7. Cole

Chapter 7

Cole

S ix months was long enough for the plans I'd enacted before my departure to reach fruition.

Rows and rows of prototypes lined the table in front of me. Sours, pale ales, and IPAs infused with different tropical fruits. A new expansion on our already significant product lineup.

And I couldn't even taste it.

Lines of small cups sat in front of the new beers, each filled about halfway with testers. The tour guides, bar staff, and wait staff stood before me, shuffling awkwardly on their feet. Toward the back on the righthand side, Dana looked anywhere but directly at me.

"Anyone that would like to try the new lineup can come up and grab one," I said, lifting my chin just a hair to keep the air of being in control. "Please only take one of each. Don't need anyone getting drunk at work."

Whispers flitted around the room as the majority of them formed a line behind the table, including Dana. I couldn't blame them for the gossip, plenty of them were aware of my old habit of drinking at work. It was hard to miss.

The goal now was to create enough buzz that the products would fly off the shelves and taps. The tour guides would focus on the brewing aspect of it, which we'd already gone over, and the bar and wait staff would push it to newcomers and regulars alike. I watched each one take their cups and drink, my mouth salivating at the idea of finally getting to try what I'd wanted to make for years. I felt like a fucking sham.

Dana met my eyes briefly as she sipped at each one, tossing away a mostly full cup after each sip.

As the group filtered back into their positions, questions began flying at me left and right. How long is each one brewed for? Is the fruit fermented separately? Will there be testers for those on the tour? I handled each with as much care as I could before rapid firing into the next.

But it was seeing Dana's hand raised that stopped me in my tracks and made me pause.

"What do you think of them?" she asked, her voice booming over the others in the room. Everyone went dead silent.

It wasn't a bad question despite the intent behind it. A quotable endorsement from myself would benefit all of them. I just didn't have an answer. And from the look on her face, her honey-hazel eyes wide and her mouth parted just enough to entice me, she knew damn well she'd stumped me.

And she liked it.

"I think it's exactly what I've been dying to make for years," I said, each word carefully chosen.

"What's the percentage?" Dana asked, using the quiet to her advantage.

"Seven."

She nodded, her hair bouncing forward then falling back. She didn't break eye contact once, holding my gaze in the same way I'd done the day before with her. There was a heaviness, a staggering weight between us that made me hungry for her.

My cock twitched.

Fuck.

I was thankful the table was high enough to cover my lower half as hazy memories from that night flitted across my mind. Her, naked, full of my cum, and begging for more. Her mouth, that same one that asked me angering and perfect questions, split open wide and waiting on her knees. The way she'd tasted as I'd devoured her pussy over and over, like fucking honey, like overripe strawberries?—

Stop , for fucks sake.

I took a seat and let them mingle amongst each other, trying more of the beers. The sample stock wouldn't be sold, and I was happy for them to take as much home as they wished. The alternative was taking it home with me, and that simply wasn't an option, no matter how much I wanted it.

How fucking ironic that I owned a brewery and couldn't taste what we made.

A handful of people came up to ask me personal questions and I let them, hoping for the blood in my cock to dissipate enough that it wasn't noticeable. But just when I'd figured I was calm enough to make my rounds, Dana's face shined through the crowd as she approached, her hands clasped together in front of her. I wondered if she even realized her arms were pressing her breasts together, creating a luscious cleavage.

"Hey," she said, a tight-lipped smile flashing across her face. "I'm sorry about the question. That was kind of rude of me. Especially in front of everyone."

I shook my hand and waved it off, standing from my seat. "Don't worry about it. It was a good one, and in fairness, I think I gave a pretty quotable answer."

A little chuckle seeped past her lips. "Yeah, I can definitely use it to my advantage. ‘What does Mr. Pearson think of his latest lineup?'" Her voice deepened as she pretended to be a questioning guest, that silly, goofy attitude making its first appearance in months. "Well, sir, he thinks it's exactly what he's been dying to make for years!"

I laughed at her impression of me, less because it was funny and more because it was the first genuinely pleasant interaction I'd had with her since I'd returned. Maybe the first pleasant interaction with anyone. "I don't sound like that," I chuckled.

"Oh, you totally do. If only I could grow, like, nine inches taller, then I could look down my chin at them and puff out my chest?—"

"God, I'm not that bad."

Her giggles were infectious. The version of herself that she'd been hiding under a mask was slowly coming out, and fuck, I loved it. "You so are. Do you ever look back on interactions and think, hmm, maybe I shouldn't have been that big of an asshole ?"

Her words came crashing down for both of us at the same moment. The life drained from her, the light in her eyes dulling. Her smile faded. And I could feel each of those things happening to me too. Yes, I wanted to say. Every fucking day I think I shouldn't have treated you that way.

On the nights when I felt the worst about it, I took comfort in pushing away the memories of what happened after the smashing of the glass. But I also knew that was probably a privilege only I possessed.

