The Guy Next Door - By Lori Foster, S Donovan, V Dahl Page 0,88

is Eric Donovan. I’m hoping to take you to lunch today.”

The man grunted in response. He was a grouch, no question about it, and he loved being the one with the upper hand. “I can’t do lunch,” he barked. “I’m getting together with a supplier.” A real supplier, he meant. Eric ground his teeth together, hard. He’d been working this bastard for six months. “Dinner then?”

“Not tonight.”

He tempered his voice, hoping to hide his frustration. “How about tomorrow? Mr. Kendall, you know how determined I am to secure this contract. Give me one chance to tell you what we have to offer.”

Another grunt. Eric rolled his eyes.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Kendall said just before the line went dead.

Christ, this guy was killing him. The bastard clearly wanted Eric to do a little more begging. Fine. He was strong enough to handle that if it meant taking the brewery to the next level. Getting his beer into the hands of national travelers would create new demand for the product. And new demand meant new territory.

He snapped the phone shut and rubbed his forehead.

“Mr. Donovan?” Henry called.

Eric took a deep breath. When he looked up, he saw that Henry was scrambling with the glasses but still keeping up. Then Henry tipped his head toward the far edge of the table, and Eric saw a familiar face and found himself smiling for real.

“Donovan!” Andrés Villanueva called with a wave. He was the top chef in Boulder and had just opened another restaurant that the critics were going nuts for. Eric grabbed two samples and headed over.

“Congratulations on all the buzz,” he said, handing Andrés a glass. They clicked glasses and downed the ale, and Eric felt marginally more relaxed as the bitter coolness soothed his nerves.

“Hey, we got your new summer wheat on tap,” Andrés said. “Really nice. A little hoppier than last year’s. I like it. Give my compliments to your brewmaster.”

“I will, thanks.”

“We’re having a tasting dinner tonight in the Evergreen suite. Come by. Seven o’clock.”

“I hope you’re serious, because I haven’t managed to sit down to one of your meals in months.”

“Absolutely. Bring Jamie, too.”

“He’s covering the bar today.”

“Damn,” Andrés said with a grin. “I was hoping he’d bring a beautiful date I could steal out from under his nose. I swear to God, I almost succeeded with that blonde he brought in last fall.”

Eric could only laugh, because he’d be damned if he could figure out which blonde it might’ve been. “I’ll see you at seven.”

By the time Andrés moved on to the next booth, Eric’s mood was considerably lighter. He wanted to get out from behind the table and mix it up himself, but until his brother got the staffing mess straightened out back at the brewery, Eric was going to be stuck here. He’d better make the most of it.

The brewery was in a unique position. Sure, they needed all the friends he could garner in the food and beverage industry in Colorado, but contacts outside the industry were important too. Donovan Brothers wasn’t a restaurant-style business. It was strictly the brewery and tasting room. So to keep their name in the public eye, they sponsored marathons and charity events. They threw parties at the finish line of bike races and worked with up-and-coming art galleries on openings. Eric had worked damn hard to saturate the Colorado market of restaurants and bars, and now it was time to expand.

He worked the crowd until the lunchtime lull then stepped back to return a call from his glassware supplier. Halfway through the conversation, he caught sight of a woman a few booths down. She wore a straight brown skirt that stopped at a respectable length, just a millimeter below her knees, but the fabric cradled her tight ass like a glove. His words slowed to a stop.

“Eric?” the salesman prompted.

“Right. Sorry. Yeah, Wednesday will be fine. I’ll see you then.” He disconnected, his eyes still locked on the brunette as she laughed and shook her head at a man visiting her table. Her dark hair was pinned up in some sort of professional-looking twist, and she wore a white button-down blouse with her brown skirt. Totally conservative, yet something about her radiated sensuality. Maybe it was the small waist offset by that round little ass. Maybe it was the long neck. Or maybe it was the pair of four-inch dark green heels he glimpsed when she walked to the far end of her booth.

Yeah. It was definitely the heels.

Eric cleared