She laughed and extracted herself from his grip. “I’ll remember.”
“Oh, that was for me.”
The last thing she saw before he closed the door were the crinkles around his eyes and mouth as he grinned at her.
Eight o’clock in the morning in the Westin lobby was a far different place to be wearing her tiny, sexy gala dress than last night had been. Naomi hated the phrase ‘walk of shame,’ since she tried never to do anything she was ashamed of. But stalking through the ornate marble lobby in her sky-high heels without the benefit of caffeine was really asking too much. She found the complimentary coffee bar outside the breakfast area and poured herself a cup while she tapped out her Uber request for a ride to her hotel. She made a face after the first sip. Hopefully it would be the only bad part of her day.
“That’s no way to look at a perfectly innocent cup of coffee.” The voice was familiar, and unfortunate. The coffee wasn’t nearly good enough to be worth tolerating her brother this early in the day.
She’d almost forgotten that Jacob and Tanya were staying here for the gala weekend, to be closer to the event and have a kid-free weekend. It was the other reason she’d decided not to stay at this hotel.
“Can’t be that innocent. She isn’t a hotel guest, remember?” Her sister-in-law, as usual, dove right in.
Naomi sighed and turned. “Hi. You have three minutes to make as many jokes as you can.” She held up her phone to show them the blue progress line that indicated her driver was nearly there. “Not you, Jacob, I know you can’t perform well under pressure.” She aimed her fakest, kindly-caring-sister smile at him.
“Ouch,” he protested. “That was uncalled for.”
“I’ve had literally one sip of terrible coffee.”
“And you’ve been up all night?” Tanya grinned at her.
“I used to think you were so nice,” Naomi told her mournfully. “I think my brother has corrupted you.”
“Other way around,” Jacob said. “But if you want to talk about corruption—”
“Too late. Uber’s here.” Naomi grinned. “Catch you later. Got a gallery to sell to.” She escaped before they could figure out how to make that into a euphemism at her expense and fled through the hotel doors to her waiting ride.
Four hours later, she sat in her own car and smiled gleefully at the contract in her hand and the check clipped to the front of it. Maybe she should start drinking whiskey. Or have sex with more Irishmen. Or something. Because that had been the most successful sale she’d ever made. The gallery had contracted her for nearly everything currently in her studio, as well as three exclusive pieces. She was going to be busy for the next few months. She couldn’t wait to get home and start working.
4
** Three months later **
With a sigh, Iain hefted his tired body onto a stool and then rested his elbows on the gleaming copper bar top. During his brief trip home for Christmas, his father had told him he had three months left to prove that his plan for an experimental second label of the family’s whiskey was a sound financial move. But between the jet lag and near-constant headache he’d experienced since leaving his brother’s place in Wicklow, he needed to spend at least a few of those ninety days getting back to his old self. Until he did, he wouldn’t be much good at his job anyhow.
He’d chosen River Hill as his new base of operations after reading an article in the airline’s in-flight magazine about Angelica Travis, an actress he’d seen in a few movies years ago, renovating an old estate into a high-end bed and breakfast. The reporter who’d written the piece couldn’t say enough good things about the inn, its owner, or the town. An hour and a half outside of San Francisco, the Oakwell Inn was the perfect place to recharge his batteries. Thankfully, with it being low season and mid-week, they’d had a room available.
The first thing he’d done after setting his suitcase down was head to Frankie’s, a restaurant famed for making the best carnitas around. According to the article, its owner, Max Vergaras, was one of the hottest up-and-coming chefs in the state. The article had also mentioned something about how he was mixing artisanal alcohol with fresh, local, seasonal ingredients to create a truly innovative cocktail menu. Iain might be famished, but he still knew how to do his job. A visit to Frankie’s was good for his belly and for business.
“What can I get you?” the dark-haired man behind the bar asked, passing him a glass of ice water. Once of the things Iain loved most about visiting America was that practically every restaurant served their water ice cold. There were few things worse than drinking room temperature water.
“According to an article I just read on the plane out here, the only answer to that question is the carnitas tacos.”
The man’s lips hitched to the side. “Ah. That’d be the one about Angelica’s place.”
Iain nodded. “I’m staying there for a handful of days before heading down to San Francisco for business.”
“Good choice.” The other man pushed his hand forward. “I’m Max, by the way. I own this joint.”
Iain leaned forward and extended his palm. “Iain Brennan. Nice place you’ve got here.” With exposed brick walls, rough-hewn beams, and lots of copper fixtures on display, Frankie’s was a perfect blend of rustic and industrial. He’d always thought if he ever opened his own distillery one day, he’d want it to look just like this.
“Thanks.” Max smiled and pulled his hand back across the bar. “And here comes Angelica’s boyfriend, Noah Bradstone. Feel free to tell him to fuck off when he grumbles about you being in his seat.” The smirk he flashed let Iain know he was kidding, but it didn’t quite prepare him for the other man’s gruff greeting.
Noah reached over the bar, grabbed a bottle and a shot glass, and then dropped onto a stool next to him. “She’s killing me, man.”
“What happened now?” Max asked, visibly fighting a smile.
