Emerson started to type it before she realized that it was her. It was them. It was Jake and his stupid process that took five times longer than it should and drove her to distraction every week. It was her father and his obsession of ensuring the business stayed in the family. It was Olivia. And her. And everyone else who kept the place running.
“Holy shit,” she muttered, then louder. “Holy shit.”
When she returned to her seat in what felt like milliseconds later with a statue in her hands and a certificate proving their double gold status, Emerson could barely hear the applause over the beating of her heart. Somehow, she’d successfully navigated the steps, made a speech that she prayed was coherent, and walked back to their table without tripping.
She needed to message her father and…the thought of her dad made her chest tighten. He’d missed the distillery’s greatest moment.
Emerson shook her head to clear her thoughts. Jake and Liv would help her celebrate. This was huge.
A waiter appeared almost as soon as she sat down, holding an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne.
“I figured this deserved something a little more special than house white,” Connor said with a grin.
“Thank you,” she said, placing the statue on the table in front of her. “That was really thoughtful of you.”
She double-checked the name on the statue.
Yup. Dyer’s Medallion was right there. Connor offered her a glass, and she reached for it, their fingers touching briefly. Her heart raced, and she couldn’t tell where adrenaline from the win and heat from his touch met. Instead, she took a sip. “Mmm,” she said, closing her eyes as the bubbles fluttered over her tongue, her full palette enjoying the experience. “As much as I love cheap food, you can’t beat quality over quantity sometimes.”
“I’m guessing it tastes better than the wine you had on the plane yesterday.”
Considering the brand name on the bottle and its probable cost, it was a given. She leaned closer to Connor. “That was incredibly judgy of you.”
Connor’s shoulder met hers. “You were in my seat,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end.
She was certain he saw her slight shiver. “I thought we agreed it was ours.” Emerson tried not to focus on the way his leg brushed up against hers. The way the warmth of his skin seeped through the thin layers of clothing between them.
For a moment, she wondered if he might close the gap between their lips and kiss her because if he did, she—
“Congratulations,” said Mary-Anne, thrusting her hand towards Emerson.
Emerson jumped slightly, while Connor smirked. The presenter had temporarily left the stage. There was obviously a break in proceedings.
“Thank you,” Emerson blurted, unable to transition from the intimate moment with Connor smoothly. She turned to Mary-Anne and realized the whole table had been waiting to congratulate her. Then there were the people at neighboring tables. And she hadn’t even messaged her family.
One attractive, blue-eyed, black-haired man had taken her common sense away.
Shaking off the feelings Connor had stirred up inside her, she pulled her work face on and smiled and shook hands, fending off questions on availability of product, exclusive distribution deals, and interviews. This was so much Olivia’s bag, and she’d do a great job handling them. It made her miss her sister’s presence even more.
She found herself relieved to see Sven waiting to congratulate her because it was safe ground. Discussions about how the win might affect sales and tonnage of botanicals was so much more her jam.
By the time she was finished, and the next round of awards announced, she turned to take her chair and found the seat next to hers was empty.
It remained that way when she texted her family.
It remained that way when Dyer’s Medallion won Best in Class for unaged white spirits.
And it remained that way when Emerson left the ballroom with her trophies.
Connor Finch had disappeared as smoothly as he’d appeared.
The only downside to an otherwise perfect night.
Chapter Two
I thought we agreed it was ours.
Ours.
The word kept reverberating through Connor in Emerson’s husky voice as he placed his work bag on his office desk and packed it up for the evening. The last words Emerson had whispered to him before his father had messaged in a rage, ruining Connor’s evening.
His father had been following the event online and had seen Dyer’s Gin Distillery win.
While he would never admit it to the woman herself, Connor had been disappointed the previous day to scan the boarding area of his flight home and not see her. He’d held out hope she would board until the airplane was actually in the air. But even then, he’d thought about her. The way her smile reached her eyes, so genuinely happy. And the way she’d leaned toward him conspiratorially when they whispered to each other. It had been a bonus that she’d filled out that dress the way she had, leaving him wondering what she’d look like without it.
Yet, the only person she’d seemed even remotely comfortable with besides himself had been the guy she’d waved to on the stairs, Sven. They’d joked about increasing her botanicals orders for the next few weeks. Then she’d gone off talking about tonnage and capacities and the like. Her ability to do complex math in between sips of the champagne he’d bought her on a whim impressed him.
The way she’d spoken, suggesting of constrained production rates for what appeared to be a highly successful product, was a problem. A best-in-class medal winner needed unconstrained production rates to see just how far it could go, how much it could sell.
With investment, the company could do well.
With his investment and oversight, it could be a gold mine.
After Paul Dyer had shafted his father, his dad had persevered and worked multiple jobs until he’d saved enough to create a small liquor import and export business. It had taken over a
