Pull it together, Star!
You get one chance, don't fuck it up!
“Hello,” I say, “I'm Star—”
“I know who you are. We sent for you, remember?”
My cheeks flush with embarrassment, I can sense the apple red shade as it spreads up from my neck and over the sides of my face. I can't stop it, there's nothing I can do, so I swallow hard and stiffen my back, determined to grab this bull by the horns.
“Right,” I say, gripping my clutch tighter as if that will make all the butterflies vanish.
Holding a red folder snugly against his chest, Yale smirks at his boss. “Shall we get started?” Yale looks over at Bolt, his eyes waiting for the green light. He doesn't say anything else, allowing this awkward silence to fill the room.
Bolt gives the slightest of nods and Yale responds immediately by opening the folder in his hands. Clearing his throat, there's another agonizing moment of silence before his voice flows.
“Starla, you grew up in Stanton, is that right?”
“I did, yes.”
“And you went to Stanton High?”
“That's right, graduated four years ago. I spent the first two after high school studying at—”
“Kentucky Community College, and then. . .” His voice fades out as his finger moves over the paper. “Moonshine University for the last two.”
“That's right,” I say reluctantly, realizing he has all my information already right in front of him. I feel slightly stupid, because I should be talking about the chemical process that takes place when yeast is added to the wort, and how it turns the sugars into alcohol.
I should be spouting knowledge and showing Bolt how much I already know. Instead, I stand like a damn mute, saying absolutely nothing. I can't think straight, I can't connect my brain to my mouth and show this man exactly what I know.
You can do this, Starla. That's why you're here and not someone else.
Yale moves on, using the paper guideline in his folder to direct his questions. “No siblings?”
“Nope, only child here.” Waving my hand, I force a smile.
What kind of question is that?
Pursing his lips, he flips the page, keeping his eyes down. “So, your mother worked for years at Flynn and Flynn Grocery until it closed, am I right?”
“Yes, Sir, she started there when she was seventeen.”
“It didn't serve her well obviously, being a dead-end job and all,” he says, not even taking the time to look up at me.
What? Who the hell does he think he is?
“She gave me what I needed, did the best she could.” I know I shouldn't talk back to this man, not like this, not in front of Bolt Sheckler, but he has no right to judge my mother.
Why is he even bringing her up, she has nothing to do with my internship.
Looking up at me from his folder, he chews the inside of his lip. “She had no education, no skills, no way to support you after she lost her job. You got several scholarships for college because of your grades in school, without those you wouldn't have even seen the inside of a college building. . . Must be that Stanton water.” He chuckles lightly to himself, as if he just made a joke. “Am I right?”
I don't laugh. Balling my fists at my side, I want to go at him full force. He has no right to say shit like that to me. My mouth opens, ready to retaliate and make him feel small and insignificant. Then I remember where I am, and who is watching quietly from the shadows.
Isn't he going to say something?
These can't be normal internship questions.
Taking a second to look at Mr. Sheckler, I arch my brows, waiting for him to stop this dreaded line of questioning. Only he doesn't, his smile thickens, his eyes glaze over, and I'm left to fend for myself.
With my lips curved into a faint smile, I lift my shoulders up to my ears and shrug. “So I've heard.” I can't—I won't argue. I want this too badly, and I’ve have worked too hard to throw it all away.
“What happened after your mom lost her job?”
My eyes split from his and I'm suddenly quiet. “We moved.” I'm soft when I speak, trying to figure out how any of this fits in with the internship. “A lot.”
“And now? Where are you living now?”
“With my grandparents.”
My past was a roller coaster, some of it was good, some of it was bad, but wasn't that how it was for everyone? So why is my past so important?
It shouldn't matter. The only thing that should matter is what I know about whiskey.
“And they live in the Crest Village area?”
“Yes, they do.”
“That's lower than blue collar over there, am I right?” Tipping his head, he lets his gaze shift from his folder to my face.
What the fuck does that mean?
“I don't know... I guess so,” I say with a hard tone. This internship means everything to me, and I don't want them to replace me with someone else, but it's getting harder and harder to keep my composure.
I can feel my blood starting to boil and my chest starting to constrict. My muscles are tingling, tightening up, causing my fingers to fist and unfist.
I won't fuck this up.
I’ve breathed, drank, and studied whiskey for years. Shit, my love for whiskey started long before it was even legal for me to drink.
This is my dream. I've spent so much time wishing for the opportunity to be inside this building, to be a part of something so incredible.
Now you're here, let yourself be happy about that.
This part won't last forever.
“And your father,” Yale says, his voice deeper. “It looks like he and your mom have been divorced since you were three. Was it his multiple arrests for illegal drug distribution that she didn't like?”
My spirit shifts as the questions become more personal—too personal.
How the hell does he know all of this?
And how is it any of his damn business?
The butterflies I feel turn into heavy knots that twist inside my gut. I have no words for him. I’m completely flooded with emotions.
Embarrassment.
Sadness.
Anger.
Hitting my breaking point, I’m done with these questions, done with Yale twisting my past into a reason for Bolt to deny me this internship.
