Jake hadn’t gone to college. He’d left school with less than stellar grades and gone to work directly for their father. “But look at you now, Double Gold and Best in Class medal winner.”
“Let’s hope I’m not a one-trick pony. Dad only won one medal in his career.”
She could hear the doubt in Jake’s voice. They all had fears about stepping into their father’s shoes to drive the business forward. “You’re off to a strong start, Jake. I’m sure you’ll keep the momentum going. I have faith in you.”
Jake looked at her intensely for a moment. “That’s exactly what Dad used to say to me.”
The loss had affected all of them deeply, but Jake rarely shared his emotions about it.
“He used to say it to me too.”
Jake squeezed her hand, gave her a sad smile, and left the office.
Her gaze returned to their trophies. For a moment, she wished her father had been the one to bring them home. Instead, it had been her.
And then there was Connor.
Wait. Why was she still thinking about a man who’d simply disappeared?
It had been rude.
It had been expected based on his behavior on the airplane.
But it still hurt.
Damn it.
Emerson pulled up her hair into an elastic and turned on a focus playlist. Within the hour, she’d reviewed all the new order requests. She’d had to quietly remind herself that having too many orders was a good problem to have. Only then had she been able to make a plan for production that would see them hit at least eighty percent of it for the month.
She opened the presentation she’d started during her enforced airplane working session.
Thoughts of Connor’s eyes on her had spurred her on until she’d not only forgotten about her fear of flying, but also had the most productive two hours she could remember in months.
Gah!
Why did he keep appearing in her thoughts? It had been three freaking days.
She focused on the presentation. When the insurance came in, she was going to suggest putting the money into expanding the distillery with additional stills and labor, so Jake could have time away from the stills to develop the new line of products. The additional production would quickly translate into sales, and the resulting profit could be used to reopen the reception venue.
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.