Читать книгу Taken By Storm - Heather Macallister - Страница 10

1

ZOEY ARCHER WAS three steps away from her desk when the phone rang. Three steps toward her first weekend off in months. And she hadn’t even left early, unlike all but one of her colleagues—the weird girl who spoke to people in a variety of accents and dressed in monotone outfits that didn’t quite match under the greenish fluorescent light of the Loring Industries customer-service call center, deep in the heart of Texas.

The phone chirped again. Weird Girl shot a look at Zoey, grabbed a pinkish red jacket and ran out the door before the call could roll over to her section. Zoey wondered what life Weird Girl was running to because nobody chose working in a megacorporation’s customer-service call center as a career. This was a survival job, one people kept to pay a few bills until they became successful in their real lives.

Zoey’s real life, however, was...complicated, meaning she’d taken a few wrong turns on the road to success. She wanted a career where she could help people, but, to be honest, many people no longer wanted her help—specifically, those she’d encountered in the health-care and teaching professions, the food-service and travel industries and anyone who ran a children’s summer camp. People loved her, at least in the beginning. She was described as sincere, enthusiastic and full of great ideas. She’d also been called impulsive, but Zoey considered herself proactive. She took charge and made things happen.

Unfortunately, some of those proactive things had been mistakes. Huge mistakes. Expensive mistakes. Her intentions had been good, but the execution was flawed, as they say.

But she was always a big girl about it. When she messed up, she accepted responsibility, apologized, tried to fix whatever she’d gotten wrong and paid for any damage, even when she couldn’t afford it. Did she learn from her mistakes? Sure. Did she get a chance to prove it to those she’d wronged? No.

She understood why people were reluctant to give her a second chance. Money couldn’t fix everything and some opportunities were lost forever.

However, recommending a competitor’s product because Loring’s cream caused a rash had not been a mistake...even though going off script had landed her on the night and weekend shift in the shipping center to prevent her from talking to actual customers. And it had cost her a boyfriend, who hadn’t liked the fact that she worked every night. But even that hadn’t been a mistake.

Management had meant the suspension as a punishment, but Zoey had become inspired while filling thousands of orders during the Christmas season. She happened to know a thing or two about skin care. For years, she’d mixed her own organic moisturizers and soaps. The complaints she’d fielded in the customer-service call center had shown her that the world needed her products. That’s how she could help people—by offering them a better alternative. Nobody would get a rash from her creams and lotions, unlike the cheap chemical cocktail Loring put out.

Not that the Loring Quality Control Department had appreciated her input. Well, they’d had their chance. They’d pay attention to her when she started selling her Skin Garden products online, and word of mouth created a huge demand. In fact, she was going to go home right now and mix up a new batch of lemon–olive oil balm.

Never mind that it was Friday night, party night. Zoey didn’t have anyone special to party with, anyway. And honestly? She wasn’t all that torn up about it. She hadn’t had a date since Justin—wait, Jared...or was it Josh? Whoever it had been didn’t matter. All her ex-boyfriends had been fixer-uppers who she’d tried to fix—er, help. Ultimately, they hadn’t wanted her help, either.

So no more wasting her life on time-consuming, energy-zapping relationships. No more distracting boyfriends. From now on, it was going to be all about Zoey.

The whole weekend stretched ahead of her. Zoey hung up her headpiece, slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the door. Now that it was January, Loring no longer offered twenty-four-hour live customer service, as though people magically stopped having problems on nights and weekends. Zoey vowed that Skin Garden would offer full-time customer service, even if she had to answer the phone herself.

Speaking of... The phone warbled again and guilted Zoey into stopping. A person who called after hours—and seven minutes after five counted as after hours—would have to wait until Monday morning to talk to an actual customer-service agent about whatever issue they were having with whichever one of the thousands of products Loring Industries manufactured for their dozens of brands.

Someone probably had a rash.

