Page 36 of Feel It in the Air

He points at the drawing of the rifle on my screen, the smirk on his face making those damn butterflies come to life all over again.

“No, not really,” I admit. “Trademarks and the importance of them, absolutely. The product itself, not so much.”

His smirk morphs into something I can’t name, but whatever it is makes his entire body relax. Gone in an instant is the uptight corporate Gus Hayes that all my coworkers see every day, replaced by the Southern charmer only I get to see.

“Want help?”

“I don’t want to take away from your Friday night.”

He steps in closer, leaning against my desk. “I’m not the one who said they had plans. Unless these are your plans.”

“Errrrr…”

Busted. One thing is for sure, I wasn’t planning on being called out like that.

“Work? Work is your plans?” He chuckles.

“Maybe?” I counter, spinning my chair to face him.

I cross my arms, realizing only after I do so that the move pushes my boobs up. I know Gus notices, because I see his eyes flick down, the V-neck shirt I opted for this morning now giving him quite the view of my cleavage. That was not on purpose. Here’s hoping he doesn’t think I’m trying to seduce him.

“Maybe?”

His eyes flick down again, and I can’t tell if it’s a reflex or if he’s trying to decide whether my move was on purpose. Either way, I apparently inadvertently started a chess match. Way to go, Margeaux.

“There was also going to be a pizza involved. And a very rousing internal debate between a bottle of wine and a six-pack.”

Gus throws his head back, that laugh I love so much ringing out. Fuck me. Now he’s playing with fire. Is that what I get for the boob move? Not fair.

“Well, I can settle that one. Six-pack. And I’ll call in the pizza.” He winks, pushing off my desk, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Extra sausage, right?”

And just like that, I melt. Gus remembers what I want on my pizza. How, I’m not even sure, because we’ve had maybe one conversation about it, weeks ago. But somehow he does.

This man is dangerous.

“That’swhat makes a Hayes rifle a Hayes rifle though,” Gus says, leaning back in the rolling chair he’s pulled to join me behind my desk, taking a swig of beer. “They’re still handmade with the same smelting process that Augustus and Llewellyn used back in the 1800s. Technology has come a long way, so I’m sure they wouldn’t recognize their process if they were to show back up today, but the point is, each one is still handmade, crafted by an actual blacksmith.”

I listen intently, loving how passionate Gus is about the family history. Popping the last piece of pizza crust into my mouth, I turn to look at him, letting my gaze drag slowly over his body, noting how much more relaxed he looks now. Yes, he’s still the same man in khakis and a button-down who walked in here a couple of hours ago and gave Aaron grief over cutting out a few minutes early, but now his sleeves are rolled up, showing off his forearms, and his top button is undone, the collar of his undershirt peeking through.

“So, is that why Hayes doesn’t do defense contracts? Since everything is handmade, you can’t produce things fast enough?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Gus shakes his head. “After losing his brother in the Battle of Atlanta, Augustus said never again. So even after reunification, he refused to supply weapons to the government. Obviously, he kept making them—they were a necessary part of life back then—but he didn’t want to be a part of that. Shortly after the war, he married Rose Anton, whose family was in agriculture, and started that business as well. From there, their kids grew it, and their kids, and…”

He motions with his hands that it continued from there, and I get it. It all snowballed. Makes sense, all the generations coming together each adding their own part, making the company into the massive name it is today.

“Six divisions, thousands of employees, hundreds of trademarks and patents later…” I finish for him.

“Here we are.”

Lifting my drink, I throw back the last of my beer, wishing that I had more. We finished off the pizza and the couple of beers that Gus brought down from his personal stash in no time, losing ourselves in conversation about everything from the trademark project I’m working on to my grandfather’s reaction to my mother returning home from a friend’s bachelorette party in Vegas married to an Irishman, from honest-to-God Ireland. Spoiler alert—my very Irish father learned all sorts of new Cajun curse words that day.

Like every other time with Gus, time slipped away from us with ease. It became way too easy to lose myself in talking to him, in listening to his stories. And right about now, I’d do anything for another set of drinks to appear on my desk, so that we had an excuse to stay.

“If you want, I’ll take you over to the blacksmith shop sometime, and you can see the process. It’s actually really interesting.”

“Yes, please!” I say, all but leaping from my chair.

Gus springs forward, arms shooting out as if to catch me. Grabbing ahold of my wrist, he pauses, making sure I’m okay, realizing a split second later I wasn’t going anywhere.