CHAPTER TWO
Nikolai used the temporary lull in screaming children to escape the Pierce house and run the package up to the brewery. Carter made him promise twice that he would give the brewery manager a head’s up on a Pierce family dinner.
“The last time we showed up en masse unannounced, she made us eat in the bottling room,” Carter had explained.
“Don’t you own the place?” Niko had asked.
“We also sign her paychecks. But that doesn’t make her less scary,” Carter had warned him.
Niko took the warning and the envelope and headed out on foot following the dirt path behind the cheery red barn that cut across the property to the brewery. Meatball the beagle jogged along at his heels.
The rich bloom of spring was so different here from New York’s careful, measured resurrection. The city had spent most of the wet winter blanketed in a soupy, gray slush that ruined shoes and kept moods foul. But here, under the upstate sunshine, spring was breathing life back into the fields and hills.
His photographer’s mind captured and catalogued the way the light played over the lush green grasses caressed by the warm breeze. If he were shooting it, he’d have the model face away from him dancing through the field on an endless, sun-drenched adventure.
But he wasn’t shooting. And if he was being honest with himself, this moment was the first he’d felt even remotely interested in picking up his camera in a long time. Boredom and lethargy had crept in behind the lens clouding his eye.
A flock of chickens darted out in front of him, and Meatball gave a half-hearted yip and waddled after them into the field. Niko’s boots scuffed at the dirt, and he turned his face toward the sunshine.
Pierce Acres and the funky little town had a certain novel appeal as did spending some time with Summer. He’d worried at first that she wouldn’t have room in her new life for him. But moving, marrying, and having twins hadn’t dampened Summer’s insistence that they remain friends. Between his sporadic visits to the farm, she made a point to come into the city to catch up with him nearly every month.
Friendship intact, he’d turned to her without thinking, without questioning, in his own time of confusion. Maybe a week or two of Blue Moon fresh air would be enough to snap him out of whatever funk he’d fallen into.
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Emmaline Merill rolled her eyes behind the hostess stand at John Pierce Brews as the supplier on the other end of the phone blatantly lied and then attempted to tap dance her way into the runaround.
“Lynlee, let me stop you right there,” Emma said briskly, flipping through the reservations on her tablet and taking note of the evening’s larger parties. “I ordered your stunning peacock blue table linens not only because they exactly match the groom’s eyes, but they are also a dead ringer for the bridesmaid’s dresses. So no, swapping out peacock blue for the periwinkle ones you tried to sneak past me won’t work. I have every confidence that you’ll do whatever it takes to get me the linens I ordered by tomorrow morning.”
When she hung up thirty seconds later, Emma was satisfied that Lynlee was scrambling to keep the promises she’d just made, and a man who might as well have had Bad Boy tattooed on his forehead was in her space staring at her.
He was tall enough to make her tilt her head back to take in the full picture. Artfully distressed jeans were worn low on narrow hips. Under his battered leather jacket, a slim fitting button down in slate gray hinted at a very taut stomach beneath. His boots, scuffed leather, probably cost more than the Tamara Mellon pumps she had tucked in her office for the evening.
His hair was thick and dark and carelessly tousled as if he’d just rolled out of someone’s bed. A day’s worth of scruff on his perfectly chiseled jaw played up the bad boy look. His dark eyes held darker promises, and there was just the faintest hint of a smile playing on his firm mouth. Aviator sunglasses were tucked into the opening of his shirt.
He had to have an accent, Emma decided. Gorgeous, badass men that looked like that had accents and made poor life choices.
“Can I help you?” she asked, trending on the cool side of polite. She didn’t fall for bad boys anymore. She kept them at a safe distance where she could admire the way their jeans fit without becoming collateral damage.
“I’m looking for you,” he said in a voice made to tempt women into dark corners.
Damn. No accent.
“Oh, really?” Emma kept her tone light. She knew the rules. Don’t give a playboy anything to play with.
“If you’re Emma, I am.”
She crossed her arms, drumming her purple manicure on her upper arms. “What can I do for you, Mr.…?”
“Vulkov,” he offered. “Nikolai.”
“Wolf?” Emma translated the Russian with an arched eyebrow. “How appropriate.”
