Billionaire With a Twist 3 (5 page)

He didn’t.

I started after him out of reflex, then
stopped and looked down at my shoes. They were sensible heels, but
only for a certain value of ‘sensible.’ They were
definitely not built for chasing through the woods after a man who
didn’t want to be followed.

“
I cared” and the look
on his face when he said it, that shine in his eyes, had that shine
been—

But the “why are you here”
thrown in my face like a dishrag, like concentrated disdain, as if he
were completely done with me—

Fine. New plan. I’d give him some
space. I’d give him all the space he could fucking want, and
when he was done throwing a temper tantrum, he could come crawling
back to this cabin and me, and then maybe we could finally talk.

Yeah, that sentence had sounded really
plausible until the last part.

Was it time to accept that we were
never going to have those kind of open, honest conversations we’d
once had again? Failure had reared its ugly head once again, knocking
me off the warpath I’d so recently set off upon. Damn. Double
damn.

I slunk back into the cabin in defeat,
not sure how I was going to fill the hours until our stalemate heated
up again. I paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, then
flipped briefly through an adventure novel with a man wrestling with
a snake on the front before admitting that there was no way I was
going to be able to focus on a plot. I paced over to the bedroom
door, but stopped myself before going through; no point in further
violating Hunter’s privacy.

Instead, I stomped over to the fridge
and flung the door open, more to have something to do than because I
thought I’d left anything edible in there after this morning’s
fry-up.

Rows and rows of unlabeled brown glass
bottles glinted back at me from the top-most shelf.

“Choose your own adventure,”
I murmured, eyeing them.

Well, if Hunter was going to avoid all
his responsibilities and drink himself into oblivion, why couldn’t
I?

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the most
mature response. But I was done trying to be mature. I’d
matured myself all out, and if Hunter didn’t like me drinking
his beer, maybe he could try being the mature one for a change and
have an actual conversation with me about it.

I grabbed a whole crate of the bottles
and hauled it outside. The sun was shining, the grass was a soft
welcoming carpet, and the air was hot and muggy and just begging me
to refresh myself with a sweet, cool draught of
whatever-the-hell-this-stuff-was.

I kicked off my shoes in the shade of a
willow tree, popped the cap off a bottle, and took a swig. Mmm, that
was tasty. But what was it? Some kind of beer, I guessed; there was a
definite hoppy flavor to it. But a little hint of vanilla and burnt
caramel too, like a bourbon aftertaste.

Whatever it was, it was fucking
delicious. I took another swallow, larger this time.

After all, Hunter probably had a head
start on his day’s drinking, and I fully intended to catch up.

#

Everything was light and fuzzy and
floaty and perfect.

And then Hunter came back.

I felt the tension riding up my spine
and shoulders as I watched his tall form hesitantly separate itself
from the trees, looking left and right before his gaze settled on me
and he began to make his way over. Shit.

I was tipsy, on his booze. This had not
been a good plan. This had definitely been in the bottom ten of my
plans. He was going to blow his stack, and with all the alcohol in my
system I was definitely going to cry.

I almost fled back into the woods
myself.

But then I saw his face. It had a
hangdog look, remorseful and rueful. His shoulders were hunched,
almost as if he were expecting a blow, and his feet dragged slightly
along the ground, like a little boy knowing he was about to be
punished.

He stopped just in front of me and
scuffed his feet along the ground. “I’m sorry.”

Even with the clues of his facial
expression and posture, I had been expecting any words but those.
“What?”

“I know you didn’t mean to
hurt me,” he said, meeting my eyes. “I was using that as
an excuse to take this all out on you.” He rubbed the back of
his neck, roughly, almost as if he were punishing himself. “I
just hate the idea I’m letting all my employees down, all the
stockholders. And I hate that I’m ruining the family name.”

Tears started in my eyes and I stood,
wavering slightly as the earth did a slow, stately waltz around me.

Hunter caught me, his arms around my
waist, his strong hands on the small of my back.