Zoey could see the blinking light at her station out of the corner of her eye. It wasn’t as though she was abandoning someone in their hour of need. The customer could talk to a company rep through a live chat on their computer. Unless she was a “legacy customer,” Loring’s term for those who didn’t use computers. Zoey swallowed. What if the caller was some poor, elderly widow with a bad rash who could barely read the contact number on the label because her eyes were swelling shut? She wouldn’t have a computer, and even if she did, she certainly wouldn’t know how to do a live chat. Besides, the live part was likely another computer, anyway, at least for the first few levels....

Damn her work ethic, anyway. Zoey hurried back to her station and snatched up her earpiece.

“Loring Industries. How may I help you today?” Technically, the extent of Zoey’s help was routing the call to someone else who could do the actual helping, registering complaints or sending out coupons. Lots and lots of coupons. She was very generous with coupons. She was the coupon fairy.

“Zoey Archer, please.”

It was so unusual to hear herself asked for by name that it took Zoey a few beats to recognize her sister’s voice. “Kate? Is that you?” No wonder the call hadn’t rolled over. Her sister had dialed Zoey’s extension.

“Oh, Zoey. Thank goodness!” Kate exhaled in relief. “I tried calling your cell, but you didn’t answer.”

That’s because Zoey kept her phone on vibrate and hadn’t checked it yet today. Call-center operators weren’t allowed to make personal calls while at their station. Only during breaks. Or emergencies. Kate knew that.

Which meant... A sick feeling settled in Zoey’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong...”

Alarmed, Zoey had been smashing the earpiece into her head. Taking a calming breath she adjusted the rest of the headset as Kate continued, “It’s just...”

Clearly Zoey was going to have to coax it out of her. “Just what?”

“Alexandra of Thebes has gone into heat.”

These were not words Zoey had expected to hear at her customer-service call station at Loring Industries. And Zoey had heard lots of strange words in the Loring Industries customer-service call center. “Uh...okay.”

“Ryan and I are in Costa Rica! Remember, Zoey?”

“Right—the wedding is this weekend.” Friends of Kate’s were having a fancy destination extravaganza. Kate and her husband, Ryan, had introduced the couple and both were in the wedding party. “Are you having a good time?”

“Zoey.” Her sister sighed and there was a whooshing sound as she partially covered the mouthpiece. “I told you this was a bad idea,” she said to someone in the background.

“I heard that.” Zoey steeled herself against the automatic guilt that flooded her every time she heard her name spoken in that tone of resigned disappointment accompanied by a faint sigh the speaker didn’t bother to hide.

Some people were late bloomers, and others bloomed early and withered fast, she reminded herself. Except Kate. Kate had bloomed early and perfectly and showed no signs of withering. “Kate, so far all you’ve told me is that one of your dogs is in heat and you two are in Costa Rica. I haven’t heard an idea yet.”

“Zoey! You know Alexandra’s not our dog.”

Actually, she didn’t. “You have a bunch of dogs. I don’t remember all their names.” Her sister and brother-in-law owned a kennel and bred dogs. Big, hairy ones.

“We’re talking about Alexandra of Thebes.”

“I—”

“The Alexandra of Thebes.”

It was clear that she should be impressed by the name, but show dogs weren’t Zoey’s thing—that would be her sister and Ryan’s thing. “I don’t really keep up with the dog world,” she said carefully. Not since she’d temporarily lived with Kate and Ryan and had tried helping at the kennel. It hadn’t gone well.

“Obviously not, or you would know she’s not only won every breed title for the past two years, she’s also been named Best in Show at every national competition worth winning—”

“Okay! I get it. Is she one of those big hairy white dogs like Casper?” Kate and Ryan had been talking about Casper for the past year and a half. Their lives revolved around the dog. Zoey couldn’t avoid hearing about Casper and his shows and his ribbons and his trophies and his diet and his hair-grooming routines even if she tried. And she had tried. Oh, how she’d tried. Kate spent more time grooming that neurotic dog than she did herself.

