Even though I own all of the bars in Blackwell except for one, I don’t even drink that much myself anymore.

Mason, the bartender, comes up from behind the bar and approaches the booth where I’m sitting solo with my convertible tablet-laptop and some papers spread across the table. “Mr. Blackwell,” he nods, setting a water in front of me. “Surprised to see you in here on a weekday. But what can I get you, Sir?”

Mason is one of my little brother Liam’s buddies. I like the fact that he knows how to address his superiors with respect. He’s got that right combination of knowing how and when to be entertaining, and when to be serious and draw the line. It’s an important skill to have when you’re the head bartender at a place like The Watering Hole.

“I’ll have an Old Fashioned with Bulleit Rye.”

Mason smirks a little bit. “Same as usual. Sir yes sir,” he says, and heads back behind the bar to make my drink.

I lean back in my booth and take inventory of the place. There’s a nice crowd tonight, especially for a Wednesday, which is typically one of the slower days in the restaurant business. It helps that tonight is a gorgeous September night, one of those where the warmth of the summer meets the cool of the incoming fall, and the temperature is so perfect you feel like you’re in Florida in the winter.

On the bar stools, I notice a couple of hotties chatting, and the brunette seems to have her gaze slightly turned to me.

Her friend, whose image I can’t quite make out from my spot in the back booth, is a stunning blonde in the shadows of this dimly lit interior.

After a fleeting glance at them, I focus my eyes back on the task at hand. I came here to run the big numbers over an Old Fashioned, not talk to girls. A younger version of me would have been on those two like white on rice.

I put my head down, open my tablet, and run through the architectural plans for the distillery which now have to be totally and completely overhauled because of a stupid oversight.

How did we not realize three acres of these plans were on the neighboring dry county?

It was quite the blunder by my entire architectural staff, to miss a detail like that so completely.

On the other hand, some college grads have trouble seeing the bigger picture. They’re so focused on their papers and charts and equations and essays. They never think to take a step back and just ask some basic questions, like what are the laws of the local jurisdictions in accordance to what we are building?

They’ve got zero street smarts.

Much the opposite of a certain hire I just made this morning.

Brett fucking Blue. I look at the painting on the wall next to my booth and space out a little bit as I think of how much of an outlier this girl is. It’s one of those 1960s Roy Lichtenstein dot paintings with attractive women.

Speaking of attractive women...Brett is incredibly sexy.

And smart.

And she even knows how to drive a tractor, and that sweet Blackwell accent of hers combined with that light voice has me hard just thinking about her.

I take a swig of my water and think for a moment, reminding myself how I can’t be having these sorts of thoughts about employees. Especially when it’s not even her first day. Sebastian Blackwell is one of the few rich men in the town who got that way by helping the town, not screwing people over.

And he definitely doesn’t screw his employees. That is some small town drama that I definitely don’t need.

I hear someone clear their throat, and a drink clunks on the wooden table. I turn to thank the bartender, and see if his drink-making skills are still up to par.

But when I look over, it’s not Mason at all.

It’s Brett Blue.

My adrenaline spikes, like I’m a wild lion and an intruder has entered my kingdom. Her scent wafts into me, smelling like freshness and sunflowers and youth.

And she looks so smoking hot, that slight boner twitch I was joking about? Yeah I’ve got to fight not to have a full on salute going under the table right now.

She clears her throat and does what is quickly becoming her signature move, the slight head tilt. “The bartender wanted me to bring you this.” She smiles.

“So you’re moonlighting as a server now, too?” I remark. “You really are a sales personality by nature. You’re a hustler.”

“And you’re a dick. You don’t even say hello to me.”

“I didn’t even see you. I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. It’s nothing personal.”

She frowns. “Really. So I must not register very much on your radar. Even after you hired me.”

I take a big breath through my nose. “So you think I’m a big asshole.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Pretty much. And I don’t work for assholes.”

I tilt my head and exhale.

“Fair enough. How about this. I interviewed you, today. Now is your turn to interview me. Ask me whatever you want. I’ll respond honestly.”

