Rowan cleared her throat. There was a lot of nonexistent phlegm making its hacking glory this morning, obviously.
“Wolves Irish Pub. Wow.”
“Possibly an Irish pubchain...” River whispered, also recognizing that this job, this single job, could set their future.
“If this is real you guys, it would make us.” Raven carefully touched the screen as though any sudden movement had the potential to permanently delete. “He wants to set up a time to meet all three of us. Here.”
Raven looked at River and Rowan and swallowed past the parched desert in her throat. “He...” Raven cleared her throat, “emailed last night at 11:30. We’ve got to respond.” Cue three women breathing heavily— she’d laugh at the inappropriate noises if she weren’t about to hyperventilate.
“Okay, okay... okay, no problem,” Raven low-key screeched. “Let me draft a reply and we’ll all pick it apart.”
“The email is signed Bran.” Rowan announced. “I suppose it could have been a secretary, but they probably wouldn’t be working that late.”
“Oh, God,” River moaned. “The eldest son...”
No one said another word for the next thirty minutes while Raven wrote and discarded about ten drafts— good grief, it was one flipping paragraph. Reading over what she hoped sounded like a professional, but we’re also super interested, few sentences, she placed the final period and looked up.
River and Rowan’s unblinking eyes were trained on her. Waiting. Still, like prey becomes when a predator noses around. In this case, their instincts were on the money.
The O’Faolains were wolves. She’d only seen pictures, but it was always the three of them together. A pack of drop-dead gorgeous wolves. And one of them was coming here.
Shaking off her unease and clearing her suddenly dry throat— again— a potential habit that must cease, Raven told her sisters. “This is huge. We know it’s huge. We also know what we’re capable of, and if we land this job, and I realize it is a bigIF, as they are probably interviewing several design firms, we’ll blow their minds with our awesomeness!”
Using her sisters’ final edits, Raven made the last few changes, read the response a final time, and pressed... Send.
2
Bran waited in his father’s office at their Muskogee O’Faolain compound. The property was situated in a highly wooded area overlooking the Arkansas River. The over 1,500-acre spread boasted several ponds, with one large manmade pond close to the main house.
Dad had overseenthatpond project personally. Admittedly, one of Bran’s favorite parts of the property, though they gave him a hard time about the outdoor extravagance. He kitted it out with a fishing dock and decking secured with round, concrete pilings. The walkways and railings were built from ipé, a South American hardwood. One end had been left open to create a beach. The small, smooth rock didn’t tear up a person’s feet.
There were picnic areas, chairs and pads for laying out, fish cleaning stations, covered cabanas, and a badass bar that could be closed and winterized during the cold months, comfortable barstools, TVs, stereo, rows of liquor and mixed drink ingredients, a cooking flat top and grills, two refrigerators, and an ice machine. All of which was powered by electricity running from the main house. Basically, Dad built a luxury pool-pond/wilderness-pub.
Bran was not complaining.
The main house had plenty of room for his dad, him, and his brother Patrick, but knowing that in time his father might remarry, and the brothers would eventually have families of their own, they decided to build separate homes on the property.
Pat’s house and Bran’s own had been completed for a few years, but neither had taken the time to personalize them. They stayed at their dad’s for the most part anyway, as travel for work cut into a large chunk of their weeks. The compound had become home base to all three of them more than any other place they’d lived.
Bran should be reviewing their company’s latest financials, but an article popped up about some ancient, underground city in Midyat, Turkey. Bran loved history. If it pertained to a war, all the better. He could study weapons, maps, and tactical maneuvers for days. He and his brother had spent countless hours recreating ancient wars with army men.
His notifications dinged as he was flipping through pictures of part of the city that purportedly had been home to some 70,000 people. He wondered if he’d hear back from Triskelion Territory Designs today. Good, discussing the new pub venture was on this morning’s agenda.
His dad asked Bran to find an interior design firm to head up Wolves Irish Pub’s flagship location in Tulsa. His Gran’s good friend had recommended Triskelion. One of the company’s designers had updated the older woman’s high-rise condo in downtown Tulsa, and she raved about the results. That recommendation, along with the company’s name, appealed to Bran, and he emailed them last night.
A triskelion was an ancient Celtic symbol and Territory presumably referenced what was once considered Indian Territory, then later Oklahoma Territory, before becoming a state in 1907. Bran’s own family hailed from some fishing villageon the Irish coast. Gran had told him that much. He didn’t think she’d ever researched much further . So, with their historically significant name as well as a rec from Gran O’Faolain’s friend, he rolled with it.
His father, Hugh, and his younger brother, by only a year and a half, strolled in about the time he finished reading the reply email. He and Pat were both built almost identically to their father, Hugh, all tall, running from 6’3” to 6’4”, Dad being the tallest. He and Patrick ran more toward lean muscular frames, while their dad was an all-around bigger, broader guy.
Bran and his brother had white-blonde hair, the only nice thing their birth mother, Helen, gave them. Dad sported close-cropped dark brown hair and a well-kept full beard with the beginnings of white streaking his temples and chin— Bran and Pat were still put out that they couldn’t grow a decent beard to save their lives. All three men, though, had the same slightly tanned, golden skin. They were also very close. Bran’s best friends.
“Nice to see you both could move on from scratching your sacs long enough this morning to show up,” Bran deadpanned with a smirk, knowing full well they, like him, were hard at it well before sunrise.
His father leveled Bran his, don’t fuck with me look, while Patrick unsurprisingly, quipped, “Suck my dick.” Followed by, “Where’s breakfast?”
Dad reminded him, “Sara’s husband had a follow-up eye appointment after his cataract surgery. Feel free to cook us something after the meeting, son.”
Bran always appreciated Dad’s way of low-key bitch slapping someone. However, in this instance, Patrickwasa fantastic cook, and Daddidlove a full breakfast spread.
