Billionaire With a Twist 3(11)

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 f*cking 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!”