He grinned at her then, and the full wattage was dazzling. Emma felt her pulse kick up in reflexive appreciation for the fine male specimen before her.
“I like you, Emma.” The way he said her name, like it was something that tempted him, irked her.
“I’m sure you like a lot of women, Mr. Wolf,” she countered. “Now, if you’ll get to your point, we can both get on with our days.”
“Please, call me Niko,” he corrected her, seeming to be in no hurry to get to the point.
Her brushoff appeared to have no effect on his attentiveness or his amusement. Emma was used to dumping a little cold water on men’s egos now and then when necessary. However, this particular man appeared to be immune to it.
“Your sister asked me to deliver this to you, and Carter is requesting a dinner reservation for the ‘whole family.’”
“Are you family?” she asked, the curiosity getting the better of her. He certainly had the tall, dark, and gorgeous thing going that the rest of the Pierce men did.
“Friend of,” he said.
She wondered just whose friend he was and made a mental note to quiz Gia when she had a moment. Not that she was interested, just curious. Emma pursed her lips and opened the reservations again even though she already had them memorized. “I guess you can have the loft at 6:30,” she decided.
He winced. “6:30 dinner on a Friday night?”
Emma felt her lips quirk. “City boy?”
“New York, born and raised. You?”
“L.A. most recently,” she said, plugging in the reservation. “Blue Moon takes some time getting used to.” She’d been here nearly a year and was still getting used to the town’s quirks.
“I’ve visited before.” And the way he said it made her think that Mr. Vulkov had seen enough of Blue Moon to be a little apprehensive about his stay.
“How long are you staying?” she asked, mostly out of politeness.
“As long as it takes.” He shoved his hand through his hair, somehow making the new mess even sexier.
His answer was cryptic, and she left it at that. She didn’t have the time or the inclination to play “getting to know you” with a bad boy stranger who looked like he was accustomed to women’s attention.
“Excuse me, Emma?” A petite pixie of a woman with close-cropped dark hair, a tiny nose stud, and a John Pierce Brews t-shirt bustled up with the cordless phone.
“What’s up, Lila?” Emma asked, grateful for the server’s interruption.
“Rupert’s on line two trying to call off again,” Lila said with a dramatic eye roll. “He and Sunny broke up. Again.”
Emma bared her teeth. “You can tell Rupert that he can either get his skinny, heartbroken ass in here or I’m hiring Sunny’s new boyfriend to replace him.”
Lila’s big blue eyes got even bigger. “Seriously?”
“No! Gimmie.” Emma held out a hand for the phone, prayed for patience, and gave Rupert a sympathetic greeting.
She didn’t have a lot of time before opening, so she was going to have to make it quick. In four minutes, she got to the bottom of Rupert and Sunny’s fight, convinced him that not only would showing up for his shift give him a chance to apologize to Sunny but the tips he’d make could go toward a bouquet of apology flowers.
That had him sufficiently perked up enough to promise to be on time.
She hung up, giving it a fifty-fifty chance that the gangly perma-teen would actually show, and immediately launched into the next call that came from scorned girlfriend and dining room server, Sunshine.
Emma paced as she talked, helping Cheryl the bartender flip down barstools around the massive U-shaped bar made from reclaimed barn wood. She signed for a delivery and waved to Julio and Nan when they arrived to open the kitchen all while working on Sunny over the phone.
Girls were tougher to talk down than guys. But after eight minutes, Emma had Sunny convinced that the girl’s best revenge for Rupert ditching their two-month anniversary date so he could pull an all-nighter playing a medieval zombie video game with his cousins would be to show up at work looking gorgeous and happy and ignore his very existence.
Emma disconnected after procuring Sunny’s promise that she would indeed show up to “rub Rupert’s face in her awesomeness” and then dialed Every Bloomin’ Thing.
“Hi, Liz,” she said, when the floral shop owner answered. “Is there any way you could make up a pretty spring bouquet and have it sent over to the brewery tonight? I’d love you forever.”
“I just did up an arrangement of roses and lilies in yellow and pink. Will that do?” Liz asked.
“Does it look like a solid apology for skipping a date to slaughter zombies?”
“Oh, Rupert. When will you learn?” Liz sighed.
