by Meg Benjamin
But she wants yours. Wyatt ran his fingers through his hair, trying to come up with something. “Look, I own a place in Denver, Quaff. If there’s anything I can do for you…”
Parsons gave him a thunderous look. “You trying to bribe me, Montgomery?”
Wyatt gritted his teeth and prayed for patience. “I’m trying to reach an understanding with you. I want the malt. For Bec. I’m trying to find something you want that I can provide as part of the deal.”
Parsons still looked sour. “What the hell kind of place is called Quaff?”
What was the matter with people around here? Quaff was a perfectly good name. Or anyway he’d always thought so before. “It’s a…bar.” Somehow he had the feeling Parsons wouldn’t be any more impressed by the idea of a gastropub than he had been by the name Quaff.
Parsons shrugged. “Don’t know what good a bar would do me. I can always drink here in town.”
“We have events,” Wyatt said doggedly. “A bus to Broncos games. I could get you tickets.”
Parsons shrugged. “I don’t get over to Denver that much. I can watch the Broncos on cable.”
Wyatt was trying desperately to come up with some kind of counteroffer when the door to the office swung open so suddenly that he jumped. Even Parsons looked disconcerted.
The woman who stood in the doorway was small and blonde. She was also, unless Wyatt missed his guess, thoroughly pissed off.
“Abe Parsons,” she said flatly. “Where the hell is my flour?” She stalked into the room as if she expected Parsons to have the flour concealed in his desk.
For the first time, Parsons looked less than confident about his position. “Angel, I’m working on it, honest. But I’ve got other customers, too. And yours is a special order.”
The blonde placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t give a damn about your other customers. You took my order, Abe, and I’ve got customers, too. And my orders have a faster turnaround than yours do. When is it going to be ready?”
Parsons’s ears had turned pink again. Apparently, his mother wasn’t the only female who could do that to him. “Day after tomorrow?”
The woman narrowed her eyes—bright green and snappish now that Wyatt looked more closely. “Tomorrow. And not a second later. I mean it, Abe. I’ve waited long enough for that flour, and I need it.”
Parsons nodded jerkily, his ears bright red by now. “Yes, sure, okay, Angel. Tomorrow it is.”
She blew out a breath. “Well, that’s that then. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Right. Tomorrow.” Parsons sounded slightly choked.
Wyatt studied him more closely. Pink ears, stuttering manner, brown eyes faintly desperate. He paused. It all added up to one thing—love. Or at least an extreme form of like.
Interesting.
The blonde gave him one decisive nod, then turned on her heel, glancing at Wyatt for the first time as she did. She surveyed him without much interest, then stalked back out the door.
Parsons stood where he’d been when she’d first stormed into the room, rooted in place. He stared through the doorway as she disappeared outside, his unguarded expression full of longing.
Wyatt almost felt sorry for him, but he had stuff to do. “Spirited,” he said in as neutral a tone as he could muster.
Parsons nodded dolefully. “She is that.”
“She a regular customer?”
Parsons turned suspicious eyes in his direction.
Wyatt raised his hands quickly. “I’ve got no interest, honestly. I was just curious.”
Parsons blew out a breath. “That’s Angel Lomax. She’s a baker here in town.”
“Oh.” Wyatt frowned. “I didn’t know you ground flour—that’s kind of unusual for a malting plant, isn’t it?”
“Special order,” Parsons said slowly. “A favor. My grandpa was a miller. We’ve got the old grist mill out back.”
“Oh,” Wyatt repeated. “Nice favor. Custom ground flour isn’t easy to come by.”
Parsons shook his head, never taking his eyes off the route Angel Lomax had burned through when she left.
Wyatt took a breath. Now or never. “You could ask her out. And I could make you the best meal you’ve ever had. For two.”
Parsons turned toward him, outraged. “What the hell?”
Wyatt shrugged. “You’re interested in her. Chances are she’s interested in you, too. Ask her to dinner. I’ll make it and serve it. Candles, wine, everything. The whole nine yards. I own a restaurant. I know what I’m doing, so help me.”
