He was just about to step toward the doors to the ballroom when she turned to look at him, a soft smile dancing on her lips.
He held her gaze, as curious about their encounter as he imagined she was.
That was it. His decision made.
Before the night was over, he was going to find out more about the woman.
And her distillery.
And figure out if there was a way to have both.
Emerson tried to listen as Sven, a botanicals trader who had assisted with the sourcing and procurement of some of the rarer ingredients Jake had required, explained his latest thought on growing unique botanicals for the distillery in heated greenhouses.
But her thoughts were on Connor Finch. Who’d told her that nobody would be looking at her shoes. She’d felt a flutter of excitement at his appreciative comments and glances that had left her unable to come up with anything remotely flirty to say in response.
When she’d seen him the day before on the plane, he’d looked like the consummate businessman. But in a dark navy suit and bowtie, he looked debonair.
A little bit Gatsby.
Emerson smiled at the reference. When she’d placed her hand on his arm, he’d felt so…solid. Like an unmovable rock.
“Where are you seated?” Sven asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“Table three,” she replied. “Over there.” She pointed toward the stage, grateful to be seated near the front, meaning there was less carpet to maneuver if by some miracle Dyer’s did win a medal. Less chance to fall flat on her face.
“Cool, well, good luck. I’ll see you later?” It sounded like a question, and there was a hint of hope in Sven’s eyes that she hadn’t seen before. Her father had instilled in her that business and pleasure did not mix, but Emerson certainly didn’t think of Sven in any other way than a man who was able to supply seaweed from the Welsh coast for Jake’s latest inspiration.
“I’m sure I’ll see you around,” she said noncommittally.
There were two seats left when she arrived at her rather crowded table, and she took one of them, placing her purse next to her wine glass.
“Emerson Dyer, Dyer’s Gin Distillery,” she said, offering her hand to the matronly looking woman next to her.
“Mary-Anne Dowler,” the woman replied with a Texan accent. “Editor for Liquor and Spirits magazine. Good luck tonight. We’ve a review of Dyer’s Medallion coming up in our quarterly issue.”
“Oh, that’s very generous of you. Wait, did you like it?” she asked before mentally berating herself for such an impolite question. She was certain Olivia or her father would have come up with a more suitable response than she was capable of.
Fortunately, Mary-Anne laughed. “It was a very favorable review. If you give me one of your business cards, I’ll send you a link to it when it goes live.”
Emerson rummaged in her purse, pulled out a card, and handed it to Mary-Anne. “That would be very kind, thank you.”
The lights dimmed, and a presenter appeared on the stage at the front of the room.
“We must stop meeting like this,” a familiar voice whispered in her ear. His breath was warm, and his scent familiar with tones of frankincense and neroli.
She turned and came face-to-face with Connor. Those pale blue eyes of his revealed nothing as they held her gaze.
Words would be really good, but she couldn’t think of any.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the presenter began.
The corner of Connor’s mouth lifted in a smile as he shifted away to his chair and sat up straight, as if the speaker on the podium were sharing the secrets of the universe rather than explaining the order of ceremony.
As the speaker droned on about cellphones and exits, she couldn’t help but glance at Connor. His wide shoulders filled the seat, his thighs strong and firm. And he never moved, sitting still as a statue until the introductory formalities were over and food was being delivered to their table.
“So, what is it you do, Connor?” she asked, finally coming up with some safe ground she could talk to him on.
“I manage strategy and M&A, mergers and acquisitions, for a liquor distributor.”
“Ah,” she said. “Mass market quantities then?”
His eyes narrowed as he turned to face her. “Was that scorn I heard?”
Emerson bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to be so…forthright. “No. Honestly. There’s certainly room in the market for artisan and mass products with the inevitable quality and quantity tradeoffs.”
Connor laughed. “Would you like to borrow my spade so you can dig that hole a little deeper?”
Emerson put her palm to her face. “I think that maybe I should stop trying to talk to you.”
He reached for her wrist and playfully pulled her hand away, and Emerson was certain he could feel her elevated pulse. When he let go to reach for his silverware, she was a highly contradictory mix of relieved and disappointed.
“No, please. I find you thoroughly entertaining.” They both took a bite of their food. “You were right,” he said. “Overcooked chicken and what I’m guessing is a mediocre house white.”
Emerson noticed the swift change of subject but decided not to push further. It wasn’t like Dyer’s gin needed distribution help right now, and she hadn’t meant to sound so darn snooty about it. She leaned toward him conspiratorially. “Wait until dessert…it’ll be dry chocolate brownie with melty ice cream on top, I’ll bet.”
Connor glanced at her. There was something about his gaze that caused her heart to flip-flop. “You sound almost excited.”
“Are you kidding? It’s second on my crap-but-delicious food list.”
Connor laughed. “You have a crap-but-delicious food list?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” Unable to resist, she leaned a little closer. “You know, food that you can get great quality of, but somehow the lower quality food tastes just as good?” She knew that she should quite possibly be smooth-talking the other people at the table, but she glanced around quickly to find them either eating or having private conversations.
“I’m intrigued, Em. Tell me more.”
“It’s Emerson. Please don’t
