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And it was called motherfucking self-sabotage.
“You should take the middle apartment,” I told her. “The one above the coffee shop.”
Maybe she would meet a barista her own age and then my misery would be complete.
* * *
I didn’t even need the barista.
My misery was complete in that every damn day we had meetings that included Faith. Or I could see her working in the conference room, her temporary location until her move to the office in Wanted. Or Dylan and Malcolm were referencing her. She was a hard worker, there early every morning, and staying late. She wore the mostelongatedoutfits I’d ever seen, each one bigger and baggier than the last, as if it would strip her of any and all sexual appeal, but it didn’t work. I knew what I knew and she was smoking hot.
She was also passionate. Full of ideas. Eager.
Through every meeting over the next few weeks all I could think about was how much I wanted to press her against the nearest wall, kiss her, and convince her to be with me forever by the power of my hard thrusting cock.
That would work, right?
Obviously.
A couple of hitches to that plan. Malcolm and Dylan.
Oh, and that she wanted to keep it professional. Except every night she texted me or I texted her or we talked on video chat and we were getting to know each other on a deep friendship level. It was amazing and fantastic and torturous. I didn’t know what it meant.
Fuck professional. Fuck feelings. Fuck it all.
I forced myself to focus on the current meeting I was suffering through, which was once again on our clearly controversial logo.
Ian was in Nashville for a couple of days for the meetings and for a hosting event before Faith moved to Wanted on Sunday into her new apartment.
We really should be discussing the final details of the event, not trodding over old ground, but I wasn’t going to intervene. I had never been sold on the logo and I wanted to hear what Faith had to say.
“It’s just two swords. It doesn’t really say anything. If we’re targeting the under forty crowd, we need it to say something, mean something.”
“We didn’t want to be gender specific,” Malcolm said.
“But you named the distillery Four Brothers. That’s inherently masculine. That’s brawny country boys, that’s Scottish descendants, that’s Highland games. That’s real. That’s your heritage.”
She wasn’t wrong.
She tossed her hair back, intent on making her point. She was just gearing up, I could tell.
“Okay, so?” Dylan said.
“It needs to be fierce, dominating, aggressive. You want me, consumers. You have to have me.” Her voice had taken on something of a seductive quality.
Jesus. What were we talking about again? I shifted in my chair.
“Think one sword going deep inside a bourbon barrel.” Faith made a hard downward motion with her hand, slamming her fist into her palm. Skin slapped on skin. “That’ssexy. Cold hard steel thrusting powerfully into a hot barrel.”
Dylan coughed to cover a laugh. Malcolm’s eyebrows shot up. Ian looked like he wanted to escape the conference room.
I was completely and totally fucking turned on by both her words and her passion for the project.
“We don’t want to appeal just to men,” Malcolm said.
“Trust me, making it hot and sexy and manly isn’t a turn off for women. Sure, women love to drink wine, but Chelsea wants to drink bourbon too.”
“Who is Chelsea?” Ian asked.
