Page 8 of Pour Decisions
“Hi, Delia. Thanks for meeting with me.”
“I’ll admit, I was surprised to hear from you.”
“Your sister made a…compelling argument for giving you a chance.”
I narrowly held in a snort. I guess that’s what we were callingbriberythese days.
“Yes, I understand you weren’t exactly keen on the idea,” I said slowly, “but I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
Owen waved a hand, gesturing for me to proceed. “Let’s hear it then.”
I inclined my head to the coffee table and couches behind me, and Owen raised a brow. I didn’t like having this giant desk between us, him wielding it like a bunker protecting his ass. I wanted us at least on the same level, and I wanted to spread all my work out on the table and let him see how much time and effort I’d put into this simple exploratory meeting.
Once we settled onto our respective couches, I launched into my pitch.
For his part, Owen nodded along as I spoke, attention fixed raptly on me, asking questions in exactly the places I anticipatedhe would. I couldn’t help but grin each time I answered him flawlessly.
The man was putty in my hands.
My plan was simple: document everything. Every step of construction, from materials selection and framing to decor and interior finishes; each moment of distilling from the first, inevitably awful batch to the final product; interviews with Owen, behind the scenes videos, cocktail recipes and packaging reveals. The entire process from start to finish.
I’d learned with my house that people wanted to see everything, and they enjoyed the nitty gritty as much as they loved the highlight reel. With my experience and a face like Owen’s, this thing was a slam dunk already.
Or whatever the football equivalent was. A chip-shot field goal? Sure, we’d go with that.
“This is…impressive,” Owen said, clearly reluctantly, when I’d finished, leaning back against the suede couch and crossing his arms over that beefy chest. His muscles flexed in the most distracting way. I wanted to sink my teeth into them, to lick a path up his forearm along that tattoo of his last name and feel his coarse blond hair scratching my tongue, to swirl along the ink curling around his right biceps.
And, okay, what the fuck? I was about to—hopefully—get into business with this guy; I needed to also get into bed with him like I needed a hole in the head. Not to mention he’d already fucked my sister, so Idefinitelywasn’t going there.
This was merely my inner chaos demon talking, wanting to come out and play with the paragon of masculinity sitting in front of us. In any other situation, I wouldn’t thinktwice about it. I’d have already straddled his lap, slipped my tongue in his mouth and put a hand down his pants.
But this wasimportant. Arguably the most important meeting I’d ever had. Opportunities like this didn’t come around often, and I refused to allow the seductress within me, driven by her baser instincts, to fuck it up.
“Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?” I asked, clearing my mind of those dirty images.
“I’m just not sure this is the best decision for me—business wise,” he added quickly.
I raised a brow. “Why, exactly?”
“I don’t think I need to remind you.”
“Humor me.”
Mostly because I have no idea what you’re talking about.
“That shit you pulled at my cabin on Memorial Day with me, Cal, and Amara,” he said. “I don’t work with people who toy with me and the people I care about. It’s one thing to mess with your sister. I get it. I’m the oldest of seven, so I know a thing or two about fucking with siblings. But to dragme, herexinto it? As well as Cal? When you knew full well that things with them were on those new, shaky legs? I didn’t appreciate that.”
Shame washed over me as those—albeit hazy—memories flooded back. The problem was, I had a habit of acting first and damning the consequences to hell, especially when I’d consumed large quantities of alcohol. That night had not been one of my finer moments, but I’d been so sick of watching Cal and Amara make eyes at each other all day. I knew daring my sister to makeout with Owen would effectively drive her into Cal’s arms—and she’d proven me right.
Plus, it had all worked out perfectly in the end, so what was the big deal?
When I relayed this to Owen, he said, “The big deal is I’m not sure I can trust you.”
“Look,” I said, sitting back and mirroring his pose. “You don’t have to like me to recognize that I’m going to be an asset with this business. What’s it going to take to get you to agree?”
“I’m not sure there’s anything you can do, Delia,” he said slowly. “I agreed to a meeting and nothing more. Now that I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain, Amara has no choice but to sell that land to me. That was the deal.”
Panic clawed at my throat. This opportunity was slipping away, and my mind scrambled desperately for a way to hold on.
