of holding out on a serious relationship had been for a reason. Perhaps Emerson had clouded his vision.
But he knew that wasn’t true, could feel the truth down to his bones. He knew full well what Dyer’s was worth…he just felt Emerson was worth so much more than all of it. The fact that he didn’t understand why his father was in the goddamn photograph when there was no record of him in the distillery’s history bothered him, but not as much as it maybe should have.
They’d juggled the weekend. After helping her work through more of her father’s things on Saturday, he’d helped her decorate her home for Halloween. They’d hung small ghosts from the tree in the front garden, set gravestones around its base, and laid cobwebs and black plastic spiders over the bushes beneath the windows. Later that afternoon, he’d driven the two of them back downtown to his condo, where they’d showered, together, and went out for dinner. On Sunday morning, he’d dropped her off at the distillery while he’d gone to work out and collected her when she was done. They’d spent the afternoon hiking before returning to the condo, where she’d helped him prep his meals for the week ahead and had even eaten one for dinner.
How is it? he’d asked.
She’d shrugged. Nothing a bottle of sriracha can’t fix.
After they’d eaten, they’d made love on his sofa as the sun went down. And all he wanted to do was watch the sun go down over Emerson’s naked body for the rest of his life.
He adjusted himself, suit trousers not being the best material for hiding the makings of a hard-on.
Once the documents were printed and he’d gathered his wits, Connor made his way up to his father’s office on the floor above his. Cameron was in the office next door, with his chair facing away from Connor. He appeared to be in the middle of a phone call, with the hand gesturing he was doing, which was perfect. The last thing he needed was Cameron trying to force his way into the meeting.
“Dad,” he said, tapping on the door as he pushed it open.
His father motioned for him to take a seat as he said goodbye to whomever he was speaking to on the phone.
Connor could hear the faint strains of Cameron in the office next door. Why had he never noticed that before? He wondered how easily his own voice carried into Cameron’s office.
His father slapped the phone down on the desk. “What have you got for me?” he asked, holding out his hand for the report.
Connor handed it to him. “This is the updated report on potential acquisition targets. Do you have time for me to take you through it?”
“CliffsNotes version, please.”
“Flip it open, and we can dive in. We looked at thirteen assets. Seven from our original list, five new adds, and Dyer’s, as requested.”
Donovan mumbled in agreement. “Good, good.”
“Page three has the list of criteria and scoring process. Read through it and tell me if it makes sense.”
Connor leaned back in the chair. His father always did better with guided reading rather than Connor explaining it verbally to him.
“What’s this?” Donovan asked, pointing to one of the columns.
“Estimated bottle production. We don’t know for sure beyond publicly available sources from news interviews, company websites, et cetera, what the exact production volumes are for the privately owned distilleries…such as Dyer’s, for example.”
His father sniffed at the mention of the name. “And Paul Dyer is bound to have inflated the numbers on their site.”
Connor didn’t correct him that he’d gotten the number from Emerson when she’d been reviewing the production schedule while eating breakfast on Sunday. He’d knocked ten percent off the production volumes in the report. Let his father think the number was actually inflated when it was understated, he’d only think even worse of the company.
“This is good, Connor. Where are the recommendations?”
Connor flicked through his own copy of the document. “Page thirteen. All the backup is in the appendix.”
Donovan flicked to the page, studied it for a moment, then closed it and slapped it down on the table. “Dyer’s goes to the top of the list,” he said, suddenly.
“Sorry, what?” he asked, his skull feeling like a giant rock had landed on it.
“Dyer’s. I want it. And word on the street is we could get a great fucking deal for it.”
Emerson. Shit. Whatever his father knew had put a glint in his eye.
Play the fucking game, Connor.
“What’s the word