Amused, Iain watched as Noah, a big man with wide shoulders and strong, work-roughened hands, let out a frustrated groan and poured himself two fingers’ worth of the amber liquid. “I told her when she gets back next week, we should quit dicking around and just go get married already.”
“How romantic. I can’t imagine why she’s not rushing back.”
Noah waved Max’s sarcastic remark aside. “She said, ’Sure, that sounds great,’ and then went back to talking about the show. How did I manage to find the one woman in all of California who’s even less interested in getting married than I am?”
Max looked at his friend with a raised eyebrow. “You think she doesn’t want to marry you? I don’t know, Noah … Angelica loves you. You guys are sickening when you’re together.”
“Don’t get me wrong. Angelica loves me; that’s not the problem. She couldn’t care less about a wedding, though.”
Iain fought a smile as he dug into his tacos. Frankly, he could appreciate a woman like Angelica Travis. Unbidden, his mind flashed to the Founders’ Ball in San Francisco three months earlier. Sex with Naomi had been among the very best Iain had ever had, but the absolute best part was that she hadn’t asked for his phone number or made a big deal about seeing him again. Hell, Naomi’s forthright manner had been half the reason things had been so explosive between them. She’d known exactly what she wanted—and what she didn’t—and hadn’t been afraid to tell him. Their goodbye the next morning had been easy and uncomplicated, and he’d walked out of the hotel whistling, knowing he’d always remember the stunning brunette with great fondness. Now that he was heading back to the city, he wondered what the chances were of running into her again. Not that he’d go looking, but if their paths should cross, he wouldn’t turn down a few more naked hours with her.
“So, are you two getting married next week, or not?” Max asked, calling Iain’s attention back to the conversation taking place between the other two men. The one he only felt mildly guilty for eavesdropping on.
Noah grunted. “Fuck if I know. Maybe? You should probably get your good suit dry-cleaned
just in case.” He threw back his double shot and winced as the liquid burned a path to his belly. Slamming the glass down onto the bar, he grimaced. “That stuff’s shit. Why do you serve it?”
Max reached across the bar and grabbed the unlabeled bottle, stashing it under the counter in one smooth movement. “We don’t. It was a sample the guys from Bottleworks dropped off for me to try.”
Noah scrubbed his palm over his mouth as if to wipe away the bad taste. “I get what they’re doing and why, but just because you want to make hooch doesn’t mean you should. You can’t just throw a bunch of crap together and assume it’s going to work.”
Iain laughed at Noah’s observation, which had the other man swiveling around to face him. Iain hadn’t noticed it at first, but up close, he couldn’t shake the feeling they’d met somewhere before. That didn’t make any sense, though. This was his first time in River Hill. Still, there was definitely something familiar about the man, and it wasn’t just his opinion about alcohol. “If everyone thought like you, my job would be so much easier.”
“How so?”
“My family’s in the whiskey business.”
“Oh yeah? Anything I’d know?”
Iain laughed and, like he’d done with Max a few minutes before, extended his hand. “Iain Brennan.”
Noah’s eyebrows shot up. “No shit,” he said, dwarfing Iain’s palm in his. “The first time I ever drank whiskey, your name was on the bottle.”
“I hear that a lot.” Iain grinned, letting the faint, familiar discomfort wash through him and disappear.
He wasn’t ashamed of his family name but he didn’t like using it to open doors for him, either. There was a market for a more approachable style that would entice non-whiskey drinkers, and he wanted to launch it without relying on the Brennan name. Unfortunately, his dad and brothers hadn’t come around to his way of thinking. Iain was doing everything in his power to convince his family to give the new expression his brilliant sister had developed an opportunity to stand on its own merits—devoid of the proud, historic Brennan name.
“Is that the business that brings you out this way?” Max asked, setting out a bottle of wine and uncorking it.
Iain nodded. “Yeah, I’m trying to launch a new label.” He exhaled. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, actually, but I’m out here in an effort to convince my dad and brothers there’s a market for it.”
“Sounds familiar,” Noah said, his face turning thoughtful.
“How so?” Iain’s eyes swiveled between Max and Noah.
Instead of answering, however, Noah reached across the bar, this time taking hold of the wine Max had uncorked. Grabbing two glasses, he poured some of the ruby liquid into one, and then the other before passing it to Iain. “This is mine.”
Iain wasn’t a big wine drinker, but he could appreciate it—when it was good. River Hill was located smack in the middle of California’s Russian River appellation, and it stood to reason if an award-winning restaurant stocked the stuff, this one would be.
He swirled the glass and inhaled. Right away, he picked up the musty aroma some pinots were known for, followed by hints of black cherry and mint. So far so good. He took a small sip, and his taste buds fired. “Feck, that’s good,” he said, smacking his lips together appreciatively.
Noah smiled, and then filled both their glasses. “It should be. It won a double gold this summer.”
“Nice.”
Noah nodded. “Yeah, it was. Especially since my dad took home the same award five years in a row before me.”
“Ah,” Iain said, taking another drink. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, then.”
“Maybe not exactly,” Noah mused, holding his glass up to the light and inspecting the ’legs’ that snaked down the side when he tilted it. “But enough to know you’ve probably got an uphill battle in front of you.”