“An Afghan hound, yes,” her sister confirmed. “But not all Afghans are white.”

Kate wouldn’t have called her at work unless she needed something. And she wouldn’t have called Zoey unless she was desperate.

“Alexandra’s puppies will be very valuable, even more valuable if the sire is also a Grand Champion. It’s been our dream to get one of her puppies, but we never imagined Martha—she’s Alexandra’s owner—would invite Casper to breed with her!”

Misplaced pronouns gave Zoey a highly inappropriate visual. “Uh...congratulations.”

“It’s an unbelievable honor. Especially since Casper isn’t a Grand Champion. At least not yet. He needs a lot more points.” Kate sounded as though she was hyperventilating. “The Moorefield show isn’t until the week after next. Martha must think Casper’s chances are really good—at least Best in Breed, if not Best in Show! Alexandra has always been his main competition, but Martha pulled her out of the show because she thought she’d be in heat then and she wants to breed her. Only it seems she’s early.”

“It’s happened to all of us at one time or another,” Zoey murmured.

Her comment went right over Kate’s head. “Oh, my gosh, we’ve never had a Best in Show!”

In the background, Zoey heard Ryan telling Kate to calm down. Her older sister had always been tightly wound.

While Kate breathlessly babbled on about possible fame and fortune, the massive LED clock over the doorway helpfully flashed the passing seconds. The overhead fans slowed and automatic timers clicked half the lights off in preparation for the weekend. Zoey was alone in a huge room with empty cubicles and no windows. She couldn’t even see if it was raining or not. But she did know Kate wanted a favor and that she was stalling.

“I can’t believe this is all happening now!” her sister gasped.

Zoey could. Crazy stuff always happened to her, why not Kate for once? “Kate, do you need me to take Casper to his booty call? Is that what this is about? Because I’ll do it. You know I will.”

Kate inhaled. “I...”

The silence stretched and Zoey understood why. Unfortunately, her reputation as the family screwup was well deserved. She always had great intentions and great plans, if she did say so herself. It’s just that the execution rarely went according to Zoey’s plans, and after things fell apart, she’d had to call on the safety net of her family and friends—and credit-card companies—more than once.

She owed Kate and Ryan big time for letting her live with them for a few months when she’d run out of money a couple of years ago. She’d promised them that she’d earn her keep by helping as they established Ryka Kennels.

A memory flashed of a hot day, a fresh asphalt drive and tar embedded in dog hair. Never again would Zoey make the mistake of underestimating the wily intelligence of the Afghan hound. Could it be that Kate was about to give her a chance to prove it?

“It’s asking a lot,” Kate hedged, and Zoey knew she was trying to think of any other person she could ask. All of her friends were probably at the wedding in Costa Rica, too. “You’d have to fly to Virginia to get Casper and then take him to Merriweather Kennels, which is outside of Seattle.”

“I’ll do it. Gladly. Just tell me where and when.”

“I appreciate that, but you might have to take off as much as a week of work.”

“That’s okay. I can get someone to cover for me.” Zoey would have to pay someone on Loring’s temp list, but it would be worth it to rescue her sister for once.

“You know, maybe it would be better if Ryan came back...What? Ryan! All right, fine! I’ll go home and you can tell Lindsey why she’s short a bridesmaid!”

The next voice Zoey heard was her brother-in-law’s as he took the phone. “Hey, Zoey, thanks for helping us out. I really appreciate it. I’ll book the tickets, but I have no idea what kind of flights I’ll be able to get. I’ll try to get one out of Austin, but you may have to drive to Houston.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She meant it. For once, Kate-the-perfect needed Zoey’s help. “However it works out.”

“Thanks. Uh...Kate is going to talk to Phyllis—she’s the woman who’s running the kennel while we’re gone—and she’ll have all the instructions ready when you get there.”

“And promise me you’ll follow them exactly!” Kate yelled from the background. “Even if you think they’re stupid. Even if you think you know a better way. In fact, don’t think at all. We’ll do all the thinking.”

