Her father had already cancelled weddings for the next few months, and then there was the lighter spell before they hit spring and summer weddings. It wouldn’t require much risk. It could work.
Emerson looked at the numbers again. It was tight, but it was doable. And then they wouldn’t even need a loan for the expansion. They’d use the insurance to pay for the expansion, and the expansion to pay for the renovation. It was a win-win.
With a sigh, she flopped back into her chair. Knowing her luck, there was some clause that you had to use insurance money to repair the thing you claimed for, or they’d recall it all or something. She’d have to double-check before she proposed this to Jake and Olivia.
The idea of calling the insurance company made her feel a little sick inside. She hated phone calls. Hated the flood of paperwork that would inevitably follow. And while she knew she sounded like an overtired, pouty toddler, she just wanted to be left alone for a little while.
By eight, the factory was dark. Jake preferred starting his days early and had just completed another fourteen-hour production run.
Emerson was confident she had the framework of a solid plan that built on what she had started on the plane. There had been something about Connor’s energy and antagonism and her own stubbornness that had merged together to stimulate her problem-solving skills, with just enough alcohol to stop her from censoring or second-guessing herself as she wrote.
Connor.
Had it been ridiculous to think that after their bumpy start, they might have been able to create a friendship, or perhaps a flirtation out of it?
She thought they had.
But he hadn’t, obviously.
Her fingers were on the keyboard before she could stop herself. She typed Connor’s name into the search engine as Ali had suggested and pressed Enter.
A trade journal article popped up with his name. She hadn’t known much about Finch Liquor Distribution beyond their existence. Dyer’s never made the volumes a company like Connor’s dealt in, so their paths had never crossed. She hadn’t been aware it was still family owned, like her company.
See, another thing we have in common. Both in the liquor trade, both in family business.
She clicked on a photograph of Connor, this time in a wetsuit and swimming cap. So, he competed in the Ironman. There were facts and figures, which by her deduction meant that, for an amateur, he was quite good.
Really good, according to one of the races he’d done. Some Norwegian Ironman that involved jumping off the bow of a ship into borderline frigid waters for the swim.
Emerson shuddered. Dear Lord. The closest she came to swimming was hanging out on the back of an inflated, pink flamingo sipping cocktails while on vacation. And though she did run, it was highly unlikely her three-mile circuit would impress Mr. I-Can-Run-A-Marathon-After-Cycling-A-Billion-Miles.
After twenty embarrassing-to-admit minutes, she found herself on Connor’s company profile. When she had turned into a cyber stalker was unclear, and she’d likely have to have a large gin when she got home to absolve her sins. But here she was. Sitting in the dark, reading his professional bio.
This image was a straight-up corporate headshot. He stood in a white corridor with chrome details, his arms folded, just as she remembered them, feet forty-five degrees to the photographer, with his head tilted in the direction of the lens.
It looked like a cardboard cutout.
It lacked personality.
But the page didn’t lack his email address.
She hovered over the link, then copied it.
Perhaps she should email him. She could make it friendly. Polite.
The champagne.
That was it. She could email him about the champagne. Thank him for the wonderful celebration. And she wouldn’t ask him where he had disappeared to. Nope. She wouldn’t ask.
But she wanted to know.
She pasted Connor’s address into a new email.
Dear Connor,
No. Too familiar.
Connor.
Better.
Thank you so much for keeping me company on Saturday evening. It was such a huge day for our distillery, and I really appreciate the champagne you bought presented provided
Urgh.
Ask her to write a report on the production requirements to fill orders in the first quarter, and she’d be all over it. Ask her to write something personal, something to foster connection, and she’d be as useful as the weak head of a new distillation.
Emerson slammed the lid of her laptop shut.
Oh my gosh. What if it accidentally sent?
She opened her laptop and quickly deleted the message, but not before copying the email address into her contacts.
There might be a time when she’d need it.
Like when?
With a burst of energy, she jumped from her seat and shoved the laptop into her bag before she got any more bright ideas that might include calling the company switchboard to get his voicemail. If she couldn’t write him an email under pressure, the chances of her doing better on the phone were slim to none.
Emerson grabbed her purse, set the alarms for the distillery and stepped out into the cool Denver evening air. Perhaps she’d call Ali to go out for a drink.
Anything to avoid the temptation of contacting Connor Finch.
Fuck, that’s hot.
Connor juggled the plastic container out of the microwave, switching between fingers and thumbs, and dropped it on the concrete countertop. The sweet potato, broccoli, rice, and chicken steamed as he nudged the lid off. He fought off the urge to cover the stuff in soy sauce or chili sauce or something that would make the food just a touch more interesting. Emerson had judged him correctly in her assessment of his eating habits.
Macros mattered, even if they sometimes tasted bland.
While it cooled a little, he grabbed a fork from the cutlery drawer and topped up his glass of water.
He pulled the leather stool from under the counter and perched on it. Fork in hand, he opened his laptop to study his latest project.
Dyer’s Gin Distillery.
Their Medallion gin was