Iain exhaled. That was putting it mildly. Every time he thought he’d made progress with his family, they’d read some article or hear some rumor that would have them expressing concern for the venture. Some days, he felt like Sisyphus pushing that damn boulder up the hill, only to watch it roll all the way back down again. It sometimes made him wonder if it was all worth it. But then he’d spent the holidays with his family and seen his two older brothers leading near-identical lives and known that it was.
He loved his family, and he loved Ireland, but Iain wanted … well, he wanted something more. He knew that made him sound ungrateful, but he was the third son, and he’d always known he’d have to forge his own path or be stuck following in his brothers’ footsteps, never quite getting the chance to be his own man.
“Yeah,” Iain agreed, taking another sip and savoring the complex flavors. “The latest battle is about the name and the label. Even if I can prove this is a viable venture, they don’t want to deviate too far from the traditional branding. I get it; everyone knows the Brennan name and recognizes the label. But this isn’t Brennan whiskey—I mean it is, obviously—but it’s different casks, new blends, totally new flavor profiles. Essentially, really experimental stuff the traditionalists in my family don’t understand.”
“Okay, now, that’s exactly like what I went through with my dad.” Noah pointed at him. “He offered to let me make my own wine, but it all had to be under his label. I could have my name on it—in smaller font, obviously—but it still had to be his.”
“Exactly!” Iain shot back, gratified to have found someone who understood what he was going through. Someone, it seemed, who’d come out the other end successful. “This can’t be ’Brennan’s Blended Whiskey’ or whatever they want to call it. This is like nothing we’ve ever done before. It has to be totally new and fresh—and that includes the name and the label. Only every graphic designer I know is on my dad’s payroll, and the ones I’ve tried to find elsewhere have been rubbish” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “If I see one more watercolor barley chaff I’m going to fucking scream.”
Noah rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then twisted the bottle of wine around so the label faced Iain. “What do you think of this?”
Iain studied it for a few seconds. The colors were bold, the font eye catching while still being easy to read, and the overall design strong and masculine without being too in-your-face. It was a great match for the man who’d produced the wine within. “I like it. Why?”
“My friend’s an artist who does graphic design on the side. She does all my labels. I’d be happy to put you guys in touch.”
Iain considered the offer. He wasn’t getting anywhere with the design team back home, and he hadn’t stumbled upon a design here he liked well enough to put it on the bottles he’d brought with him. He knew the fact that it looked like he was peddling hooch wasn’t doing him any favors. If he wanted to get distributors in the U.S. on board with the new brand, his whiskey needed to look the part. And that meant getting his shit together and hiring someone who’d produce a beautiful label that would stand out from the competition. Noah’s offer just might be the lifesaver he needed.
“Yeah, sure. That’d be grand. Does she have a card you can give me?”
“I don’t think I have one on hand, but I can set up a meeting for you, if you’d like. She’s local.”
“Perfect. Let me know the time and date and I’ll be there.” Iain shook the other man’s hand again. “I can’t thank you enough.”
Noah grinned at him. “Oh, I bet you can.”
5
“A client?” Naomi balanced her phone with her chin. She’d managed to answer it with her wrist, since her hands were covered in the grey slime of wet clay. “I don’t know, Noah, I’m pretty busy. I told you about Z Gallery, right?”
“At least three times.” Noah’s dry tone came clearly through the phone.
“I’ve gotten two of the three exclusive pieces done, but the last one’s giving me some trouble,” she said. The misshapen lump of clay on her work table reproached her silently. Her creativity was quickly approaching burnout afte
r the sheer amount of work she’d been doing lately.
“Maybe a change of pace would do you good.”
“I don’t know if I have time for a change of pace.”
“He seems like a nice guy. Beverage industry dudes need to stick together, and he said those new labels you did for me were the sort of thing he was looking for.”
“Uh-huh.” She traced a finger through the clay, drawing squiggly lines and curlicues over the lump.
“Didn’t that craft beer job I sent you pay for those new windows in your studio?”
“Yes,” she admitted grudgingly.
“Nay, you have a perfectly good degree in graphic design and a reasonably successful company with leads falling in your lap. You might as well use it.”
“It’s not art, Noah.”
“Just take a break from whatever weird clay ritual you’re doing and meet him, please? I told him I’d set it up.”
“Look at you, making promises. Who would have thunk it?”
“Funny girl. Speaking of promises, Angelica will be back from filming next week. Want to have dinner with us?”
“Why, what are you trying to convince her of?”
“To get married.” Noah didn’t even try to pretend he didn’t have ulterior motives.
Naomi snorted a laugh. “You think having your former sex buddy over for dinner is going to convince your girlfriend to marry you?”
“No, I think one of my best friends is going to convince her for me. Come on, you know Angelica loves you. You’re part of the ’Noah Package’ I’m trying to sell.”
“Ugh, keep your Noah Package away from me.”
“I’ll put you down as a yes, then.”
“Fine. What day?”
“Not sure yet. I’ll get back to you on that. And on the meeting.”
The Distiller's Darling Page 3
