by Melissa Blue
Grant wanted to say as a defense that emotion wasn’t cost effective. Whimsical displays of humanity botched perfect situations. For example, emotions were why, for the last few months, he’d tasted brew after homemade brew his brother concocted. Feelings were why he put in for leave to work beside his brother.
The crowd around the counter pressed forward. Muscle memory kicked in, pushing the thoughts away. He kept exchanging money for pints. Took a minute or so for his brother to chip in. Grant took the stay of execution, letting the buzz of the pub drown out the low ebb of guilt.
Eventually the crowd at the counter dwindled as everyone settled in to laugh, place personal bets on the games and have a good time until the very last minute.
Kincaid left Grant behind the counter to help Mia bus the tables. Like clockwork, right around the time he felt the night would never end, they began to usher patrons out to close.
Between the three of them the task took much longer than necessary. By the time Grant pushed into the heavy, wooden double doors to lock out the world, he was exhausted. When he turned, his annoyance rose.
Mia, a wandering African American with complications written all over her, gave his brother a wide smile that lit up her brown eyes. Kincaid stood with his chin notched up, his arms firmly down at his sides, but at the last minute, he loosened his stance when Mia bounced up into his brother for a hug and a kiss. They did that after surviving closing every night.
Every.
Single.
Night.
Grant used that sharp, grating emotion bubbling under the surface to wipe sticky booths and tables until they shone.
When Mia passed him toward the kitchen, she smiled. The gesture felt knowing. Grant glanced at his brother. The brimstone had made a comeback. Aye, Tasha had been the one to spill the beans. She’d called Mia and told her everything. And Mia had told her fiancé.
Preparing himself for what came next, Grant rounded the bar, picked up the most expensive whisky they shelved and poured himself a cup to the brim.
Kincaid began, his voice quiet like the moment before a thunderstorm. “If you weren’t my brother, I would wring your neck.”
Grant drank deeply to deaden any emotion that resembled guilt. “You used to be in the military. I’d think you’d have a more creative way of offing me.”
“Let’s…not.”
Fuck. He hated to think about what his brother might have experienced. Not knowing allowed him to skate over the varied and conflicting emotions that always slammed their way in. He focused on the now. His brother needed to vent. The faster Kincaid accepted the truth, the faster they could get past this messiness.
Resigned, he said. “I fucked up. Tell me all the ways I’m an arse.”
His brother didn’t need to be told twice. “Night after night I’ve been stretching myself thin. I was fine when I figured we just had to endure it. It’s not fine. We’ve needed someone who can take over and let it be their main focus. Someone who loves this place, and that was Davina.” Kincaid swallowed then added, “I can’t give the pub back to the Baird. I can’t.”
“You won’t have to.” The words were out of Grant’s mouth before he could even think about them, but they were the truth. If he had to spend every last of his dime, the Drunken Barrel wouldn’t fail. He wouldn’t fail his brother.
Kincaid opened then closed his mouth at that unspoken truth between them.
Grant leaned forward and clasped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Do you trust me?”
It was a question that Grant knew the answer to and that would box Kincaid in. His brother’s jaw worked then his nostrils flared.
Finally, he narrowed his gaze and went back to seething. “You utter shit gibbon, gaping arsehole. You…”
Grant zoned out. His brother would eventually calm his rampant temper, after running through every curse word he knew—Kincaid had been a squaddie so it would take a while—and already Grant was thinking of his next step.
Tasha, his Band-Aid and his distraction, needed to make it to Scotland. The faster the better. Nothing would stand in his way of making that happen.
2
G
rant Cameron could be described as a lot of things—CFO of a private equity firm, loving brother, fuckface, soft touch, bastard, but he didn’t let moss grow under his feet. A flight, a work visa and a few palms that needed greasing, and within a month, Tasha burst through the pub’s doors.