Her sister didn’t trust Zoey’s judgment. “Tell Kate to relax. I can do this.” She had to.

The truth was that Kate wasn’t the only one who doubted Zoey. Lately, Zoey had been doubting herself. She tried not to, tried to shake off her mistakes, tried to look at them as learning experiences, but her inner pep talks weren’t working anymore.

She had to do this for herself, not just for Kate. Zoey had to succeed at something. Once she tasted success, she could start her skin care business with confidence.

“It’ll be a pain,” Ryan warned. “Since it’s close to the date of the next show, you’ll have to maintain Casper’s daily routine. It’s all about the coat. You might even have to—”

“Don’t talk her out of it!” Kate’s voice was panicked.

“She has to understand what she’s getting into.” Ryan’s voice was filled with calm reasonableness.

Guess which made Zoey nervous? “Hey!” she said to get their attention. “I’m on my way home. Why don’t you call me in a couple of hours after you’ve worked out all this...stuff.”

They were still arguing as the call disconnected.

Although she knew she shouldn’t, as she walked to the parking garage, Zoey compared her life to her sister’s. Yeah, Kate was only two years older, but she had a husband and a house and a car that was less than ten years old and had a heater that worked. Although having a working heater in this part of Texas wasn’t that big of a deal. Kate also owned a successful business that was about to hit the big time.

Her sister deserved the success. Really. She and Ryan worked hard.

I work hard, too, Zoey thought. Except everything Kate touched turned to gold and everything Zoey touched turned to poo. It had always been that way. Her parents had expected another Kate—and got Zoey. In school, teachers expected another Kate—and got Zoey. So Zoey learned to avoid following in Kate’s footsteps while she tried to find her own success.

So far, all she’d found was failure.

But not this time. Zoey gripped the steering wheel on her fourteen-year-old Honda Civic. Here was the perfect opportunity to figure out where she’d been going wrong. Kate and Ryan were making all the plans, all the arrangements. Kate would leave incredibly detailed, nitpicky instructions telling Zoey exactly what to do and how to do it. She’d have a blueprint for success. All Zoey had to do was follow it.

Success breeds success. Zoey grinned as she backed out of her parking space. Or in this case, Afghan puppies.

* * *

CAMERON MACNEIL CAREFULLY packed a bottle of MacNeil’s Highland Oatmeal Stout in bubble wrap. Standing next to him—and not helping—was his annoyed cousin Angus.

“I don’t see why you want to bring in an investor,” Angus said. “And judging by your caginess, he’s no MacNeil.”

“Do you know a MacNeil with the kind of money we need who we haven’t already hit up?”

Instead of answering, because the answer was “no,” Angus chugged the rest of the bottle of stout he’d nabbed. Highland Stout was not a chugging type of beer, but the nuances of hops and yeast escaped Angus. The alcohol content did not.

“Easy,” Cam warned. “We don’t have a lot of that batch left.”

“Make more.” Gus reached for another bottle, but Cam grabbed his wrist and guided it to the Highland Spring Bock they were about to release.

“The stout is a seasonal. Try this one.”

“Dishwater,” Gus grumbled and went for the high alcohol Pumpkin Porter they’d experimented with last fall. Cam let him have it. He didn’t like the way the porter tasted, although a lot of folks did. There seemed to be some unwritten rule now that all brewers had to come out with a pumpkin beer in the fall. Personally, Cam didn’t think the mixture did the beer or the pumpkins any favors. And don’t get him started on raspberries. Their Highland Heather Honey beer had promise, but so far, he wasn’t satisfied with the recipes they’d developed. But he would find the right one eventually. At least the failures weren’t wasted, he thought with a glance at Angus.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Gus said after a deep swallow. “Och, laddie, ye just gotta have faith in y’self.”

Cam shook his head at the accent. Cam’s problem wasn’t a lack of faith; it was a lack of help at the brewery. He considered a moment and then packed a bottle of the Pumpkin Porter to take to Seattle.