She glanced down at her watch as she noticed a handful of people leaving the room. I could tell she wanted to follow them by the way her eyes lingered, but before she could make a run for it, I grabbed her attention. "Can I take you out?"

Wide, angry eyes snapped to mine. There she was again, the angry girl that had become her new normal.

"Not like that. Not a date. I'll draw that line now," I clarified.

"Then what is it?" she asked, a breath of hesitation to her tone.

"We can have dinner. Hash things out. Clear the air," I suggested, taking a small step toward her, careful not to scare her off with my proximity. "If you're going to be working for me, the least I can do is make things more comfortable for you."

She glanced at her watch again and back to the doors before finally looking up at me. "I don't know, Cole. That sounds like a recipe for disaster."

"Or it could make your life easier."

She scoffed. "My life isn't easy to begin with. I don't expect it to become any easier just because you take me on a date."

"Not a date," I corrected. "Just a casual chat and some food."

"In public?"

I knew what she meant by that. There was an air of safety with being in public—I couldn't get too drunk and I couldn't verbally attack her, at least not without repercussions. "In public. Yes."

Her lower lip slipped between her teeth. I couldn't help but think of other things I'd like to see between her teeth instead.

I took another step toward her, crowding her just a little. "Do me this favor, Dana, and I'll make as many things easier for you as I possibly can."

Her lashes fluttered absentmindedly as she looked me up and down. "Fine. Text me where and I'll meet you at seven. I've got things I need to sort out at home first."

————

I sat in my desk chair, my knee bouncing nonstop and driving me insane, but I couldn't stop. I felt like a teenager who'd just asked a girl he'd been crushing on to go on a date, even though that wasn't what this was.

Not a date.

Two more hours. I could wait that long. But damn it felt like forever.

Four thirty-minute segments.

Six twenty-minute segments.

Eight fifteen-minute segments.

Twelve ten-minute segments.

Twenty-four five-minute segments.

Somehow, looking at it that way, didn't make it seem any quicker.

I couldn't focus on work, so that was out of the question. I could go home, but I'd only have about ten minutes before I'd have to head back into town. I could go to my apartment, but the thought of stepping in there after six months of emptiness and the countless bottles that waited felt more like hell than watching paint dry.

Instead, I sent Bobby a text.

Won't be home until late.

Immediately, he responded.

Hot date?

I chuckled.

Something like that. I'll fill you in later.

————

Fifteen minutes before Dana was meant to arrive, I found myself stepping foot into a restaurant I was far too intimately familiar with.

The hostess was the same woman I assumed it would be. She was always friendly with me, always professional, and of course, she remembered me.

"Mr. Pearson! So lovely to see you," she grinned. "I was beginning to think you'd moved away."

I smiled, shoving my hands in my pockets. "No, just busy."

"Your table is available. I'll move your reservation," she said, giving me a sly little wink as she jotted something down.

I followed her to a table in the back, one I always requested. I'd wanted to be as far from the front windows as possible in case I got a little too drunk, a little too rowdy. I didn't need it for those reasons anymore, but either way, I was flattered.

"Whiskey sour to start?" she asked as I slid into the chair.

I almost said yes. Almost. "Actually, can I get a glass of water?"

"As well as the whiskey sour?"

"Instead of it."

She blinked, and for a moment, I think she was genuinely concerned she remembered the wrong person. "Of course. I'll get a pitcher for the table."

Before she could return, the door opened and a breeze blew in, taking my breath at the same moment she did.

With her hair swept up into a neat updo and a silky, strappy black dress covering her from the tips of her breasts to a couple of inches below her ass, I knew I was absolutely ruined for the evening. I held no ground as hazel eyes met mine across the room and her upper chest and cheeks darkened into a shade of pink. I had half a mind to run to her; I couldn't wait for her to get closer.

My gaze never left her as she slowly walked toward our table. Every inch of her was explosively intoxicating. I didn't notice the hostess dropping off the pitcher of water, the glasses, or the menus. The other people in the room faded into the background, becoming a simple, meaningless blur that I couldn't give less of a shit about.

As she sat down in the seat next to me, her scent surrounding me in a fog of honeysuckle, I wondered if I could get drunk off of her alone.

"Hi," she said, one brow raising. She looked me up and down, waiting for a reply, and the realization that I hadn't spoken a single word to her yet hit me.

I cleared my throat. "Hey."

"Stop staring at me like that," she hissed, reaching forward over the table and picking up the pitcher. "I'm not a piece of meat."

"I'm not staring," I lied. I could feel the corner of my lip twitching, a smile begging to sprout. "Am I not allowed to appreciate how nice you look?"

"No, because it's not a date."

"I knew I shouldn't have said that when I asked you," I chuckled. I lifted the pitcher from her hands and poured us each a glass of water. "Fatal mistake on my part."

"I wouldn't have come if you didn't say it," she retorted.