Doors he had intended to lock behind him since opening was a few hours off. All he could do was blink having managed to not get bashed in the face at her unexpected entrance. She was supposed to call once she landed in Glasgow, get a ride or some such arrangement. Apparently, she, too, didn’t let moss grow under her feet.
Tasha dropped her two things of luggage and ran towards Mia behind the bar without a greeting to him or his brother. Mia squeal-screamed at the sight of her friend who joined in on the ear-shattering noise. They hugged, jumping in a tight circle as they did.
He wasn’t sure if he should laugh or wince. His brother chose the former and glanced in his direction. Grant could say many things. He’d called in favors so her work visa could go through without a hitch, something he felt conflicted about, but not enough to not do it. His brother had needed something.
He settled on mouthing to his brother, “You’re welcome, you arse.”
Kincaid glared back, unsatisfied at the calvary’s arrival. Predictable. Grant’s efforts to ease burdens were rebuffed. Instead of wallowing about being unappreciated, he locked the heavy oak doors. Turning round, his gaze sought the woman who would make life easy.
She fit her smoky voice, that quick-to-laugh tone…that vulnerability masked as wariness. She wore her hair in a long bob that rested at her collarbone. The part let her blue-black hair fall over one eye, but not even that could hide her cheekbones.
If she’d worn any makeup, the long flight had scrubbed the remnants away and that fresh-faced appearance made her seem so much younger than thirty-something. He could swim in the brown richness of her skin.
“No,” Kincaid said.
The single word hit him like a pebble to his temple. Grant glanced at his brother. The man stood only a few feet away now, his gaze narrowed and knowing.
“You never asked what I told the Baird about his favorite barmaid,” Kincaid said.
“What did you tell him?” he asked both out of curiosity and a sense of duty.
“Nothing. He continues to believe four months ago the Baird’s Drunken Barrel was going to change hands to a new owner. Davina, loyal but practical, left for a more stable establishment.”
“It’s not a lie.”
“The lie is in the omission. That matters.”
Of course it did.
His brother had gone all in with the pub. A loyal but practical employee had been a selling point, at least for Kincaid.
For Grant? His brother had made a home here. Moreso than when they were kids.
It also helped that the Baird’s Drunken Barrel had crowds on weekdays, which had been a factor in Grant’s initial assessment after he perused the accounts. Although the Barrel didn’t sit in the heart of Glasgow, it was a pub in Glasgow. They cleared the red every month.
Lastly, the pub itself, decorated with wooden floors, tables and booths, had tartans of various Scottish clans lining the walls. The only thing to interrupt that pride were tellies that always had a game playing, usually rugby or football. What wasn’t wood was brass that shone as though it had never tarnished in the years the Baird had run the place. It likely hadn’t, the man loved the place and would have buffed out any blemish.
All of that was why Grant shrugged and simply said, “I’ve hired you help.”
“About that…”
“I’ve hired her. I’m co-owner of both the pub and your brewery. My name is on the line if this whole operation goes tits up. Either you’re about to say about ‘I’ve another cocktion to shov
e down your gullet’ or ‘thank you.’ Anything else, keep it to yourself.”
Kincaid sucked his teeth and shrugged but a smile worked at his mouth. Nothing made him happier than giving Grant a tension headache. “You’re crankier than a wee bairn with gas.”
Maybe. He hadn’t had sex in months. Despite being at the pub more hours than not, he still had responsibilities to Scotland, International. Being on-leave didn’t abdicate his duty to the private equity firm, especially since he had every intention of going back once things settled with his brother.
Yet.... His gaze slid back to Tasha. A woman as beautiful and sexy as the voice he’d heard for many, many months.
“No,” his brother said again.
Aye. That was for the best.
Standing behind the pub’s bar, Tasha looked deep into her best friend’s eyes and said, “You know you shouldn’t trust him, right?”
“Since you couldn’t be talking about Kincaid, yes. I know. Grant is slippery as an eel, and I’ve had my good eye on him from the jump. My only question is why did you decide to come here?”