“What?” Gus tilted the bottle to his mouth.

“The accent. It wasn’t that strong when you lived in Scotland.”

“Lassies luuuuuv m’ accent. It’s part of the package.” He burped.

“Is that part of the package?”

Gus waved it off. “It shows I’m a man who enjoys life.”

“Or at least beer.”

Gus turned the bottle until the label faced Cam. “Yeah, and whose mug is that on the label, I want to know?”

A swath of the MacNeil tartan ran across a corner of the label behind a smiling, red-bearded man with a receding hairline—Gus. Although in current versions of the label, his hairline had been considerably filled in, thanks to the miracle of digital photo enhancement. “We don’t want the lads to be associating drinking beer with losing their hair,” Gus had explained virtuously.

Cam nodded to the label. “Are women really and truly impressed by that?”

“A man capable of fully appreciating a good brew is a man capable of fully appreciating a good woman.”

“And that line actually works for you?” Cam decided to add another bottle of the Pumpkin Porter to the wooden sample crate. Gus actually did know his beers. He was the front man for MacNeil’s Highland Beer. Cam was the everything-else man.

Gus patted his belly. “You’ll never get a hit if you don’t swing your bat, if ye get what I’m sayin’.”

Cam gave an unwilling laugh. “I do, but I wish I didn’t.”

“Yer just jealous because the ad folks didn’t pick yer pretty face for the label.”

“I don’t want to be on a beer label.”

“Och, surprised ya, though, di’n’t it? That they picked me over you.”

“Not really.”

“Oh, come on, Cam. Give a guy a break,” Gus said, dropping the accent. All but the part that was real, anyway. “When I’m hanging around you, I need some kind of an edge. Women won’t notice me otherwise.” He took another sip of beer.

Cam glanced down to where Gus’s huge belly draped over his kilt. His cousin must have put on thirty pounds since they started brewing beer commercially a couple of years ago. Aesthetics aside, it was also a health issue. And Gus believing his beard disguised his double chin wasn’t good, either.

“What are you staring at?” Gus spread his arms wide. “The kilt?”

Actually the stomach, but now wasn’t the moment to get into it. “That’s not a kilt.”

Gus looked down. “What would you call it then?”

Cam hid a smile. “A denim skirt.”

“Get with the times, Cam. Not all kilts are plaid wool anymore.” Gus drained the rest of his beer. “And I gotta tell you, they’re a helluva lot cooler for a Texas summer.”

He wiped his shining forehead on his sleeve. He was sweating in the unheated brewing room in a Texas January. It didn’t bode well for when it actually was summer in Texas.

“The ladies do like a man in a kilt,” Gus informed him. “Now, I know what’s running around in that head of yours.”

Probably not, Cam thought.

“But here’s the way I see it—on our next Saturday tour, you put on a kilt and flash those dimples of yours—”

Cam hated his dimples.

“—and maybe a little more—” Gus twitched the hem of his kilt and laughed uproariously, holding his belly. He looked like a Scottish Santa Claus. “And every female in the room will buzz right on over to you.”

“Cut it out, Gus.”

“It’s true!”

“Then why would you want me to wear a kilt?”

“To get it over with. You take your pick of the girls and free up the others for the rest of us mortals. The women will be disappointed, but then they’ll see me in a kilt and if they squint real hard, and sample enough of the beer, they’ll be reminded of you.”

“I must be getting tired because that makes a weird kind of sense.” Cam arranged curly wood shavings around the bottles for padding. He’d remove the bubble wrap and fluff everything up for a nice presentation after he got to Seattle.

“And it solves another problem.”

Cam reached for the crate’s top. “That would be?”

“You don’t have a woman in your life.”

“Gus...” They’d been over this, although why Gus felt Cam’s love life, or the lack of it, was his business escaped Cam.

