makes Beck bourbon, is ow
ned by some big conglomerate in Britain.”

  Beck shook his head, awed by how deftly she handled Roarke’s questions. Her answers were truthful, yet they painted Trinity in a more positive light than its competitors.

  Ava Grace bent down and scooped the gift bag from the floor. She placed it on Roarke’s desk. “I brought you a little present.”

  Roarke rubbed his hands together, his expression gleeful. “I love presents.”

  As the talk show host pulled the tissue paper from the bag and tossed it over his shoulder, Ava Grace cautioned, “Careful, Roarke. It’s fragile.”

  Roarke gingerly removed the bottle of Trinity from the bag and held it up like a trophy. The audience applauded, and Ava Grace laughed. “Bourbon is so much better than a bouquet of flowers or a bottle of wine,” she said.

  Roarke studied the bottle, turning it over in his hands. “Should we open this right now?”

  “Sure,” Ava Grace agreed. “I’d love to have a drink with you. There are some glasses in the bag.”

  She pulled out a couple of shot glasses and handed them to Roarke. “Bourbon is a sipping whiskey. But you can also cook with it. I’m working on a cookbook of recipes that use bourbon. It should be out early next year. I haven’t decided what to call it yet, so if anyone in the audience has an idea, please share them on Trinity’s website or social media.”

  After Roarke tore off the paper seal around the cork, he worked the cork out of the bottle and poured a splash of bourbon into the shot glasses. He held his glass up in front of his face and looked at it.

  “That’s the heart,” Ava Grace said.

  “The heart?” Roarke echoed.

  She nodded. “There’s this old saying that describes the distilling process for bourbon.” She repeated Ellis’s head, heart, and tail lesson almost verbatim. “That’s where I got the inspiration for my new song. I’m going to sing it for y’all later.”

  Roarke took a sip of Trinity. “I’ve always liked tequila more than bourbon.”