And that was why Tasha and Mia were best friends. She laughed and pulled the other woman into another long, much-awaited hug.
Mia shook with unspent laughter and was the first to pull away. “I have missed the shit out of you. Tell me all the lies Grant used to get you here.”
“That’s the thing…”
She had definitely spent the last few weeks going over everything he had said in that one phone conversation and then the follow-up ones to iron out the details to get her to Scotland. The latter were much more to the point, business-like. So far, none of what he had said had been entirely bullshit. That should have been enough to ease her nerves on top of the fact Tasha had given her word she would come help.
None of that meant she had zero doubts about that decision. Or tried to talk herself out of it, especially when she arrived at the airport. Her life motto wasn’t if it’s too good to be true, it probably isn’t, but it might as well have been.
Tasha added, “He told me what he believes is the full truth. Did you finally find out the full reason why the last waitress left?”
“From what she told me they had a few drinks after closing one night. He was charming, seemed vulnerable…”
“One thing leads to her sitting on his dick,” she finished for her friend.
Mia nodded with a wince. “Exactly, but then, post-sex, he’s giving her this sort of soft look.
“Soft look?”
“You have to understand, this Grant is not the Grant that showed up a month ago to work here.”
Her brows went up. She assumed Grant dropped in occasionally to lend a hand. The man was a CFO. Where the hell did he find the time? “What do you mean?”
“First of all, he showed up in nothing but suits that probably cost more than what the pub takes in on the weekend. To me, at least, he was aloof. This Grant is a borderline hispster in comparison. Anyway, she starts spilling her guts about her dreams and she’s been working here for three years…”
Without meaning to, Tasha’s gaze wandered over to Grant. If his profile encouraged fantasies, his face started wars. Davina had likely dropped her guard, too, because Grant had a soulful gaze, and the hazel tint didn’t help especially when the irises acted as mood rings. When she’d walked into the bar, they’d glinted green and now they were a mossy brown. Put a few drinks in her and some good sex, she might tell him all her dreams too.
It all made too much sense to Tasha. “Her dreams are about the pub. The pub he just bought with his brother.”
“So,” Mia said, “Davina left because her ambition would hit a ceiling and she’d slept with the guy who would have partial control over how far she’d go. She had to leave.”
“She could have relied on Kincaid,” Tasha offered. “He would have given her a fair shake, no matter her taste in men.”
“She pinned her hopes on the Baird, and after working for him for three years, he was practically family.”
Both Tasha and Mia cringed at the last word, which told the whole story of their friendship. Her past could be talked about in shorthand, little reminders, bitter rememberings—the last solely on her part. Had her life played out the way she’d dreamed, Tasha would be married, probably have kids and be working for an art gallery by day and an artist by night.
Except she worked her ass off in a bar, her graphic design business didn’t exactly boom, and she didn’t hurt over the latter anymore. Art had lost some of its luster when her ideal life vanished.
Tasha waved her hands to shoo away ghost of boyfriend’s past…well, a fiancé. “The whole situation is unfortunate for Davina, but I’ll take what’s offered and run with it. I get to spend time with you.”
“But when you go back, will you be okay?”
She could only chuckle. “You know me. If I wasn’t going to be okay, I wouldn’t have come.”
Mia snorted. “I do, which is why I am asking because much to my surprise you didn’t call me in a full-fledge freak out the past month.”
Of course Tasha flipped out after realizing she’d said yes to going to fucking Scotland. She had no plants or pets, but still who would check in on her apartment to make sure no one had squatted or broken in? What to do about her groceries? Why the hell did she say yes on such a gotdamn whim? What could go wrong? OMG, didn’t she need a work visa? Was her passport even current? WHY THE HELL DID SHE SAY YES?
Rinse, repeat for four weeks until she sat in first class—on Grant’s dime—and there was no turning back or second guessing. She’d kept all that in for Mia’s sake, and she wasn’t about to release the kraken now.