“I know. You don’t want a girlfriend. You don’t have time for a ‘relationship.’” Gus used air quotes, which Cam ignored. “But you being unattached gives all the lassies hope. And if they have hope in their hearts for you, they aren’t going to fully appreciate my magnificence.”

“I apologize for the fact that my lack of a girlfriend is impacting your love life.” Cam fit the top onto the presentation crate and admired the MacNeil logo burned into the corner. Without Gus’s face. That had been one argument Cam had actually won.

Gus set the empty bottle on the table next to Cam’s box of samples. “It affects more than that. And more than me. We’re all well aware you don’t have a woman in your life. You need a woman.”

“I need to hire help at the brewery.”

“Why hire someone when you have your family? I’m not talking about a relationship.” Gus moved his arms in a big circle. “Just a short acquaintance. A night or two, even.” Cam picked up a rubber mallet and Gus backed off, palms outstretched. “That’s all I’m saying.”

It probably wasn’t, knowing Gus.

“A woman might even be able to change your outlook. You might see things a little different and not want to expand the brewery and take on all that extra work. You’re already complaining about the work you’ve got.”

“Expanding shouldn’t cause much extra work. Not with all my brothers and cousins around to help.” Cam was being sarcastic, but he didn’t expect Gus to notice.

“Cam.” Gus touched his arm. “Leave things be.”

“I can’t.” He faced his cousin. “MacNeil’s is too big to be a family hobby, but we’re not big enough to get any kind of regular distribution. We grow, or we fold.”

“You have to relax, Cam. Enjoy life.”

If he did, there wouldn’t be a MacNeil’s, a point he hoped to make while he was gone next week. “You mean I should stand around and drink beer and spout clichés in a fake accent while wearing a skirt, like you?” Cam immediately regretted his words—not because they weren’t true, but that he’d indulged himself by saying them.

Gus didn’t take offense. “And didn’t that nonsense you blathered just prove me point about you needing a woman?”

Let it go, let it go. But he couldn’t. “It was a little harsh, but it wasn’t nonsense.”

“Och, laddie.” Gus shook his head.

“Fake accent.”

“It’s the excess man juices bubblin’ around in yer blood talkin’.”

“You did not just say ‘man juices.’” Cam whacked at the metal fastening staples. They sank into the wood and started a tiny split. Great.

“It’s the truth. Your juices are all backed up with no place to go, so they’ve spilled over into yer blood, where they’ve been bubblin’ and fermentin’.” Gus illustrated this by wiggling his fingers.

Cam whacked another staple into the box.

“Until one day, you’ll see a female and you’ll blow your top, just like that batch of summer ale the first year.”

“Gus.” A corner of Cam’s mouth twitched.

“It’s why men make poor decisions with the wrong women.” Gus took the mallet from him. “Or they let the right one get away ’cause they’ve got no finesse and scare her off.” He expertly pounded in the final staples and tossed the mallet onto the table. “Or they go begging to some Sassenach for ‘expansion’ money so he can share in the profit after we’ve spent years establishing ourselves, doing all the hard work, developing and testing recipes and pouring free beer down the gullets of the public so they’ll get a taste for it.”

Cam clapped. “Very dramatic.”

“But true.”

“Agreed. But now that they’ve got a taste for our beer, we’ve got to supply it to them. Here’s the thing. The Beer Barn in Wimberly is getting rid of their tanks. They’re outsourcing the house brew.”

Gus gasped. “That’s sacrilege!”

“That’s opportunity. For us.” He gestured for Gus to hand him a foam cooler. “I want to buy the tanks and then lease the space so I can leave them there for now. We brew more of our two bestsellers there or we brew one of ours and make a pitch to brew the Beer Barn’s house label in the other.”

“Och, laddie, yer a crafty one.” Gus waggled his finger, then turned shrewd. “Who’s our competition?”

“It doesn’t matter if we slip in with a cash offer.”

“Ah.” Gus gave him a long look. “But we don’t have the cash.”