“Seriously. Anything?”

I take a sip of my Old Fashioned, it’s delicious. The bartender arrives with another and sets it in front of Brett.

“I’ll give you one drink. You’re not even officially working for me yet, so nothing’s off limits. Starting now. Cheers.”

We clink glasses, and each take a sip, keeping eye contact.

“Where were you born?” She asks.

“Blackwell.”

“Your parents. Together or divorced.”

“Together. You?”

“My father passed away this year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.

“Thanks. Where do yours live now?”

“They own a little small farm north of Blackwell.”

“You get out there much?”

“I don’t. Haven’t been there for years.”

“Why not?”

I shrug, and take another strong pull on my drink. “My father and I don’t speak much. He respects my work ethic, but that’s it. In a lot of ways I think he blames me for the ruin of this town, and it’s my fault people are struggling. Says I’m a mean businessman.”

“What do you say to that?”

“I say he doesn’t understand me. If anything, I’ve kept this town going.”

She nods, and takes a sip of her drink. “So what doesn’t he understand? Please, enlighten me, Bossman.”

My fists clench on top of the table. She sees my tension. This isn’t a topic I spend a lot of time explaining, but right now I’ve got no other option.

“Ten years ago, you remember what happened?”

“I was thirteen,” she quips. “I don’t know…I decided that I wasn’t going to play softball in the summer because my parents said metal bats were too expensive?”

“No, but close. The Maytag…oh wait a second. Your mother, her name is Laura Blue, isn’t it.”

She looks surprised. “How did you know?”

“She used to work at the Maytag plant with my mother. Before it closed down. That is what happened ten years ago. The plant took almost ten thousand jobs with it. Addiction and desperation spiked, and this town was headed for disaster.”

“So what’s that got to do with anything?” she scoffs.

I purse my lips and shake my head ever so slightly. “You are young, aren’t you? You think you know about everything. But really, you’ve got a lot to learn. Do you know what I did with that first million?”

“Hookers? Bought a mansion? A yacht? I don’t know.”

My grip on my drink tightens. Funny, she’s asking me for my life’s story and though she’s angry, she’s riveted, her eyes wide as she leans forward on the table. I take a swallow of whisky, and-fuck-her cleavage is in my peripheral vision now as she leans over. She’s licking her lips. Tempting me.

Luckily self-control is one of my best assets, so I’m able to keep my eyes laser focused on hers as I continue my story.

“I invested half in Cryptocurrencies. Bitcoin, ethereum, and a few others. I did a lot of research, and I had a hunch they were going to blow up, and they have. The other half, I poured into development in the city of Blackwell. If this place was going to go downhill, damned if I was going to sit by idly and watch it burn. I was born here, and I’ll damn well die here turning this place around. In my early twenties, I thought the restaurant business was how I was going to make my money. But then I learned that restaurant margins are paper thin. And also, a town that only has restaurants is doomed to fail. So I started looking for other places to invest and revitalize the town.”

She puts the glass to her lips, and I take pleasure in watching every slow, sensual movement she makes. She looks at the painting on the wall in our booth as she mentally processes the truth bomb I just dropped on her.

“But you’re an owner. You’re an asshole. That’s what everyone says. You’re just a rich dickhead who doesn’t give a crap about anyone’s feelings. Everyone knows that. Haven’t you seen the latest meme on Twitter about you?”

I lean into the table, and a smile broaches my face. “And did you just say Twitter? Fuck Twitter. And fuck Facebook too. I don’t have time for that.”

“That’s a really dick-ish thing to say,” she adds.

“Yeah? Well it’s the truth.”

Brett tosses her hair over her shoulder, and the corners of her mouth curve upward, ever so slightly. “So Mr. Blackwell,” she says, finally a hint of sympathy in her voice. “You didn’t even go to college, did you?”

“No,” I growl. “Parents couldn’t afford it. And after I’d already started making my own money, I saw no reason to go to college or any formal schooling for that matter.”

