Page 7 of Pour Decisions
To: Delia Delatou ([email protected])
RE: Business Proposition
Please meet me at my offices,which are located in the Lawless Club building. Park in the back lot and press the buzzer. Someone will let you in and direct you.
Sincerely,
Owen Lawless
Tuesday, September 2, 2025 (11:18 a.m.)
From: Delia Delatou ([email protected])
To: Owen Lawless ([email protected])
RE: Business Proposition
Dear Mr. Lawless,
See you then.
Best,
Delia Delatou
I spent the intervening three days between scheduling with Owen and the meeting itself either at the winery shooting content for socials—a job I was more than happy todo since it meant a lot of following Liam Danvers and his tattooed self around the vineyard as harvest commenced—and doing research on the spirits industry, forming a plan of attack in terms of branding and marketing and social strategies. When Friday rolled around, I was as prepared as I could be—which is to say, pretty goddamn prepared.
Still, my palms were clammy with nervous sweat as I pulled into the lot behind Lawless that afternoon. I’d never been here during the daytime, and it was disconcerting to see a space normally teeming with life looking so…desolate.
I knew he’d opted for us to meet here simply to knock me off my game. This was his turf, his home field advantage. By having us meet here, he was asserting his dominance, trying to prove that he had the upper hand. Showing me that he held all the cards, and he was merely doing me a favor.
And, okay, maybe hewasdoing me a favor at the behest of my sister, but I knew my worth. I knew what I was bringing to the table, and Owen Lawless would be a pretty shitty businessman if he didn’t agree to partner with me.
Gathering my bag and keys, I stepped out of the car and approached the back door, reaching up to press the buzzer as Owen had instructed. A minute later, it opened to reveal a pixie of a girl.
“Can I help you?” she asked, bored.
“I’m Delia Delatou,” I said. “I’m here for a meeting with Owen?”
“Right.” She jerked her head. “C’mon, then.” When I followed her in, the door shut heavily behind us, the hall descending into darkness. From ahead the girl said, “Head onto the floor.There’s a staircase at the far left. When you reach the top, take another left. His office is at the end of the hall.”
She disappeared almost as quickly as she’d arrived, and I gingerly navigated through the dimness and out onto the main floor of the club.
If I thought it was strange to see the exterior in the daylight, it was nothing compared to the interior. All the booths and tables empty, no press of bodies jockeying for position and attention at the long bar, the DJ booth silent. It was almost like stepping into an alternate reality, one of those back room, liminal spaces where nothing was as it should be.
I made quick work of the stairs and long hallway, taking a fortifying breath before rapping lightly on Owen’s office door.
“Come in,” he said, and I pushed inside.
He rose from his chair as I entered, steepling his fingers on the surface of his desk, the silver ring on his pinky glinting in the sunlight as he watched me.
God, every time I laid eyes on the man, it was like being smacked in the face all over again. No one in their late-thirties had the right to look like that. Even without knowing him, it was obvious from one quick scan of his body that he was an athlete. You didn’t get muscles like his from standard gym sessions. He was broad through the shoulders and chest, his torso tapering to a trim waist and flat stomach. His short-sleeved Henley clung to his washboard abs, the buttons open to reveal the tips of his collarbones and that strong, tan throat. The light jeans he had on molded to his thick thighs and looked soft and well-worn, clearly a favorite pair he’d put a lot of miles in. I couldn’t see his feet, but I knew from experience that they were stuffed into dusty brownAriat boots. His signature ball cap was turned backward on his head, his slightly too-long dirty blond hair brushing his collar and flipping out around his ears.
It gave him a boyish air—the floppy hair, the casual clothes, the cornflower blue eyes that glinted mischievously, even though his overall expression was stern.
Owen Lawless was rugged and sexy, looking like a bad idea waiting to happen, living up to the legacy of his last name.
“Hello, Owen,” I said, offering a little wave and sheepish smile.