Cam shook his head. “Not yet. But if my meeting in Seattle goes the way I hope it does, I’ll have the money.”

Gus shrugged. “Bringing in an outsider will have to come to a vote, and the lads won’t agree.”

He meant Cam’s two brothers and assorted cousins for whom the brewery was more a source of fun and free beer than a business. “Then the ‘lads’ can take over. Because I’m tired of going without. I’m tired of being poor. I’m tired of never having a day off. I’m tired of living paycheck to paycheck.”

Once Cam got started, the words just rolled out, louder and louder. “I’m tired of driving an old car. I’m tired of paying credit-card interest. And I am bloody well tired of not having a girlfriend!” His voice echoed in the cavernous space.

Gus didn’t even blink. “Fair enough.” He opened the door to the visitor fridge and stared inside. “You never said who your investor was.”

“A guy I know from school.” The crate squeaked as Cam forced it into a cooler. “A computer geek who sold an app to Apple or Google or some big company.” Cam taped the lid on to make sure it stayed put. “He thinks owning part of a brewery will make him seem hip.”

Not that Cam intended to sell any part of MacNeil’s. He was hoping to sell naming rights for a custom-brewed beer, but if his trip made the family nervous, so much the better.

Cam set the cooler into the shipping container for the plane and added more padding. It might be overkill, but he didn’t want to chance the bottles breaking or freezing.

Gus was still staring into the fridge. “I suppose I could live with an outside investor.” He shut the fridge door without taking a beer. That meant he was still thinking. The thing about Gus was that he wasn’t stupid, although he encouraged people to believe so. But he was less smart after a few beers.

“As long as you aren’t asking us to get into bed with one of those infernal Campbells.”

Gus needed more beer.

Cam bent down to grab a double handful of the packing shavings.

“What’s this investor’s name?” Gus asked.

Oh, here we go. “Richard.” Cam straightened. “Hey, as long as you’re standing there, would you slap a label on the box?”

Gus took his time peeling the backing off the label. “Would ye be referrin’ to the aptly named Dick Campbell?”

“He prefers Richard.”

“I’ll bet he does.”

“Campbell is a common last name.”

“Common, yes.”

“Gus! Don’t go there. Clan rivalries are fun at the Highland Games, but nobody takes it seriously.”

“I take it seriously.” He did.

“Then be serious in Scotland.” Cam held his gaze. “This is Texas. The brewery’s at stake. Are you really going to fight me on this because of some quarrel our ancestors had with the Campbells hundreds of years ago?”

“If I don’t fight with you now, you’ll be fighting with him later.” Gus slapped the label on the box. “No Campbell is going to write you a check and just stand back and let you do whatever you want with his money.”

“Richard has his own business to run, and he’s in Seattle. He’s not going to bother us.” As Cam added samples of yeast and hops to the shipping container, he was aware of Gus’s stare. “Look.” He turned to his cousin. “We’ll invite him down and let him help us brew a batch of beer. Then we’ll send him a few cases and he can give it to all of his friends. Trust me—this is only about Richard wanting to be cool.”

“Trust me,” Gus warned. “It’s about a hell of a lot more than wanting to be cool.”

Cam finished taping up the shipping box and Gus reached around him to flip off the light. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Going home. Aren’t you?”

“I wish.” Cam had another few hours of work ahead of him. “I’ve still got to check in with the volunteers for tomorrow’s tour and start setting up.”

“No, you don’t.” Gus flipped off the rest of the lights. “You’re just making extra work for yourself. They know they’re supposed to be here to set up.”

Cam turned the lights back on. “Some forget.”

Gus waved away his words. “So what if they do? Plenty of people will be around to pitch in if you need extra help. Relaaax, laddie boy. It’ll all work out.”

Relax. It’ll all work out was Gus’s standard response to Cam’s concerns about the brewery. “I’ll relax next week when you’re the one making it all work out.”

“You do that,” Gus said. “And find a woman while you’re at it.”