Emerson paused for a moment, then cocked her head slightly. “I can agree with that. But seeing as I was there first and possession being nine-tenths of the law and all that…”
Now Connor grinned. “Are you always this friendly with people you don’t know?”
Emerson smiled, and he was taken aback by how it completely changed her face. “In this case, you are right. I’m being rude. Sorry. I told my sister, Olivia, I would have been better in flats, but she assured me flats would look stupid with this dress.”
“If I told you that your shoes aren’t what people will be looking at, would that be offensive?” he asked, before mentally kicking himself.
“Urgh. Not offended. And I knew it. I could have saved myself three hours of agony in these torture devices.” She removed her hand from his arm. He felt the loss of the warmth immediately. Perhaps it had been too long since he’d last dated if he was lamenting the loss of Emerson Dyer’s touch. His father would be appalled at what he was thinking. And he loved the way she’d glossed over his compliment without acknowledging it.
“Connor Finch,” he said, offering her his hand. “We got off on the wrong foot. Can I suggest a temporary cessation of hostilities? At least for this evening?”
She reached for his hand, and he could feel the calluses on her palm. “Emerson Dyer. Are we late?”
They both looked to the stairs that had begun to empty of people. Connor reluctantly let go of her hand and checked his watch. “Right on time by my estimate. Not a minute sooner than we need to be.”
He shifted his elbow in her direction for the second time that evening. “To avoid further hem and heel mergers, let me assist you up the stairs.”
Emerson grimaced. “I feel like that’s a good idea.” She reached for him again. He placed his hand over the top of hers. Her skin was soft and warm.
“So, Emerson, what brings you here tonight?” For some reason, he wanted to slow their ascent of the stairs, take a few extra moments to get to know the annoying woman who smelled like summer evenings.
“Oh, you know these things,” she said, casually. “Network, socialize, enjoy some overcooked chicken and house white.”
“You enjoy overcooked chicken and house white?”
Emerson laughed, and the sound made him grin in response. “Lord, no. But sometimes you’ve got to eat crap chicken to remind you to enjoy it when it’s stuffed and cooked to perfection. You know, when it tastes a little of tart lemon mixed with the smoothness of rich butter all melted together.”
Her description made his mouth water. They reached the top of the stairs, and Emerson’s hand suddenly flew into the air to wave to someone she knew.
“One second,” she said in the direction of the man she had waved at, and Connor felt a twinge of envy. The woman in his presence was quite the dichotomy, and he wanted to know more about her.
He didn’t know much beyond her quick temper and her hatred of heels, which actually made her toned calves look delicious. Even her description of chicken had him hanging onto her every word.
“I’m sorry,” she said, breaking his curiously errant thoughts. “I’ve got to go. I was supposed to be seated by now. It was nice talking with you, Connor. I hope you have fun this evening.”
And before he had time to say anything in return, she was gone. He smiled as she hurried to her friend with the occasional wobble on the paving stones. She was right, she really didn’t look comfortable in heels, but she looked kind of cute trying.
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.