Blue Moon’s grapevine had clearly been working overtime. Emma did her best to avoid it, even refused to accept the invitation to join the town’s gossipy Facebook group.
“Yeah, these’ll work,” Liz decided. “I’ll throw in a purple ribbon since that’s Sunny’s fave.”
“You’re my hero,” Emma sighed. “Put them on my card, please.”
“With all the business you’ve thrown my way the past year, this one’s on me. I was coming in for dinner anyway,” Liz told her.
“Then the first round of drinks is on me,” Emma promised. She heard the tinkle of the front door bell on Liz’s end, and Liz called out a greeting.
“Gotta go. Jax Pierce just stormed through my front door looking like he’s in trouble with the wife.”
“Mmm, tell him he’s having dinner here tonight with the rest of the family so he’d better apologize fast,” Emma warned.
“Will do,” Liz said cheerfully. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Emma thanked her profusely and hung up. She glanced at her watch and muttered a string of curses under her breath. She was officially behind schedule.
She needed to talk specials with Julio and program them into the POS, double check that the keg room was in order, and count the bar drawer.
Inwardly cursing the lovesick antics of her team, Emma turned to drop the phone back in its cradle at the bar when she spotted Nikolai helping Cheryl flip the rest of the stools at the high-top tables.
She crossed her arms and watched, keeping a mask of disapproval in place. He moved with economical grace, hefting the stools as if they weighed no more than folding camp chairs. His shirt stretched tight over an expanse of chest and well-honed biceps, and the rolled-up sleeves allowed a peek at the ink on his arm.
From the looks of it, Cheryl was overjoyed with the help and the view. She fanned herself and winked at Emma behind Nikolai’s back. Not everyone could be immune to a gorgeous male as she was, Emma thought with a sigh. But not everyone had learned the lessons she had.
She straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “I’m sure you have better things to do than help us open, Mr. Vulkov.”
Her voice carried across the expanse of space. Nikolai flipped the last stool and sauntered toward her.
“Nikolai,” he said again. “I didn’t want to interrupt you while you were playing puppet master.” He picked up the leather jacket he’d draped over the back of a stool. “And I didn’t want to be rude and leave without saying good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” Emma said pointedly.
He laughed, low and husky, and pulled on his jacket. She smelled leather and spice and cursed him for being everything sexy.
“I can’t wait to see if Rupert and Sunny work things out tonight,” he told her.
“All I care about is my employees showing up on time for their shifts,” Emma lied in irritation. She wasn’t innocent enough to fall for the old “I’m so interested in you I’m actually listening” routine.
“Do you always lie to strangers?” Nikolai wondered with an arch look.
“Do you always overstay your welcome?” Emma shot back. Damn. She was kind of enjoying the verbal sparring.
“Only when I’m not ready to leave. I’ll see you tonight, Emma.” His parting smile set her blood humming. He was completely immune to her Ice Queen routine. She knew from experience that the men who were immune to it were generally too stupid or too wrapped up in what they wanted to care about crossing boundaries. But Nikolai Vulkov was different. He found the freeze off… entertaining.
“Please tell me he’s single and in town looking for a wife,” Cheryl demanded, joining Emma to watch Nikolai’s fine form walk out the front door of the brewery.
“That kind of man is never looking for a wife,” Emma sighed.
“What’s his story?” Cheryl asked.
Emma shook her head. “No idea. He’s a friend of the Pierces.”
“That, my gawking gals, is none other than uber-famous photographer Nikolai Vulkov,” Lila announced, joining them at the hostess stand. “He’s Summer’s BFF. They worked together in New York for years. He visits occasionally but showed up today at one unannounced on their doorstep with a bag and no end date for his visit. Usually he’s seen escorting the sexiest of models around the city or Europe or wherever he’s working, but he’s been pulling a hermit the last few months.”
Emma stared at Lila. “How in the world do you know all that when he got here only two hours ago? Do you have Summer and Carter’s place bugged?”
Lila patted her arm. “I keep forgetting you’re still relatively new here, Em. We know everything about everyone. That’s just from Blue Moon’s Facebook group, which you should totally join, and a little society column digging I did. Mooners are predicting he’s facing some sort of life crisis and came here for perspective.”
Emma’s gaze returned to the entrance. A life crisis? Real life players didn’t have life crises.