I couldn't help but watch her as she flipped open the menu, her delicate little fingers wrapping themselves around it gently. Seeing those same fingers brought back too many images, nails painted a slightly different shade of red, wrapped around the shaft of my cock instead.

I knew she was mad. I knew that in the pit of my stomach and in the way she glared at me from the corner of her eye. That moment of joking earlier was a blip. I'd royally fucked up with her, worse than I had with any woman in my life, and although I knew I'd said some awful things to her after the glass shattered that fucking awful morning, they had vanished for me the moment they left my lips. I couldn't even apologize for them, not without context, not without knowing how deeply I'd cut her.

And something told me she wouldn't dare consider anything more with me until I apologized.

Everything I ordered, sans the water instead of the whiskey sour, was what I always requested when I came here. A house salad, bread to share, a filet mignon cooked medium rare, dauphinoise potatoes, and asparagus. Dana had taken longer than I expected to choose something, and when she'd asked what I recommended, I couldn't give her a genuine answer. The truth was I had no idea what to recommend—I was too much a creature of habit to be able to suggest anything else.

In the end, she ordered the blackened tilapia with lime and coriander rice, a side of Mediterranean mixed vegetables. She shot me another scowl as she handed the menu over to the waitress. "You're paying," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Did you think for a second I'd ask you to cover your half?" I scoffed. "You're my employee. This is… loosely considered work. I wouldn't have let you pay if you tried."

Her gaze lingered on my lips for half a second too long to be natural. "Thanks, then."

Thanks. My throat closed in and I tried to contain my shock. I couldn't imagine a world in which she said that to me outside of the bedroom, but here we were. Having a conversation with her in a restaurant was awkward, to say the least.

"You didn't have to do this, you know. I could have handled being around you without the awkwardness of dinner," she said, a sneaky little smile crossing her lips. "I'd say I've done a fairly good job of avoiding you when I need to."

I tilted my head side to side, weighing up her words. "True. But then you wouldn't have had this spectacular not-a-date with me."

She snorted, her hand instinctively covering her mouth and nose. "Spectacular is certainly one way to put it."

"Well, you know, had you actually dressed up instead of wearing pajamas maybe it could have been truly spectacular," I laughed, my eyes dragging over her far too beautiful frame and the gorgeous dress that covered it. Teasing had always come easy with her.

Her mouth popped open in faux disgust. "Well if you hadn't shown up in just your boxers, maybe I'd have dressed for the occasion," she giggled, the tips of her fingers grazing the edge of my suit jacket's sleeve. Her lips curled into a positively shining grin, little specs of shimmer catching the light from her deep red gloss.

God dammit, I wanted to kiss her.

Our food arrived a moment later. We spoke idly as we ate, mostly about work and the people who had been hired on in my absence. She filled me in on the drama between tour guides, how one of the newbies was more intense than the rest, and insisted on taking as many people as he could in one group. She told me about how a woman had leaned so far over the railing on the overhead walkway of the brewhouse, about how panicked she was knowing I was twenty feet below. I hadn't been aware of what was happening though I do remember looking up at her from the floor, watching her anxious face as she stared back at me. I hadn't even realized.

Despite the elephant in the room, I was genuinely surprised at how easy it was to speak to her. We'd always gotten along well since that first time I'd met her in Lottie's backyard, but we didn't have weights on our shoulders then. As simply two people who had just met, we meshed almost too well.

The more she offered me stolen glances and gentle, barely there smiles, the more I lost my hold on myself. I touched her, my fingers just barely grazing her knuckles, and she hadn't recoiled. I wondered if she was fighting demons over what was happening, but if she was, they mustn't have been too hard to overcome—she touched me back just as eagerly. A knee and a forearm against mine as she laughed while she told me something her manager had said to her days before. I hadn't even caught what it was. I was too transfixed in how agonizingly beautiful she looked as she tipped her head back in a fit of giggles, her shoulder bumping against mine, her grin unmistakably genuine.

God, I'd fucked up with her.

I was moving before I even realized it. In the same way I used to end up with a drink in my hand without remembering pouring it, I was crowding her, my hand around the back of her neck, my lips against hers. I didn't remember the journey but I didn't regret it, either. Not when the stiffness in her body softened, not when she melted against me far too eagerly. Her lips tasted of blackened seasoning and strawberries, an odd combination from her dinner and her lip gloss, but I didn't mind.

The sound of a plate being set down on the table in front of us didn't faze me as I pressed my tongue between her lips, parting them. She didn't protest, instead welcoming me like a long-lost friend, a haven in a storm, a glass of whiskey to my aching chest.

This wasn't good for us. I knew that. Not when we had history between us.

She pulled back, just enough that her lips parted from mine but our breaths still mixed. Almost reluctantly, her eyes fluttered up to mine, a look of resignation hanging over her. "My sister's staying with me," she breathed.

I studied her eyes. What the fuck does that mean?

"Can we go to your place instead?"