We reach my office, the glass-walled corner space that overlooks the warehouse floor. Through the windows, I watch our team loading trucks with kegs and cases. A massive distribution map of the Pacific Northwest dominates one wall, colored pins marking our territory—red for exclusive contracts, blue for shared, yellow for pending negotiations.
There are a lot more red pins than there were six months ago.
I sit behind my desk, setting the tea down carefully. "Nothing's going on except the usual end-of-quarter chaos."
Kieran doesn't buy it for a second. He closes the office door and takes the seat across from me, his expression deadly serious.
"Is this about the airport deal? Because I heard through the industry grapevine that Kasen James is still furious. Apparently he's been trying to convince the airport to allow direct sales from local breweries instead of going exclusively through distributors."
My heart does a stupid little stutter at Kasen's name, and I focus on keeping my expression neutral.Seriously? Get it together, heart.That sounds exactly like something Kasen would do. He’s like me in that way, and we both refuse to accept defeat.
And that flutter in my stomach? Totally just irritation.
Obviously.
"Let him waste his time," I say, reaching for a file folder to give my hands something to do. "That contract is ironclad. And it's not like we haven't earned it. Half the craft beer sampled at PDX already comes through our warehouse."
Kieran studies me for a long moment. "There's something you're not telling me."
My fingers tighten on the folder. "Like what?"
"I don't know. Something happened in Vegas. You came back different."
I force a laugh that sounds wrong even to my own ears. "Different how?"
"Distracted. And now you're sick all the time. You're a mess, boss. And you lose your shit whenever Timber or Kasen James comes up."
I resist the urge to play with the ring still hanging around my neck. "I don’t lose my shit."
Kieran scoffs. "I was at that supplier meeting yesterday and overheard the Eastside Ales guys talking about you and Kasen having some kind of confrontation at the convention. Then this morning, that rep from Evergreen Hops with the porn star mustache asked me if you two were 'still at each other's throats.' Deny it all you want, but people aren’t stupid.”
Meaninghe’snot stupid. Heat floods my face. “People need to mind their own damn business. Nothing happened. Nothing worth talking about, anyway.”
"So something did happen."
Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
"Nothing happened." The lie tastes like bile. Oh, wait. I think that’s actual vomit climbing back up my throat.
Kieran doesn't look convinced, but he mercifully drops the subject when my phone buzzes with a text. I glance down at the screen.
Out of the frying pan, into the freaking fire…
Kasen: Can we talk about Vegas?
Kasen: C'mon, Pink. You know we can't keep ignoring it
I grit my teeth at the nickname but take a deep breath to rein in my irritation so Kieran doesn’t notice.
Pink.Only Kasen calls me that, and somehow he manages to make those four letters sound both condescending andwaytoointimate at the same time. I don’t even know what to do with it other than get pissed off.
Theremightbe the tiniest bit of me that likes the stupid name, but that part of me can fuck right off.
He's been trying to get me to meet for weeks now, sending texts I've been strategically ignoring. Clearly he's not taking the hint.
I switch off the screen without responding. Dealing with Kasen needs to be future me’s problem because right now I simplycannot.
"So," Kieran says, blessedly moving on, "we still on for Henderson this afternoon? I've got the numbers prepped, and those custom tap handles just came in."
