I stare at the screen, frustration and something else—relief?—warring inside me. She's shutting me down, which is exactlywhat I should want. I should just send the paperwork to her office and be done with this shit.
I don’t need gray eyes flashing with anger or lips curving into that smirk that drives me crazy.
But if she doesn't want to meet, why am I so disappointed?
I pocket my phone without responding. Let her think I don't care. Let her think anything but the truth—that I can't stop thinking about her.
"Fuck," I mutter.
Lake pokes his head in from the tasting room. "Everything good? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Not a ghost," I say, pushing off the wall and heading back to the fermenter. "Just shitty choices coming back to haunt me."
I've puked three times this morning. Three. And I’m blaming it on bad sushi… that I ate last week.
Yeah.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and stare at my reflection in the Cascade office bathroom mirror. Holy hell, I look like death warmed over—pale and clammy, with circles under my eyes so dark they could be mistaken for actual bruises. Even my pink hair looks sad, the rose gold fading to a washed-out shade that perfectly matches how I feel.
"Get your shit together, Wren," I mutter, splashing cold water on my face.
It's been six weeks since Vegas. Six weeks since I woke up naked with Kasen James's ring on my finger. Six weeks since we slept together, and I have zero idea if we used protection. My gut says no just based on the sheer level of stupid involved in that night.
I'm guessing my gut's right, because it's been eight weeks since my last period.
Nope. Absolutely not going there.
It's stress, obviously. I’ve been dealing with the MacIntyre deal, expanding distribution routes into uncharted territory, and dodging Kasen's increasingly persistent texts about fixing our "situation.” Who wouldn't skip a cycle with all that?
I dry my hands and straighten my blazer, doing a quick scan to make sure I didn't miss the toilet this time because it was close. Yep, I'm definitelynotfalling apart at all.
This isfine(she says in a voice like Ross from Friends).
Totally fine.
When I push open the bathroom door, Kieran is waiting in the hallway, leaning back against the wall with one ankle crossed over the other. He narrows his eyes, daring me to bullshit him.
"That's the third time today."
“Yep.”
He sighs and holds out a cup. "It’s peppermint tea. It’ll help."
I take it, grateful despite my irritation at being so transparently mothered. "I'm fine. It's just something I ate."
"For the past week?" Kieran falls into step beside me as we head back toward my office. "You've been 'something I ate'-ing for seven straight days, Wren."
"I've also been closing the Henderson deal while juggling three new breweries and keeping the Johnson route from imploding." I take a cautious sip of the tea. It's perfect—not too hot with just the right amount of honey. "I'm allowed to be a little under the weather."
"A little under the weather," Kieran repeats flatly. "You nearly passed out during the inventory meeting yesterday."
"The warehouse was hot."
"It was sixty-two degrees."
I shoot him a glare, but there's no real heat behind it. He knows me too well. "Don't you have actual work to do instead of monitoring my bathroom habits?"
"Apparently that's part of my job now, especially after yesterday." His expression softens slightly. "Seriously. What's going on with you? And as someone who’s spent a lot of energy focused on not knocking anyone up, I’m getting a bad feeling. I’m gonna need you to be straight with me."
