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“You thought you could show me up in front of the rest of the department and the managers? Well, you figured wrong. I paid my dues. I worked my ass off to get to where I am. The worker bees have to see that there are stiff consequences for subverting my authority. You’ve always reached beyond your means, and it’s about time you learned your place in the world.”
So there it was. After everything she’d done to overcome being one of those Sweet girls from Salvation: working two jobs to pay her college living expenses; putting in eighty-hour work weeks; ditching the country twang that made everyone in Harbor City look at her like she was a moron. She’d run as far away from Salvation as she could to claim her future on her own terms, not by how people judged her by her last name. She’d be damned if she was going to cede that decision to some power-hungry middle manager with a hard-on for following chain of command.
“I know where I belong, and it’s in that corner office.” Her voice gained strength with every word.
“That’s not up to you.”
“Oh, yes it is. I’m going to sign that distribution deal. I’m going to turn Sweet Salvation Brewery into a profitable business. And I’m going to get that corner office.” She forced a bone-deep confidence into her voice, even if she didn’t yet feel it in her marrow.
A condescending chuckle echoed through the phone. “Well, you have a week to make that happen. After that, your stuff is getting packed into a cardboard box.”
She hit the end-call button with more force than necessary, but her frustration had to go somewhere or her head was going to explode. Miranda shoved her phone back into her purse and sank down into her seat.
“Now that was dramatic.” Natalie laid down the issue of Chantal magazine she’d been flipping through and stared expectantly at Miranda.
“If I don’t get Boot Scoot Boogie to sign a distribution deal within a week, DeBoer Financial will not only turn its back on the deal, I’ll lose my job.”
Someone cleared his throat. Dread creeping up her back, Miranda didn’t need to turn around to know who had just overhead her confession. Still, she couldn’t act like her childhood puppy, Mitzy, who used to hide her head—and only her head—under the covers when she was in trouble. She desperately wanted to stomp and scream and carry on about the unfairness of the whole situation—or worse, cry, but a lifetime of keeping her chin up had taught her better. Inhaling a deep breath, Miranda straightened her shoulders and spun around.
Hud stood in the doorway, a look of oh-shit-did-I-walk-in-at-the-wrong-time plastered onto his face. He held out her keys. “Your car is ready.”
“Great.” She fished her wallet out of her purse. “How much do I owe you?”
“Michelle will have everything for you at the front desk.”
“Okay, thanks again, Hud.”
“No problem.” He shuffled his feet. “Look, I know it’s none of my business, but if you need an in at the Boot Scoot Boogie, you should ask Logan. He went to college with the owner’s son. They were fraternity brothers.”
The bit of unexpected kindness hit her right in the solar plexus, loosening her grip on the determination not to lose it in public. “I might just do that.”
Hud tapped the brim of his grimy baseball cap and hurried out back to the safety of the garage.
Chapter Thirteen
When the sun was up, the Boot Scoot Boogie turned off its neon signs and flipped on the overhead lights to become a family-friendly bar and grill, complete with tin buckets of peanuts on the tables and con
struction paper cowboy hats for the kids. At ten in the morning, the lunch crowd had yet to pack the huge parking lot, making it easy to spot owner Charlie Everton’s massive black SUV.
Bingo.
Miranda parked in front of the part-time honky-tonk, but her butt stayed glued to the seat, while she wished she had another bottle of Tums. She’d eaten the last chalky tablet on the way here, but it hadn’t made a damn bit of difference on the amount of acid eating away at her internal fortitude.
She had charts and graphs to share with Charlie, but she had no idea if that would make any impact. Uncle Julian’s mismanagement of the brewery had left several of their accounts with unfilled orders—repeatedly. The Boot Scoot Boogie had taken several hits before Charlie had told Uncle Julian exactly what he could do with a bottle of Sweet Salvation Brewery beer. She’d managed to salvage relationships with most of the other bars in the area, but unless she wanted to move to Salvation permanently, she needed to seal this deal.
In her career, she’d closed multi-million dollar deals without even a hint of nerves. Now she needed a jumbo-sized bottle of antacids just to get out of her car. Or a double shot of whiskey. God, she was losing it.
Before she could psych herself out any more, Miranda killed the engine and opened the door. The walk across the asphalt parking lot took half as much time as she needed to steady her nerves, and her fingers trembled when she pushed open the front door.
A trio of waitresses in white T-shirts and denim shorts huddled by the kitchen door, but it was the man standing alone by the bar who snagged her attention. He waved her over.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to sit in that car all morning or if you were going to man up and come inside.” Charlie Everton turned, the sunlight filtering in through the front windows highlighting the few strands of gray hair breaking up the otherwise ebony hue of his short, coarse, tight curls. At six-foot-six inches with biceps the size of hubcaps, Charlie had a big SUV because nothing smaller would work. “You got this town buzzing about all you’re doing at the brewery.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be Salvation if there wasn’t gossip about something.”
“Got that right.” He settled his large frame down onto a bar stool and patted the one next to him. “So what brings you out here? You’re a little early for lunch.”
At the mention of food, her stomach started to do a line dance. Sitting down, Miranda centered her focus on the task at hand, sucking in her abs until the rumbling stopped.
