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 just as good as it was reported to be. So good, in fact, he’d had one more drink than intended yet he’d woken up with a head as clear as if he’d not taken a sip.
Emerson Dyer was already encouraging him to break his own habits.
From his first sip while playing poker, he was committed to learning more about the distillery, and he’d spent the last twenty-four hours doing as much research as he could about the private family-owned company.
Except there wasn’t much to find.
His father had always suggested he was heavily involved in the beginnings of Dyer’s Gin Distillery, but Connor couldn’t find a trace of his father’s name in connection with the distillery anywhere. Paul Dyer had completely erased his father from the narrative. Even in old online newspaper reports of the time, he couldn’t find any reference. Every source said the same thing, that it had been started by Paul and Rebecca Dyer. He assumed Rebecca was Emerson’s mother because not only did they share the same last name, they shared the same warm brown hair and cute smile.
Thoughts of Emerson onstage, laughing her way through her speech, made him grin. There had been pure joy in her words when she thanked everyone on behalf of her family.
In-between bites of food, Connor returned to Dyer’s social media pages, looking at photographs of the distillery. They’d obviously begun some kind of social media campaign at the start of the year. It was clear and consistently on brand. He wondered what firm they hired to do it.
But then the campaign had stopped. News articles revealed there had been significant damage to an on-site event venue that resulted in a significant amount of negative press, but that seemed to have eased up over the past couple of months.
Stopping social media presence was a mistake, one he’d fix when…
When? When he bought the damn thing? He needed to stop thinking like he already owned it. Dyer’s Gin Distillery had floated to the top of his proposed acquisition list even though he knew his father would have strong issues with it.
Videos from within the distillery gave him a sense of scale, but he wasn’t definite on the kind of volumes they produced. From his assumptions on the number of stills, the size of the warehouse, and their distribution channels, he would put them in the midsize distillery range.
The recipes were attributed to Emerson’s brother, Jake, a master distiller with an obvious palette and nose for botanicals. If he came up with these formulas, he could come up with others. And others meant growth. Especially if he could parlay his skills into other spirits, like a standout rye or a homegrown tequila or vodka. But it also meant that the success of the recipes hung on one person. Dyer’s was definitely more secure than other companies given Jake was a family member. But even family members could be convinced to leave and go to other enterprises, depending on the size of the paycheck.
Yet, in spite of not having all the information or a secure innovation strategy, he felt the usual rush of excitement in his stomach that came when he was onto something and closing in on the target.
Except he wasn’t certain whether his target was the distillery or the woman who ran it.
He pushed his finished dinner aside and reached for his wallet. He opened the smooth leather and pulled out Emerson’s business card from the slot in the middle. When people had started to crowd her, she’d reached for her purse to pull out some business cards. One of them had landed on the table next to his champagne glass, and he’d picked it up.
Her cellphone number was listed on it.
Connor tapped the corner of the card on the countertop.
There was so much he should be doing instead of sitting in his kitchen and debating the merits of messaging Emerson. There were sales projections to go over and an urgent last-minute request from Cameron for the third quarter review. His uncle was so predictable, feigning urgency in an attempt to trip up Connor in front of his father. He’d done it so reliably for the last six quarters in a row that much of what Cameron had asked for was already complete, but Connor had no intention of sending it until one minute before his deadline. Two could play that game.
Hell, perhaps he should watch the replay of tonight’s basketball game on his new TV.
He looked over the open-plan living space of his newly purchased and renovated condo toward the large TV he’d mounted on the wall. He’d simply slid his own furniture straight into the place, and made orders for the rest. A custom tall dining table, thick slabs of wood that Derek, his stepdad, had polished to a shine and turned into side tables. There were a handful of boxes in his new home office that needed unpacking and filing. The restful shades of blue and ivory reminded him of the surf even though he lived in Denver.
Connor took another look at the card, studying it intently for any clues as to what he should do next.
Fuck.
He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Interest in a woman his father would likely disown him over. Interest in a distillery, a business opportunity that his father would not back, which would probably make him lose the woman.
Uncertainty was not one of his usual traits. Outcomes of decisions were usually crystal clear to him. But in this instance, it was difficult to separate Emerson from her business.
Perhaps he should just cast both lines, the woman and the distillery, and see which took the bait faster.
But why did the idea upset his gut?
Normally, he had no issues with messy lines, big deals, and consequences.
Connor got up, business card in hand, and paced to the window.
Make a decision, Finch.
He pulled his phone from out of his back pocket and added Emerson’s number to his contacts. Then he began to type.
Hey, how was your trip back from San Francisco?
It wasn’t the greatest opening line in history, but what the heck was he supposed to say? That she’d been on his mind constantly for the last few days and did she want to come over to his apartment and talk about a takeover while perhaps making out on his sofa? He didn’t think he’d ever thought a more wrong sentence.
Connor rubbed his hand along his jaw and walked to the kitchen to clean up the mess. He made a point of putting his phone on the side table next to the sofa to resist the urge to check it again.
When the kitchen was pristine, his coffee maker set for morning, and his pre-workout snack prepped into containers, he grabbed another glass of water and made his way to the sofa.
She’d replied. Who’s this?
Obviously, she didn’t know it was him. Why was he acting so dumb?
Connor. Owner of the seat. Buyer of the champagne. Table mate for the medal win.