Lucky for him, I’m not into playing games today.
Me: Send him to the conference room. Offer coffee. I'll be there in 15.
I may not want to play games, but no way will I let him come into my territory and think he has any power or control.
It’s not happening.
I take a moment to collect myself, checking my reflection in the glass wall. My hair’s pulled back in a sleek ponytail, my makeup’s hiding my zombie eye. Nothing about me says "knocked up by my nemesis."
I look like I've got my shit together—professional, untouchable, ready to eat corporate assholes for breakfast.
Exactly how I need to be for this meeting.
Exactly the opposite of how I feel.
The conference room's flooded with natural light when I walk in. Nolan Miller's posted up by the window like he’s staring at his own kingdom instead of mine, surveying my warehouse floor. He spins around at the door click, and holy shit, that smile. It's like someone taught a snake how to grin.
"Well, if it isn’t the gorgeous Wren Callan in the flesh." He glides across the room, hand extended like we're about to be best friends. "A pleasure to finally meet in person."
He's taller than I expected, with silver at his temples and the kind of tan you can only get from expensive vacations. Ora bottle. His suit is impeccably tailored, and no doubt cost thousands.
Everything about him makes my skin crawl.
"Mr. Miller." I shake his hand, making sure my grip is just as strong as his. "Welcome to Cascade.”
"Please, call me Nolan." He gestures at the warehouse. "Impressive operation you've built here."
"Thanks." I claim the head of the table because fuck his power plays. "So Pacific Northwest's been on a shopping spree, I hear."
He chuckles like I've said something adorable. "Direct. I like that in a potential partner."
"We're not partners." The words come out sharper than a fresh IPA. "And Cascade isn't a brewery. So why exactly are you here?"
"You're the gatekeeper." Miller leans forward, his expression earnest in a way that immediately puts me on alert. "Many of the craft breweries in Portland go through you. That kind of influence is valuable."
"It is," I agree. "Which is why I'm not interested in selling."
He doesn't even flinch. Bastard. "I haven't made an offer yet."
"You don't need to."
Miller's smile stays plastered on, but something shifts in his eyes. "What if Cascade stayed exactly as is? You in charge with the same team and the same brand. Just with Pacific Northwest's resources backing you up."
I raise an eyebrow. "And you'd do that out of the goodness of your heart?"
"God, no." His laugh sounds like Chandler's fake work laugh from Friends. My hackles go all the way up. "I need access to breweries who'd rather chew glass than work with us directly. You're my in."
"Because you've got a reputation for destroying everything that makes craft beer special."
His smile never wavers. "I prefer to think of it as 'optimizing.' But perception matters, I understand that. Which is why Cascade will still look independent while we pull the strings backstage. It’s a win-win."
The door opens, and Kieran appears with a tray of coffee and snacks. I catch his subtle eyebrow raise and I roll my eyes. We don’t need words to communicate—he just checked in and I told him this guy's full of shit.
"Thank you, Kieran." I pour myself some decaf for something to do with my hands. "Mr. Miller, Kieran Edison. He’s my head of operations."
They exchange polite chit-chat that neither of them means or cares about while I death-grip my mug and try to figure out my next move. The second Kieran leaves, Miller pounces.
"Let’s cut the bullshit, Wren. I'm prepared to offer twenty million for Cascade."