I could feel the heat of his hands
through the fabric of the borrowed shirt I was wearing.

I could smell him, bourbon and vanilla
and soap and sweet clean sweat. His arm was only inches from my mouth
and I wanted to lick along his skin.

Danger, danger, danger!

I leaned away from him, away from all
that tempting skin. I didn’t quite break his hold, though.
Instead, I struggled through my lust to try to explain myself: “The
company, iss—it’s more than jussa—jussa—just
a name. It’s the choices you made. The, you know. Ideas. Chuck
and all those douches might’ve won control, but you could, you
know. Start someshing—something fresh.”

Somehow my hand had found its way onto
his arm and was stroking it. Somehow even now that I had noticed, I
couldn’t stop doing it.

I sighed softly. “You could build
something of your own again.”

He shook his head. “Like what?
They have the bourbon recipes and brand.”

I opened my mouth, and realized I
didn’t have anything to say. It did seem pretty hopeless.

I took a swig of his drink instead. His
eyes followed the neck of the bottle as it pressed against my lips.

“Now that’s a good idea,”
Hunter said with a small smile. He settled himself onto the grass,
tugging me gently down with him and grabbing a bottle of his own. He
removed his arms from around my waist to do so, and I missed them
instantly. But to reach the bottle he had to put his arm around my
shoulders, his weight pressing against my back for just a second. It
was heaven.

He popped the cap and for a few minutes
we drank in an oddly companionable silence, our hands not quite
touching each other on the grass. I savored his company and this
strange new peace that seemed to have fallen over us like the softest
of clouds, and I savored the taste of the mystery drink; each bottle
seemed to have a slightly different flavor, and this one had strong
overtones of burnt sugar and apple.

“What is this stuff, anyway?”
I finally asked.

“Bourbon beer,” Hunter said
after swallowing. “I’ve been experimenting with it for a
few years.”

I frowned, puzzled. “And what
exactly is bourbon beer?”

“What it sounds like,” he
said. “Beer brewed in bourbon barrels. Doesn’t affect the
alcohol content, but gives it a real complex, full-bodied flavor.”
He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, it does to me
anyway.”

A high-intensity halogen lightbulb went
off in my head. I grabbed his hand. “Oh my God! This is it!”

Hunter looked perplexed. “This is
what?”

I wanted to leap up and swing him
around and around, I was so happy. “This is the new product!”

Hunter had been staring down at where
my hand was touching his—and yes, that expression on his face
was interesting, I was definitely going to have to come back to that
later and what it really meant and if it really meant what I hoped it
really meant—but at my words, his gaze jolted back up at me.
His eyes widened. “You really think so?”

“Hunter,” I said, my words
spilling from my mouth before I had a chance to organize them, “this
thing I am drinking right now. It tastes like a beer and bourbon got
married and had a beautiful baby, who married an apple and flew a
caramel chariot all the way to heaven. It is amazing. It is so
amazing that you could sell it with the crappiest ad campaign in the
world, but with me doing it, you’re solid gold.”

That last bit made him grin, and I
watched, an answering grin on my face, as I saw the excitement slowly
win out over the trepidation on his. Then he squeezed my hand back.
“All right. Let’s do this!”

“Aaaaand he’s back!”
Martha gave a whoop of approval, and clutched at a string of
imaginary pearls, pretending to swoon.

I just couldn’t stop staring.

We were back at the estate library, and
Hunter had just emerged from the shower looking like his old hot
self, which was to say, a Greek god that had been hitting the gym
lately. His wet hair was tousled and tumbled over his ears,
practically begging me to run my fingers through it. His smooth,
freshly shaved cheeks demanded the same. His golden eyes glinted with
fire.

His skin was still slightly wet, and
his clothing clung in
all
the right places.

He smirked, leaning back against the
bookcase. “Ladies. Contain yourselves.”

I blushed, started shuffling papers on
the desk. “Stop parading around like a cologne ad model and
join us, then. Martha and I have practically already figured your
business plan out for you, so this is your last chance to make a real
contribution.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Besides
brewing it?” he snarked, still smirking.