Instead Tasha said in a very calm, reasonable so unlike herself tone, “The world is always in need of a bartender. A job isn’t the problem, and with what he gave me, I actually have savings. Things will keep. Now that I’m here, what all do you need help with?”
Mia worried her lip, her gaze narrowed. Tasha just blinked and waited her friend out. Finally, Mia’s shoulders sagged, clearly in relief. “Everything. I’ve kind of put my stuff on hold to help as much as I can, but between this place and the homebrewing…”
That’s what Tasha had suspected for the past few months. Whenever she had checked Mia’s travel podcast, most of the shows featured places around Glasgow. “Point me where to start.”
“If the Baird were here, you’d have to meet him in person.”
“Where is he?”
“Inverness. His nephew and niece-in-law are back home from America. Here’s been there for a week being a bother to them.”
Tasha frowned. “Why didn’t they offer to help with the pub?”
“They have a toddler and the niece is pregnant again. I love them but they can only help as much as they can.”
“How do they feel about the change?”
“Relieved. Happy. We have their blessing. Plus, we still are kind of looking after the Baird so we’re practically family now.”
“Okay. Kincaid’s family?”
“Kincaid calls, texts or they do. It’s all good, Tasha. I promise.”
Some part of Tasha relaxed. No one other than Grant had doubts about Mia. She glanced around, really for the first time since bombarding the place. It was a bar. They called it a pub—public house to be exact— but it had a mirror behind the counter, liquor lined up on shelves, taps, places to sit and TVs. She’d worked in hundreds of places that looked the same. The only difference were the framed tartans on the walls.
“Show me the books,” Tasha said. “I’m ready to get to work seeing for myself you are okay and loved.”
Mia smiled and the corner of her eyes crinkled. Such joy warmed Tasha from the inside out. That was why she’d crossed a whole-ass ocean—Her gaze betrayed her and her breath sputtered because Grant had been watching her. She didn’t need to know what it meant for his eyes to go that dark green. He wanted her. If the sudden tightness of her undies we
re any indication…
No. No. Her attraction to Grant was not why or how she convinced herself to get on a plane to Scotland. It was not.
3
G
rant managed to stay away from Tasha until one in the morning. To be fair to himself, she’d spent most of the shift hidden away in the office. Not once did he use the one million excuses that crossed his mind to check in on her.
Showing even more restraint, he suffered alone through the closing ritual with Mia and Kincaid. Eventually, Tasha came into the main room. She’d talked her way into staying at Baird’s until she found her own spot.
Now it was just them, lingering in the pub. She, taking stock of the inventory after the night’s work. He, on his laptop reading over a proposal his stand-in had prepared.
Times like this he considered his friend had the right idea of walking away as the CEO a few years ago. Scotland, International was more work than its worth at times. Grant was technically on-leave. For him that meant Monday through Friday he took calls, ran meetings, put out fires and acted as the CFO in name only. He no longer took trips between Glasgow, London, and New York. He was benched.
The longer he remained on-leave, the more he forgot the thrill of walking into a room, hearing the good, bad, and the ugly and then making decisions based on what kept companies making a profit. The more he lost his edge. That should have shriveled his balls to never be seen again, but if his work hadn’t taught him anything else, it had beaten into him to roll with the punches. Things changed.
But he often, too often, wondered why didn’t he miss the day to day more? Why wasn’t he gagging to get back? He was frustrated not being there because he was needed to fix things, but he wasn’t…They needed him and he felt a duty, not a passion to get back. It…bothered him immensely that his emotions were chaotic and not certain. And being a CFO was certain. It’s what he’d done for years. It’s what fed his family.
And yet…Och.
Just as he shook off the unease of his thoughts, her scent, soft as a drizzle of citrus but potent in its earthiness, drifted up to his nose. She placed down a cup filled with clear liquid. Attraction slammed into him so hard and fast he was surprised he didn’t get whiplash.
