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Gemma made her way into the room and took a quick look at the stage and saw the large trophy that she would somehow be taking home to the Rexford Rum Distillery in Miami. Like it will even fit in the overhead bin.
Smiling at those who politely waved and nodded in her direction, Gemma realized that she would need liquid fortification to get through the rest of the evening and made her way to the bar. If there was ever a place where one could get a drink, it should be this awards banquet. But when she arrived at the large bar, she found herself next to several men—all sniffing their glasses, swirling, sipping, smacking their lips. They were turning what should have been a casual drink into a spectacle. Owners and CEOs of some of the world’s biggest rum brands drank their own brands, comparing the depth of caramel color and strength of spicy notes, boasting to their contemporaries about their own successes, but they all quieted when she approached, sliding their eyes over to her. Normally, Gemma didn’t mind attention, but at the conference, she saw it as scrutiny. Everyone was trying to figure out the young female distiller who had been called one of the best in the world. She knew she made good rum. But the accolades made her feel uncomfortable.
“Ms. Rexford,” the bartender greeted her, no doubt recognizing her from her photo in the conference’s itinerary. “What can I get you tonight?”
She eyed the rows of bottles behind the bar, where some of the best rums in the world were represented, and she almost asked for a drink from her own bottle—her usual short glass holding a finger or two of the spiced honey blend that had landed her such a prestigious award, but she changed her mind. She wanted something different. “I’ll have a rumrunner.”
The bartender blinked in what she imagined must be surprise. She was pretty sure that she was the only person in the room full of rum connoisseurs who’d dared to order a mixed drink. “With Rexford Rum, I assume?”
“No,” she told him, still scanning the various bottles on display behind the bar. “I’ll have Cain.”
“Well, if that isn’t music to my ears.” The deep, smooth baritone voice spoke from behind her, causing her spine to straighten and making her nerve endings tingle. Gemma took a deep breath and turned around to see Tom Cain, of Cain Rum, standing there, a devilish smirk on his lips. “I always wanted to hear you say those words.”
Gemma wasn’t normally one to be flustered by a man, but with the heir of Cain Rum in front of her, she had to work her hardest at being cool, pretending he didn’t affect her, even though he was easily one of the sexiest men Gemma had ever seen. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she told him, trying not to look directly into those icy blue eyes of his. “I figured if there was a rum that one had to load down with sugar and juice, it might as well be yours.”
Tom clasped his chest dramatically. “Oh! You hurt me,” he said while she laughed and shook her head at his dramatics.
Both of them were figures in the rum industry. While she worked out of the Rexford Rum Distillery, a small family business with her brothers, which had risen to international glory, Tom Cain operated Cain Rum in New York City, but they sold a mass-produced rum. Cain had a large facility and machines that she couldn’t even fit inside the small building where most of their small-batch rum was made. Despite the differences in their companies and families, the Rexfords and the Cains shared quite an intense rivalry—but it was a personal one. Every time she thought of the Cains, Gemma was bitterly reminded of her brother Reid’s ex-wife, Carolina, who’d stolen many of the Rexford family’s rum recipes and then married Tom’s father, John.
The air between them turned serious, and they stared at each other in silence. His wavy black hair was pushed back, and he’d put on an extremely well-tailored dark suit for the event. Despite the bad blood that existed between their families, she couldn’t deny that she was attracted to him. Gemma could feel her heart rate speeding up as she looked up at him. He made his interest in her known. His eyes were on her body, and he absently drew the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth. His attention emboldened her, and she took a step closer, teasing him.
“Ma’am, your drink,” the bartender interrupted, disturbing her thoughts as he passed over her glass.
Giving herself a moment to recover from the potency of Tom’s gaze, Gemma turned to fully face the bartender, grateful for the distraction. “I’m too young to be a ma’am, aren’t I?” she lightly scolded him with a smile. “But thank you,” she said, winking as she accepted the drink. When she turned back to Tom, she could tell his eyes were on her mouth. It seemed he was still transfixed by her, and it was thrilling. She stepped a little closer to him as she brought the straw to her lips and drank.
The cocktail was much sweeter than she liked, but it was cool on her parched throat, and she sipped again.
She heard Tom clear his throat. “How’s your drink?”
She took another taste and raised her eyes to meet his. Again, she had to fight to not screw up her face at the drink. There was a reason she never ordered cocktails. When she was done, she shrugged. “It’s quite sweet. But the rum is fine.”
“Especially when you load it down with sugar?” he asked before turning to the bartender. “A double of the Rexford Honey Blend, please. Neat.”
“Exactly. You guys make a pretty good rum. But you already know that, don’t you?”
“I know it’s a good rum. We have great blenders and distillers.”
“But they’re not the best,” she pointed out.
He looked her up and down again. “Apparently not,” he said. “That title belongs to you this year.”
Gemma looked over her shoulder at the dais on the opposite end of the conference room, where she would be accepting her award later that night. “So they tell me. You know, I didn’t realize that you had actual employees. When I think Cain, I just picture a big factory full of automated equipment.” She thought she saw the faintest flinch on his face, so she kept going. “But I guess you have to have someone on the floor, right? Maybe your guys could be the best in the world, too—if you weren’t using my stolen recipes, that is.”
She caught the twitch in his jaw, and she knew she’d hit a nerve alluding to what Carolina had done. He shook his head. “That had nothing to do with me.”
“Your last name is Cain, isn’t it?” she asked, pointing to the bottle behind the bar. “Your name is on that bottle.”
“Trust me, if you taste the rum—not covered up with juice—you’ll see it’s not your recipe. We’ve never used the recipes that Carolina brought to us. I wouldn’t allow it.”
“Well, don’t you suddenly have a whole heaping pile of integrity.” He said nothing, and she smiled. “It’s about time.”
A beat of silence passed between them, and she tried to read his expression. He was impassable, but a grin turned up the corner of his lips. He turned his attention back to the bartender, gesturing to the bottle of Cain Rum behind the bar, and the server handed it over to him, along with a short glass.
“Try it,” he said, pouring the amber liquid into the glass. “I mean, if you think your palate is sophisticated enough to tell the difference,” he challenged, goading her.
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” she told him haughtily. “My palate is plenty sophisticated.”
He blinked, probably surprised at her profanity. “Clearly. Judging by that language.”