Parsons narrowed his eyes. “And in exchange for this, I’m supposed to sell you the malt?”
Wyatt nodded. “If I meet your expectations, you sell me the malt.”
Parsons stared at him for a long moment, then glanced back into the outer room, where Angel had made her more-than-dramatic exit. “You have any experience with this whole cooking thing?”
Wyatt nodded again. “Yeah. I do.” Granted, it had been a few years since he’d done it, but it wasn’t like you forgot how to cook once it was in your brain. “Like I said, Quaff is a restaurant, too.”
Parsons stayed silent for a moment longer, a man fighting a mighty internal battle. Then he shrugged. “All right. Dinner for two. Wine and candlelight. Where is this going to happen?”
Good question. Wyatt hadn’t actually thought that far ahead. But he figured Parsons might have some ideas of his own. And if he didn’t, maybe Bec could come up with something. “Wherever you want it. You pick the time and place. I supply everything else.”
Parsons frowned, pursing his lips as he thought. “Can’t be my place. Ma wouldn’t take kindly to being asked to leave.”
No, Wyatt was pretty sure she wouldn’t. A definite non-starter. “Let me see what I can turn up for a location. You have a preference between inside or outside?”
Parsons’s eyes took on a slightly hunted look. “I hadn’t thought about that. Outside? It might rain.”
Wyatt nodded. “It might. Or it might not. Think about it.” He pulled one of his business cards out of his wallet. “Give me a call tomorrow after you’ve had time to think about what you want. I’ll start putting the food together.”
That hunted look was rapidly turning to panic. “When would we do it? I mean, I haven’t even asked her.” His jaw firmed as his voice dropped slightly. “Suppose she says no.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Is she going with anybody? Engaged? Involved?”
Parsons shook his head wordlessly.
“Does she have any reason to dislike you, other than the flour delivery?”
Parsons grimaced, flexing his shoulders. “Yeah, well, I’ll get that to her tomorrow. Even if I have to work on it after we close up tonight.”
“I’m assuming the answer to my second question is no.” Wyatt gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “So there’s no reason for her not to take you up on dinner. And who’s going to pass up a romantic dinner for two cooked by a professional chef?” He was, of course, stretching the truth slightly, but he’d definitely been a professional cook at one time, even if he hadn’t exactly made it to chef status.
Parsons looked a little less panicked but still slightly shaky. “What if she’s busy?”
“Choose another night. It’s not like we have to do it at a particular time, do we?” Come on, Abe. Work with me here.
Parsons took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders like a man facing a particularly nasty fate. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll do it.”
Yes!
“Okay, give me a call when you’ve got the date set up. Meanwhile, I’ll work on finding you a good spot for dinner.” Wyatt felt the familiar surge of excitement that usually accompanied closing a difficult sale. “I’ll get on it tonight.” He started to turn for the door.
“Wait.” Parsons raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you want me to order your malt?”
Wyatt paused. “Oh. Yeah, of course.” The malt. The reason he’d gone into this in the first place. Clearly
he was in danger of losing his focus again. He pulled Bec’s sheet out of his pocket, tearing off the portion with the types and amounts of malt she needed. “This is it.”
Parsons looked the list over, eyes narrowing. “Okay. I can do this. Some of it’s on hand, some I can get. After the dinner.”
“Right.” Wyatt nodded. “After the dinner.” And please, God, let this dinner go all right. Given that he was preparing it on his own. And given that he hadn’t a clue about when and where he’d be preparing and presenting this gourmet feast.
Chapter Seven
Liam did a quick survey of the Black Mountain Tavern bar. Small crowd. Fewer than yesterday, he was pretty sure. Summer was beginning to wind down with a corresponding drop in the number of tourists, although the number of locals would stay constant. Unfortunately, the locals didn’t always feel called upon to tip the bartender, particularly when they’d known the bartender since he’d stopped wearing diapers.
