Page 11 of Bottles & Blades

I think of her as a mother.

I think of her leaving Chrissy and I for fucking decades before showing back up and wanting to claim half of everything I worked my ass off for.

And that throb in my temple grows.

“Make a note in the file”—one my team of lawyers recommended I keep, tracking all the fucked up shit Angela has done since popping back up in my life like a fucking mushroom in a pristine stretch of perfectly groomed grass—“and email Ted.” My lawyer who’s in charge of my other lawyers.

CEO problems—having that team of lawyers.

CEO with a nightmare ex who disappeared for decades before reappearing to take half of what I worked my ass off for—none of which is anythingsheworked for—problems.

“Not that it’ll make any bit difference,” Marie mutters as she makes notes on her iPad. “I don’t know how the woman does it, but nothing seems to stick to her.”

This is something that bothers me too.

No matter what I or my lawyers throw at her, she’s still out in the world, making trouble for me, living big, and trying her best to fuck up my life.

I sigh. “We focus on what we can control.”

Marie glances up from the tablet. “Which is…?”

“The next item on your list for me.”

The glee that lights up her face at the prospect of ticking items off her to do list is so intense it almost makes me smile.

Just two people addicted to solving problems and earning money and working hard and?—

Deep brown eyes losing their fear, filling with curiosity.

Tiff Hernandez’s pretty face pops into my mind.

Working hard—I don’t know her, butI knowshe works hard and?—

“—the bids for the Oak Ridge project have come in?—”

I snap out of my drifting and focus, but the smooth curve of Tiff’s lips, the softness of her body, the kindness of her gesture—they cling to the edges of my mind as Marie and I discuss the merit of the bids for the build-out we’re doing at Oak Ridge.

Tastings have increased. Requests for wedding bookings have doubled.

We need more infrastructure to support that.

“Let’s go with the one from Connors,” I tell her.

She nods and makes a note. “Perfect. Their temperature control systems are far superior. We can use them to retrofit the storage facilities as well.”

“Works for me.”

Then she pivots to a few more topics and we make a few more decisions.

“Good,” I say as I lean back in my chair. “Now, what else do you have for me?”

She flips the cover on her tablet closed, straightens off the edge of the desk. “Nothing else work-related.”

“And am I supposed to guess the non-work-related things you have?” I ask dryly.

Her mouth quirks. “Come on now, Mr. Dubois.”

“Don’t even try to be cute,” I mutter. “You know it’s Mr. Dubois out there and Jean-Michel in here.” It always have been. I need her to be comfortable enough to give it to me straight, to not to be worried about standing on formalities.

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