Page 52 of Santa Baby

“Hey, it’s Fia. I got the flowers and they’re amazing, thank you.” I swallowed hard, closing my eyes and leaning my weight against the door. “I can’t stop thinking about it either and… can we talk some time? I’d like to see you. There’s something I need to say.” The automated voice interrupted me, saying the message had been recorded. I hung up and leaned forward, bracing myself on the sink, and looked up at my reflection.

He didn’t call back.

22

MASON

“This is bad, Mason,” Colin said beside me as we walked into the distillery. The place was a mess of activity. Anyone who’d taken vacation time this week for the upcoming holiday was back, punching in overtime, trying to make sense of the news I got right as I left the office last night at nine o’clock.

It had been one of the worst calls I could have taken. I’d been sliding my thumb across the screen to answer a call from Fia, excitement gripping my chest knowing she’d just received the flowers I sent, when I got a call from my foreman at the same time.

I let Fia’s call go to voicemail.

I regretted it.

“Fuck,” I growled as we pushed through the double doors into the shabby, commercial conference room. Two of our board members were already seated, and my foreman was standing with his arms crossed, looking glum. “How bad?” I asked with no preamble.

“The entire batch of our cinnamon whiskey that was sent out last week was affected,” the foreman replied gruffly, raking his fingers through his hair. “A hundred thousand units.”

I rolled my lower lip between my teeth and nodded because it was the only thing I could do. Last night, I’d gotten a call that several of the barrels used to age our special edition holiday whiskey had tested positive for menthol, which meant an entire batch of whiskey was contaminated. Worse yet, that batch had already been sent out to consumers all over the globe.

My foreman shook his head as he pressed his palms to the table. “The barrels were clean before we started the aging process last year.”

“I know. We have the documentation of that,” I grumbled, scratching my jaw. “But we missed something.”

“Were these the barrels we purchased from Crafton and Forge a few years ago?” Colin asked. “They were cheaper than our usual suppliers. Could this have been some kind of chemical reaction?”

I pondered his question. Yeah, we’d gone with a more affordable supplier to cut costs for that one batch. The development of the holiday edition whiskey had been three years in the making by that point, and we were running out of time waiting for our usual barrel supplier to meet our need, so we went with someone else, someone who could throw several hundred barrels together quickly. We needed to start the aging process to get the whiskey to consumers by this Christmas.

But at what cost?

“Glue. There may have been glue in the wood seams,” the foreman muttered with a shake of his head. “Shit!”

“Menthol in glue?” one of the board members said under their breaths.

“It doesn’t matter now.” I rubbed my eyes. I hadn’t slept at all. I spent all night making phone calls, stopping shipments, covering my bases, and doing the right thing by contacting the FDA and consumer compliance officers. “The whole batch has been recalled. That’s done. But this can’t happen again.”

My phone rang for the hundredth time today, and it was only two. I let it go to voicemail.

“I want every single barrel tested, no matter what point in the process it’s in. Everything gets pulled until we can ensure our product is safe for consumption.”

“You’re talking about a total recall?” One of the board members scoffed. “Pulling everything from not only our warehouses but stores as well?”

“Just until we can check serial numbers and determine what might have been affected,” I replied hotly.

“That sounds unnecessary if the barrels in question weren’t used for every batch⁠—”

“I don’t care. I want it done.” I turned to my foreman. “This wasn’t your fault, okay? This was my fault for approving the new barrel supplier. You and your guys aren’t in trouble here.”

He looked relieved but solemn as he nodded and turned for the door. I stared at the men left in the conference room and sat down, resting my hands on the vinyl surface of the table. “This is what we’re going to do.”

Days passed in a blur. This was a CEO’s worst nightmare. Just a week before Christmas, my entire company was at a standstill. Stocks plummeted. Investors pulled out. I watched my employees spiral into uncertainty about their careers.

No one was going to lose their jobs. I’d already started pumping my own money back into the company, keeping it floating while I had every bottle of whiskey pulled from market shelves.

I sat on a stool in front of a green screen, adjusting my tie for the umpteenth time. I’d just recorded my company’s formal public apology video, something that would no doubt make the rounds on social media and the news in a matter of hours. The green room was empty, quiet, but I couldn’t move.

The man standing in the doorway closed the door behind him as he walked in, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his tailored slacks.