Because I deserve this. I’m the only one who is good enough for this internship, and I’m not going to stand by and let him bring up such personal nonsense. It’s no one's damn business and it plays no part in what I could do for this company.
“All right, I've had enough, these questions have nothing to do with my experience or education—or why I'm even here—” My hands are on my hips and my teeth are clenched. “Tell me, what the hell does this have to do with me?”
“It has everything to do with you,” Bolt says pointedly, like these questions are fine and I shouldn't be offended.
Those are his first real words to me?
Not, Thank you for being here?
Not, I apologize for my assistant and these questions.
His first words do nothing but tear open the wound in my heart a hair more than Yale’s questions.
“You know what, I think I'm done. None of these questions matter, not one bit of it. Everything you asked about my family has nothing to do with me.” Veering my stare, I move my eyes from Yale to Bolt. “I know whiskey, and if you don't have any questions for me about how to dry barley, or the level of char in a cask, then this is a waste of my time and yours.”
Mr. Sheckler has a satisfied look on his face as he smiles. “I think you'll work just fine.”
What did he just say?
“Excuse me?”
Did I hear him right?
“You're perfect for the position.”
“Thank. . . thank you,” I say, surprised that I still have the position with my abrupt rudeness just seconds before. “I... I don't know what to say. I won't disappoint the Sheckler name, I'm good at what I do, I've worked har
d—”
Holding up his hand, Bolt thins his lips and shakes his head, as if I misunderstood something. Quirking a brow, I stop speaking.
“I'm sorry, Starla, but this isn't the internship you think it is. This is a different opportunity for you. What I need to know is if you're interested?”
“What do you mean? I don't understand.”
“It's a simple yes or no question.”
“How am I supposed to know if I'm interested, if I don't even know what it is I'm being asked to do?” Taking in a deep breath, I anxiously wait for him to answer.
“This is a big opportunity, Starla, one that won't come again in your lifetime. I suggest you don't pass on it.” Yale closes his folder and leans back against the wall. “Bolt doesn't make offers like this every day.”
What the hell does that even mean?
“Thank you, Yale. I can take it from here.” Bolt nods his head, letting Yale know he can go.
Yale bows lightly, backing out of the office and closing the door behind him.
Now I'm alone, alone with a man whose eyes hold me still, and whose smile makes it hard to breathe.
Bolt rests back in his chair and the shadow lifts from his face. My breath escapes like a gust of wind. I'm tempted to grab my chest, because my heart jumps to my throat and my ribs contract like a snake around my lungs.
Bolt Sheckler is hot as hell.
His jet black hair is tousled to perfection, causing my fingers to tingle at my sides, itching to dig in deep.
An image floats into my head of him pulling my hair as he takes me on his desk. It's in my head clear as day, his hands as they find my ass, his strong muscles as he bends me over his desk and fucks me from behind.
No, no, no. Stop it.
With a defined jaw and long nose, his lids hover half open as he arches a brow. For a second I wonder if he can read my mind, but I know I must look lost, because he crooks a finger and nods his head. “Come on closer, I don't bite,” he says, steepling his fingers as he rests his chin on his thumbs. His eyes jump to a piece of paper on his desk, then back up to mine. “I apologize for my assistant, he's too thorough sometimes. But I would like to learn more about you.”
A wave of tingles washes down my body, making me warm between my thighs. Fuck, if his voice was any deeper, he'd probably be able to make me come from just the bass in his tone.
Clearing my throat, I pull myself together and walk up to his desk. Sucking in a gulp of air, that same sweet scent explodes around me and I want to drink it in. It's different this time, inhaling his cologne so close to him. He casts a spell over me, taking me hostage.
Looking up at me, his patience seems to thin as he flares his nostrils and sinks deeper into his seat. “Please,” he says sternly, holding out his hand. “Sit.”
My body reacts, taking the seat without thinking about it. Crossing my legs, I sit my clutch on my lap. “You have an amazing place here.” I choke the words out, trying to formulate some conversation because I feel so overwhelmed inside.
“I do, don't I?” Looking around the room, a smug grin fills his face. “It's home.”
“I can't wait to see more.”
Bolt lowers his lids and smirks, two dimples appear on his face. His jaw is cut with sharp angles and a light shadow of stubble. The kind of stubble you wonder if it will tickle or burn your skin if his face is buried between your legs.
A flutter skirts through my belly, causing my stomach to flip. Sweat is beading up on the back of my neck. It's cold as ice as single droplets slip down between my shoulder blades and follow my spine to the seam of my pants. I want to wriggle in the chair because it tickles, but I stay still, digging my nails into my small purse.
“Did Yale give you any real information when you got here?”
“None at all,” I say, shaking my head. Remembering something I brought, I open my purse quickly, and pull out a folded piece of paper. “Oh, I meant to give this to your assistant.”
“What's this?” Bolt asks, not even attempting to read it.
“It's my résumé. It has everything listed that I've done with whiskey and with distillation. I don't want to brag, but I know my stuff.”
“Only people who are bragging say that.” Bolt peers up at me under hooded lids as his lip twitches into a crooked grin. “You're not going to need this, not for why I brought you here.”