He sighed. Maybe Bec would sell the damn Zoria. He was pretty sure she’d let him know what was going on eventually. They might tear into each other regularly, but they were still family. If she sold it and started the brewery again, she’d let him back in. Probably.
Liam had seen Wyatt Montgomery walk by yesterday, so he knew the guy was still around. He couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. Maybe Montgomery and Bec were still haggling on price. Then again, Bec might have told Montgomery to take a hike. His sister was quite capable of doing something like that, which would screw up another chance to turn around the epic failure that was Antero Brewing.
Unless the mysterious Threadgood came through with another offer.
But Bec refused to see Antero as a failure at all. When Liam had washed his hands of the place, Bec had dug in. He wasn’t sure what made her think she could go back into business again without a backer, preferably one with both deep pockets and the courage to stick it out no matter what happened.
The memory of Colin Brooks heading off to points unknown still made Liam’s stomach turn sour. He’d thought they were friends, he and Colin. Clearly, Brooks had a different definition of friendship from the one Liam knew. And the fact that Colin and Bec had been involved made it all the more bitter.
They weren’t that involved when he left.
But you didn’t walk out on a former lover. Not unless you were a complete asshole, which he was beginning to think Brooks was.
He watched another customer head inside from the dazzling mountain sunshine. Judging from the clothes—Peter Millar polo shirt unless he missed his guess—this one at least had money. Maybe he’d feel like tipping the bartender.
“Afternoon.” Liam dredged up a smile. “What can I get for you?”
The stranger folded his arms on the bar, giving Liam a cool look. “You have any Possum Creek?”
Liam frowned. “Is that a brewery or the name of a beer? Either way, no, we don’t carry it.”
“Brewery,” the customer said shortly. “Out of Montana. Relatively new. You’ll be hearing about it one of these days—right now I’m one of the few who serve it.”
Liam kept his smile in place. If the guy was a competitor, he had balls of steel. Coming into somebody else’s bar and ordering an obscure beer to show your superiority was quite a feat of oneupsmanship. “We don’t carry it. We’ve got a nice Left Hand seasonal, though.”
The customer shrugged. “The Fade To Black? It’s nice enough. You can pour me one.”
Nice of you to let me. Liam snarled mentally but kept his smile going. Tips did not come to those who snarled. Of course, this jerk might not tip anyway. He looked like the type who talked big but didn’t go for sharing his cash. Liam poured a pint and set the beer on the bar in front of the customer. “Are you opening a bar here in town?”
“Here?” The man shook his head. “No. I’ve got a place in Denver.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a steel card case then shoved a business card across the bar toward Liam.
Liam glanced down. C. Threadgood, Threadgood Entertainment Group. So this was his mysterious caller. Liam wasn’t sure if he was supposed to know who C. Threadgood was beyond the fact that he’d left a voicemail. He didn’t, but that wasn’t a problem so far as he was concerned. He figured the guy was the type who’d be sure to pass on all the facts about himself as quickly as possible.
Threadgood gave him a smug smile. “I own the best gastropub in town. The Red Wolf—maybe you’ve heard of it?”
This guy was definitely Wyatt Montgomery’s competition. Well, well. And why would you have chosen now to show up? “I don’t get over to Denver too often. Grand Junction’s closer.”
Threadgood shrugged as he sipped his beer. “Not much of a beer scene in Grand Junction.”
“There’s enough.” Liam leaned on the bar, waiting. By now it was clear that the guy had come into Black Mountain for a reason.
Threadgood set his beer back on the bar, regarding Liam with a raised eyebrow. “I’m guessing you’re Liam Dempsey.”
Liam nodded. “I am.”
Threadgood nodded back. “Former owner of Antero Brewing?”
“One of them. There are three of us.”
Threadgood took another swallow of his beer. “Right. But as I understand it, you and your sister are the ones in charge of the place now. Or what’s left of it.”
Fortunately, Liam had had several months of developing his bland expression. It would take a lot more than a shot like that to make him lose it. “My sister and I are joint owners of Antero Brewing. That’s true enough.”