“Wow,” she says, nodding blankly. “I didn’t...I wouldn’t have expected that.”

“Not a lot of people do. Most figure I was born with the silver spoon.”

I finish the last of my drink, and we sit there in silence a moment. There’s something about this girl that really gets me going. It’s her fire. It’s her curiosity. It’s how she won’t take anything at face value, and has to find out for herself.

It’s the fact that she’s hot as hell. She’s got a black tank top and tight jeans on, and her breasts are busting out of her top. But moreover, her smile and her facial features are to die for. And inside, she’s got this wonderful brain. She may be young, but she’s very intelligent.

“Now I’m not saying I’m not a total asshole in individual dealings. But when it comes to the well-being of this town, if you ever question me again, I will not be very happy. I was born in Blackwell. I’ll make my bread in Blackwell. And I’ll die here.”

A smile crosses her face. “Did you just paraphrase the lyrics to “I was born in a small town by John Mellencamp?”

“Nah,” I wink. “I’d never do that. I’m more of a John Prine guy anyway.”

She gasps. “You...know who John Prine is?”

“Peaches are the key to happiness,” I say, and I don’t show it, but I’m more surprised that she knows who my favorite obscure folk artist is. “So do we have a deal?”

She hesitates just as the song changes, and all the people in the bar come into focus. Finally, Summer of 69 by Bryan Adams starts up on the jukebox, taking everyone off edge.

“Fine,” she says, returning my shake. “I’m excited about the job. But not for the reasons you think.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, uhh…I just mean, I-I,” she stutters. “I’m going to learn a lot. About sales. What are you working on right now, for example?”

She turns her head sideways to attempt to view what I’m working on.

“Have you heard about the Shallowater Distillery development?”

“I read the local newspaper. How could I miss it? It’s supposed to bring in over three hundred new jobs to the area.”

“Right. But the problem is, we can’t move forward with it. I don’t have enough room for the design we planned since part of our master plan falls on a dry county. The architects are scrambling to figure out how to make it happen. I needed to have this development operating by next summer. Lost plans mean time, and lost time means lost money.”

“So why don’t you just make it smaller?”

I rub my thumb and forefinger on my forehead. “I guess I could make it smaller, but then when it comes to production we’re going to be hamstrung. There’s a ton of demand in the area, and I need to make sure we can handle it.”

“Can I see the design?”

“Uh, have you ever designed anything?”

She shrugs. “When I was younger, I helped my father build our barn. I had to measure out the sizes of the partitions for the chicken coops and the pigs, and the rest of the storage.” She jingles the ice in her glass and flips her hair. “He called me his ‘little designer assistant.’”

“Aww, well that’s sweet,” I say, spinning my tablet around so she can see the screen. “It’s a professionally drafted design. It’s probably a little hard to understand.”

The words come out a little condescending, even though I don’t mean them like that. But there’s a big difference between an architectural draft and a barn on the farm.

She stares at the screen for a few moments. “Huh,” she exclaims, nodding thoughtfully.

“Huh, what?”

She looks back at me, her blue eyes intense against mine. “This is just one floor?”

“Well, yeah. It’s a one floor design almost all the way around. That’s pretty standard for a distillery.”

“Well why can’t you make it two floors?”

I look at her, and for a moment it’s like she’s one of those little kids, asking “Why” a thousand times.

But she’s got a point.

“I, I don’t know. I just go with the design that my architects give me. I’m an entrepreneur, not a building expert. You’ve got a damn good point though. I’ll check on that.”

“I’ll take my first commission in the form of fifty percent of the money you’ve saved from using my idea,” she winks.

“How about I just buy a drink to celebrate?”

“What are we celebrating?”

“The fact that you just solved the problem I was going to be working on for the rest of the night. Oh, and you starting work tomorrow at Blackwell Industries, of course.”

I order one more, and I can’t take my eyes off her. Though I’m wondering what’s behind those pretty blues. It’s obvious to me she’s much more than just a pretty face.

And I intend to find out what makes Brett Blue tick.