“I'm confused, I know you said this is different, but I thought I was here to intern with the master blender. . .” Pausing, I nibble my bottom lip, keeping my eyes on his.
There is something I can feel between us, a static electricity in the air, something that makes the hair on my arms prickle and my skin buzz.
“Am I wrong?” I ask.
Crumpling my résumé, he tosses it across the room, landing it in the waste basket by the door. “Drink?” he asks, standing from his seat and moving to a bar against the wall.
Towering over me, every inch of him is solid, thick, built like a football player. His blazer is wide open, exposing a deep blue button-up that's so tight I can see his abs as he moves. I think I count eight, but it's hard to tell for sure in the dim lighting.
Standing at the bar, he grabs two glasses and a bottle of liquor. Walking back to the desk, he pours two short glasses and hands me one. “I don't like telling people I just met that they're wrong, but, yes, you're wrong.”
“Then what am I here for?” Smelling the liquor, I let the subtle notes of honey find their way into the back of my throat before I take an actual sip.
The color is rich, reminding me of sap when it dries. The amber hue has dark shadows and a strong scent. It's delicious, like the first glass from a newly opened cask that's been aging for ten years.
Bolt watches me, studying my face and how the whiskey goes down. I don't cringe, I don't wince or react harshly. I let the liquor do what it does best, calm my nerves.
His fingers are wrapped around the rim of his glass as he gives it a swirl. Lifting it to his lips, he takes a drink. “I have a very special job for you.”
“What is it?” I ask, swallowing the lump in my throat. Squeezing the glass tighter, I hold it against my bottom lip, ready to down it all in one gulp.
The way he looks at me makes me even more nervous than I already am, and his voice is so smooth it makes my heart skip a beat. Biting his bottom lip, his eyes darken as he slips between me and the front of his desk to rest against the edge.
“It's simple, really. . .” Pausing, he takes another small sip. “I want you to be my wife.”
The liquor is in my mouth and down my throat before the last word comes out of his.
“Hit me with another,” I say, holding out the empty glass in his direction.
I'm going to need it.
4
Bolt
Pouring her another shot of whiskey, I watch her as she throws her head back and sucks it down immediately.
I can't take my eyes off her. I'm drawn to her, to the way her throat bulges as she swallows, and her eyes gloss over as the alcohol hits her veins.
Starla is the prettiest thing I have ever seen. I didn't expect that.
Her hair is deep red, reminding me of copper. Small freckles trace the bridge of her nose, fading out as they reach her eyes. She has on a cute white blouse that doesn’t hide her pert, little nipples.
Fuck me, my eyes move down her body, watching the way her tits lift higher with the deep breaths she's inhaling. Her skin is no longer ivory, but the sexiest shade of pink as she gasps for air and wipes her lips with the back of her hand.
“You want me to do what?” The question explodes from her mouth, her voice scratchy as she coughs. Setting the glass down in her lap, she asks me, “What are you asking me to do exactly?”
“I want you to be my wife.”
“This is either a sick joke or you're fucking crazy.” Shaking her head, she lifts the empty glass to her lips and tries to suck the remaining drops out. Letting out a sarcastic chuckle, she looks down at her hands. �
��You can't be serious. Who asks someone they don't know to do that?”
Picking the bottle up off my desk, I grab her hand, and pull it in closer to me. I can feel her shaking, her hand trembling in mine as our eyes connect and I fill her glass a third time.
“I'm not crazy, and I'm not joking.” Refilling my glass, I set the bottle down and hold my cup chest high. “It won't be real, it'll just be for show. We'll tell people we eloped over a weekend, you meet my family, and we act like we're married until I tell you it's over. That's it, that's all you have to do, nothing more. I'm sure you played pretend as a little girl.” Smirking, I think about how much I would have loved to play house with her as kids. . . Or doctor.
Her thumb runs back and forth over her glass as she looks up at me under a canopy of lashes. She's shaking her head no, holding her eyes on mine. She almost looks like she did something wrong and she feels bad for it.
“I'm sorry, I don't think I can do that. I make whiskey, that's what I do, that's what I'm good at. I'm not a wife, I'm sorry.”
“I'm not asking you to really marry me, it's all fake. I'll make it worth your while. I'll pay you whatever you want, give me a number and it's yours. I'll even write you a letter of recommendation, and you'll still be able to put Sheckler Distillery on your résumé. All I ask is that you do this, follow my lead, and make it look legit.”
“Look, Mr. Sheckler—”
“Please, call me Bolt.”
“Bolt,” she says, my name rolling off her tongue with a sexy little pitch at the end. “I didn't come here for this. I came for the internship, not this.”
“And you can have it, that's not a problem.” Holding out my arms, I soften my voice. “Look, we both know you need this; you need the money, you need the recommendation.” Placing a hand on my chest, my eyes open wider. “You need me, especially if you ever want to go anywhere in this business, we both know that. I'll give you all of it, I can open all kinds of doors for you.”
Her eyes shift and I can tell she's thinking about it. The bright brown globes dance around my face, her brows scrunch into the bridge of her nose, and the corner of her lip twitches.
The Convenient Wife Page 3