“Uh huh.” Threadgood regarded him through narrowed eyes. “And how much beer does Antero have left?”
Tricky. Liam wasn’t entirely sure how to answer that. They had the barrel of Zoria, but beyond that he didn’t think they had much of anything. On the other hand, he’d walked out before they’d sold all the stock, and he hadn’t bothered to get an accounting from Bec since she was paying off their debts. He shrugged. “We have some.”
Threadgood raised an eyebrow. “And are you planning on brewing more?”
“I’m not,” Liam said. Which was true for the moment. God only knew what Bec was planning, but that wasn’t his problem.
Threadgood leaned forward. “I’ll buy everything you have left. Red Wolf specializes in the unusual. Antero beer would definitely be that.” He propped his arms on the bar.
“I should discuss any offer with my sister.” And he would, although right now he was sort of pissed at Bec’s stubbornness about entertaining other offers besides Montgomery’s.
Threadgood wore another of those slightly mocking smiles. “Fine. I’ll be glad to talk to her, too. But this is a limited time offer, you understand.”
“How limited?”
“Look, Dempsey, we both know the Zoria is all I’m interested in. And we both know it can’t last forever—it may already have gone bad by now. I’m not interested in a long-term negotiation here. I’ll give you until the end of the month to come up with the barrel. Then the offer goes away.”
Liam managed to keep his expression bland. “Could I ask how you found out about the Zoria?”
Threadgood shrugged. “People talk. Waiters have a way of overhearing things. Montgomery should learn to keep his voice down when he talks about his plans.” His smile moved from mocking to smug.
Tough for Montgomery. Good for us. Liam figured he’d need at least a few days to talk Bec into seeing things his way and cutting out Montgomery. Or maybe they could get Montgomery and Threadgood into a bidding war. Either way, this wasn’t something he could do overnight. “I’ll take that time. You’ll have your answer by the end of the month.”
Threadgood’s mocking smile moved into supercilious territory. “Don’t you want to know how much I’m offering before you head off to tell your sister about it?”
Fuck you, asshole. “I’m not really interested in how much you’re offering, Mr. Threadgood. I’ll let you know the price when I’ve talked to my sister. And that’s t
he price you’ll be paying if you want the Zoria.”
Threadgood stared at him for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “Fair enough. I’ll be in touch.”
Liam watched him saunter out of the bar into the late afternoon sunshine. He sort of hoped Montgomery would offer more money. He’d hate to sell anything to that jerk.
But he would sell it if they had to. In the end, he’d do it without hesitation, and he’d try to get Bec to see it the same way—they needed the money, and they needed to sell the Zoria to a high bidder. Even a piece of pond scum like C. Threadgood.
…
Bec stared at Wyatt, trying to wrap her head around what he was saying. It didn’t seem to make much sense. “You’re cooking dinner for Abe? And you’re doing this to get him to sell you the malt?”
Since he’d walked into the brewery building a few minutes ago, she’d been trying to get more details. Not that the details made any more sense than the basic point.
Wyatt was cooking? Wyatt could cook?
He nodded. He looked pleased with himself, his dark eyes dancing with delight. He looked pretty delightful, as a matter of fact, all golden hair and flashing teeth.
Stop that. You are not supposed to be hitting on your source of funds. And you know better than to get involved with anybody who isn’t sticking around.
“Abe has to tell me the date, but yeah, that’s the gist of it. He’s ordering the grain for the malt.” He gave her a broad grin.
“But why?” Bec shook her head, although she was pretty sure that wouldn’t clear it. “I mean, I figured he’d ask for something, just like Harlan did. But why a dinner?”
Wyatt’s grin took on epic proportions, white against the tan of his skin. “Because he’s a man in love. And I can help him. That is, my dinner can. I promised I’d cook him a romantic dinner, complete with candlelight. I’m going to need your help coming up with a location, though. He might like it outside, assuming the weather cooperates. Someplace romantic, loosely interpreted.”
Bec narrowed her eyes. “Okay, I have to ask—can you really cook?”