I smirked right back at him. “Details,
details.”

“So, if you two are done
flirting—” Martha started.

We both jerked back from each other,
only just realizing that our hands had been nearly touching.

Funny how that kept happening.

Martha went on, barely pausing to roll
her eyes at us: “Here’s the deal. There’s that big
liquor expo in two weeks, you know, the one in Martinville? All the
brands introduce their new products, give out samples, do deals, all
that chummy shit.”

“Yes, I know about the big liquor
expo in Martinville,” Hunter said mildly. “I have
actually spent a little bit of time in the liquor industry.”

Martha gave him a friendly punch on the
arm. “Yeah, but the real question is, were you paying any
attention all the time you were in it? ‘Cause if you were then
we wouldn’t have to tell you that this is the perfect place to
debut your new drink.”

Alarm flashed over Hunter’s face.
“Wait a minute,” he protested, holding up his hands. “I’m
still in prototype. There’s no way I’ll have a product
ready. I don’t even have a factory set up! The investment we’d
need for just a small batch run, it’s huge, and we don’t
even know if—”

I patted his hand reassuringly.
“Hunter, no one’s saying that you need to found an entire
new liquor empire in a week. We don’t even need a factory. We
just need a sample: some liquor for tasting and a mock-up of the
packaging to show the industry you’re back in the game. We
don’t even have to start from scratch—since Chuck passed
on the original deal I had with Knox Liquors, I can rework all the
visuals from the first campaign I developed.”

“And you know those visuals will
knock them right over the head,” Martha put in. “They’re
gonna be so wowed they won’t be able to see straight.”

Hunter smiled, but his brow was still
furrowed. “Well, if you’re sure that will work…?”

“I am sure,” I said firmly.
“Obviously, we’ll need to hammer out all the details
before we go signing up for a booth or anything. The first thing I’d
like to do is take a look at the place you’ve been brewing.
That’ll help me see what I need to tweak in the visuals or the
copy.”

Hunter grinned, energized again now
that there was a prospect of showing off his hobby with no outside
judgment. “No time like the present!”

He offered me his hand, and I took it.

As I left, I saw Martha roll her eyes
and pull another paperback full of scantily-clad men out from under
the cushion of the armchair.

#

Hunter had been brewing the beer not in
any of the main distilleries, but in an old shed just off the path
leading into the woods. Red paint peeled off the wooden walls, and
the copper pipes hissed and gurgled as they delivered ingredients
into the bourbon casks, each specially chosen for the particularly
fine qualities of their years.

It was all so old-timey and Prohibition
I half-expected a jug band to start playing while revenuers kicked in
the door and a flapper peeled away in a tin Lizzie, all the hooch
safely hidden in the getaway car.

“There are a few different
kinds,” Hunter said modestly as he led me through the space.
“We separate them by the types of grain, obviously, and then by
the different recipes.”

“Like…different amounts of
hops?” I asked.

“That, of course,” Hunter
said. “But beer is so much more than hops. I’ve been
fermenting different fruits and herbs here too, distilling their
essence to use in flavoring different brews.” He shrugged,
scuffing his feet a bit. “I haven’t exactly had many
taste-testers besides myself, but I think the aniseed and dandelion
are probably the most successful. And the black pepper is
surprisingly good too.”

I made some notes on my tablet. “Can
I taste some of these?”

Hunter looked delighted. “Of
course!”

He hurried over to the back and brought
out a crate; the bottles were labeled with Hunter’s scrawl on
plain masking tape, which made me jot down another note—obviously
that wouldn’t do for the actual packaging, but there was still
something there we could use, something in that do-it-yourself
aesthetic that would definitely appeal both to the older, proudly
self-reliant crowd, and the younger, less self-reliant (and insecure
about it) millennials.

Hunter brought the cold glass bottle to
my lips, and I closed my eyes to better appreciate the flavor.