Page 3 of It Happened in Vegas

I needed this right now in my career more than they knew.

“I’m looking forward to working together over the coming months,” I politely said as I packed up my laptop. Keaton hadn’t moved. He was still watching me with that unreadable expression.

“So,” he said, voice low and rough, “when you visited the Hops, you had ulterior motives? You weren’t there to get to knowme,but my business, and figure out an angle to work your way in to pitch us today? You used me.”

I smiled as I slid my things into my tote. “Can’t a girl multi-task?” For a second, he appeared genuinely amused. Then his smile faded as I added, “But now that we’re working together, I suppose we should drop the flirting. Right?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave me a long, slow once-over and muttered, “Well, that’s a damn shame.”

It was. Truly. And I tried not to let my exhale sound too excited by his words. But now this was business.

“Maybe. But the day you wake up and find your brews are in the hands of fans from coast to coast, you’ll be glad I came on board.”

“Rather cocky, aren’t you?” He asked, eyebrow half-cocked above blue eyed mischief.

“You’ll find I’m as sure about my talents as you are. See you soon.” My heart raced, and I didn’t breathe until I got back inmy car and finally let it all out. I screamed, hitting my hands repeatedly on the steering wheel, probably looking like a crazy woman if anyone happened by.

“Yes! I did it.” I got the account. Now I faced an uphill battle to get Keaton’s business where it should be. Although—I lost an opportunity to see if things could go any farther between him and me personally. But this boss babe needed the work right now; my love life could wait.

As he left Richard’s office and strode down the walkway in front of my car toward a glossy black truck, his hands tucked into his denim pockets, I stared. With a view of his perfect backside, I couldn’t help but utter the same words he did.

“Damn shame.” I pushed my sunnies up my nose along with forcing any lingering attraction to him out of my head. My work required full focus on the goals Richard laid out, which did not include fueling a fire burning between Keaton and myself.

2

SISTERLY ADVICE

KEATON KINGSTON

The momentI left the meeting, the midday heat blasted me in the face—though not nearly as hard as the realization that I apparently had a brand now. A real one. With a logo. A vision. A plan.

I was officially the face of a craft beer empire—one that came with a marketing expert in heels who talked about consumer trends and demographic reach like it was a casual conversation over coffee. And yeah, maybe it was hard to focus on numbers when Sophie lookedthatgood doing it, the words spilling from her red, glossy lips the entire time.

My truck rumbled as I pulled away from the Buchanan estate, the early afternoon sun sizzling on the country road. Windows down, arm out, I headed straight to the only place in town guaranteed to reset my brain before work with something to eat: Vivian’s Cupcake Cottage.

The bell over the door chimed as I stepped inside, and the smell hit me like a sugar-frosted hug. Vanilla, chocolate, lemon zest, and probably a dozen other spices. While I used spices in my brews, I was a self-taught brewer; I wasn’t the culinary artist who studied in France, like my sister was. Cupcake Cottage was her little slice of heaven here in Holly Creek.

“Ah, look who it is. Come by for your daily dose of sweetness on the way to the Hops?” Vivian peeked out from the kitchen, cheeks flushed and wearing an apron dusted with flour.

“Hi Uncle Keaton!” Paris called out from behind the counter, completely covered in what I guessed was probably spilled cupcake batter, but looked more like she’d mud wrestled in it.

“Hey, sweetheart.” I ruffled her hair, noting a batter streak in it, grinning. “Are you saving any of that for the oven, or are you doing quality control straight from the bowl?”

She held up her little spatula like it was a sword. “Both.” How fast she had grown, now ten, and healthy after her kidney transplant surgery a few years back. Although from occasional texts Vivian sent me, she was sure that Paris displayed a pre-teen attitude a few years too early now and then.

“She’s been taste-testing more than helping, but we’re calling it creative expression.” Vivian smiled while reigning over the large butcher block island in the center of the bakery’s kitchen.

“Where’s Isabella?” I asked, and dipped my finger in Paris’ bowl for a lick.

“Go ahead and peek in on the baby—she’s snoozing in my office. But don’t wake her,” Vivian warned, and yanked her head in the direction.

I made my way to the back, easing open the office door. There, in a fancy pink bassinet surrounded by ruffles fit for a princess, lay Isabella. Tiny, peaceful, and totally unaware of the chaotic fun her sister was having in the kitchen.

I closed the door softly and got a little jealous of everything Vivian had. Since her marriage to Richard, she’d led a charmed life. She really didn’t have to work these days, but still kept the shop open throughout the summers, saying it grounded her to bake a few times a week, and she wanted her daughters to grow up seeing her working as well.

I suppose I should feel glad that Richard and his money could afford to take good care of these people I loved most. I knew first-hand of Vivian’s struggles as a single mother before meeting him. She’s still humble but doesn’t have a worry in the world with Richard by her side. He’s a good man, treats her well—better than her ex ever did—and is a wonderful dad to the girls. So I couldn’t complain.

I just wanted what he had. A good woman to love. A family. I tried not to be jealous of what he and my sister found together.

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