Page 24 of Golden Touch
But I have another superb skill, one that I keep to myself. I am the world’s foremost expert on Man Moods ™. It’s a survival skill I honed out of necessity over a lifetime of dealing with difficult men.
And by difficult, I mean unreasonable. It’s a skill I’ve needed since birth. Difficult men are everywhere. One of them is glaring at me right now.
Lyle Giltmaker is an interesting case. He’s a rare breed of yeller. He’s not proud of his anger, and he appreciates being contained. That’s why I’ve learned to push back with him.
“Look,” I say firmly. “If you want the brewery to go tits up in the next six weeks, that’s your choice. But give me and the rest of the employees a heads-up so we can find another job.” I put the bottles back into their carrying case with three angry plunks.
“You done?” he growls.
“Depends.” I sweep my bag off a chair and nail him with a stare. “Are you gonna make this right?”
His expression turns sheepish. “Tell Nash I’ll call him tomorrow with an ingredient list. And then after the delivery arrives, we’ll reconvene another morning. He can put on those damn earphones everybody wears these days, and we’ll brew a batch together on the phone before anyone else shows up.”
I pause by the door. “That actually sounds like a fine solution, if only you’d said so ten minutes ago. Nash will probably be halfway to Boston by lunch time. Who could blame him?”
“Fuck.” He tips his head back against the chair. “He’s a hothead, too. That’s why we don’t work together. Will you talk to him? Try to talk him off the ledge?”
Like it’s my job to solve the Giltmaker family drama?Then again, I don’t want to be unemployed. “You’ll owe me. Big time.”
He gives me a grouchy look, but we both know he needs me. Lyle is recently divorced. His wife left him a year or so ago, and I suspect that Mrs. Giltmaker used to be the one who knew when to rein him in. The men in the brewery don’t. Some are too afraid of him, and some simply don’t care if he acts like a toddler.
His daughter claps back, though. I’ve seen Leila in action. Watching her is how I learned to handle Lyle. “I will give Nash your message. It might not be too late.”
“Thank you,” he says, giving me a wobbly nod. He’s a proud man, but a tired one. There are dark smudges underneath both eyes. You can just tell that he isn’t healthy. Not yet.
“See you soon,” I add quietly. “Ping me if you need anything. Anything reasonable, that is.”
He snorts. I exit the building and find Nash leaning against my car and scowling.
Behold: grumpy male, exhibit number eleventy billion.
I slow my roll, taking a moment to study him. Maybe I’ve learned to handle Lyle, but that doesn’t mean his son isn’t dangerous. There’s so much tension in that strong body. I don’t know Nash well enough yet to know whether his frustration will boil over and splash me.
There’s a dark energy rising off him as I approach the car. When he spots me, he straightens up and smooths his expression. “Could I drive?” he asks tightly.
No, my senses scream. It’s not safe to get in a car with a driver in a rage. Plus, my car is a heap of junk. He won’t enjoy the driving experience, and it might make him even angrier.
But this man and I have to share a roof. I’ve already pissed him off twice—first by rejecting him and then by calling the cops on him. How many more times can I emasculate him and live to tell about it?
So I do that thing that women have been doing for centuries. I weigh one danger against another. And then I hand over the keys.
“Thank you,” he says gruffly.
Wordlessly, I climb into the passenger seat. I know better than to get chatty with an angry man, so I clip my seatbelt into place and wait.
He starts the car and warms up the engine. He frowns at the indicator lights, and my pulse jumps when I remember that I’m almost out of gas.
Shit. My ex would backhand me for that. No question. As a reflex, I grip the door handle and prepare to duck the slap.
But Nash is already backing my car out of the parking spot. Then he looks both ways before pulling carefully through the parking lot and then out into the flow of traffic.
Okay. Well. I start to relax. A little, anyway. You don’t get to be a world-class reader of men’s moods by letting your guard down.
Everybody knows that driving can soothe a person’s soul. It’s that illusion of control. Like you don’t actually have to drive back to your shitty job or your scary home. You could just keep on rolling if you needed to.
I’m hoping it soothes Nash. But instead of flooring it on the open road, he turns into a little country store and parks in front of their ancient gas pump.
When I check the price of gas, I have to hold back my sigh. Twenty cents higher than at a chain? That’s robbery. Nonetheless, I reach for my seatbelt the moment the car comes to a stop. “I’ll pump it.” I’ll stop at half a tank and finish the job somewhere else.
