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Kerfuffle? Who the hell saidkerfuffle?
Flynn gave me a long, slow up and down, then pursed his lips and turned away.
“I’d love a moment of your time!” I called to his back. “I have a business proposition you really want to hear—”
That got his attention. “You?” he demanded, turning back toward me. “Have a business proposition forme? Really.”
“Uh. Yes? I mean, we’re both in the wine and spirits business, right? You’re manufacturing, I’m distribution. You might say we’re kissing cousins, in a way.”
I forced a laugh.
Flynn didn’t.
Jesus. I cleared my throat. “Anyway, you might know I’ve been working for Fortress Holdings CPG in New York for three years now—”
Flynn’s eyes flared for a second like he recognized the name, which was a great sign, but then his expression shuttered, and when another memory from three years ago assaulted me—“Just leave, Frog. Go back to your job in New York and pretend this night never happened.”—I realized that reminding him of New York just now might have been a critical error.
“How in the world would I know that, Wellbridge? And why the heck would I care? Believe it or not, I don’t spend my time pondering the day-to-day lives of former Honeybridgers.” He gave a pointed glance at my leather folio. “Not interested.”
“But—”
“I’m busy.”
“You haven’t even heard the terms of the—”
“What part of not interested are you not getting?”
My nervousness evaporated under a flare of annoyance. “I’m asking for ten minutes of your time, Flynn. As a professional courtesy.”
His expression turned from frosty to glacial. “And I’m telling you,Wellbridge, that I don’t have ten minutes. You’re not the only one with an important job. I have a business to run.”
Never had anyone said my name with such utter disdain… which was really saying something when you remembered that I’d grown up in a town half-full of Honeycutts.
But I had a job to do here. A contract to get signed. A vice presidency to obtain.
I straightened my spine. “Then I’ll sit here and wait,” I said obstinately.
Ernie pulled out his wallet and dropped some bills on the counter. “I’ve gotta get going anyway. JT, you can take my seat.”
“No, he can’t.” Flynn shot Ernie a dirty look. “Seats are for paying customers.”
“Great!” I enthused, taking Ernie’s stool. “I’m starving. Can I see a menu?”
Flynn rolled his eyes and pointed to the two enormous chalkboard menus over his head—one for drinks and the other for food—which were artfully decorated with leafy green vines and swirls… and which anyone could have seen if they hadn’t been utterly distracted by the man standing beneath them.
“Oh. Right. Okay. I’ll have—” I glanced at the food menu and tried to ignore the heat of my cheeks, which suggested that my face was probably pulsing red like the siren on a fire engine.
“Ennhhh.” Flynn made a noise like a game show buzzer. “Never mind. Too slow. You’ll get what I give you.” He slapped open the swinging door beneath the chalkboard and disappeared into the kitchen.
Well. That went stunningly.
The host from the front—Dan, according to his name tag—lifted the pass-through so he could take over the bar. He glanced at the kitchen door, which was still swinging, then turned his accusing glare on me.
I smiled winningly. “So, could I try some of your amazing mead?”
“Are you… Frog? Frog Wellbridge?”
“Yeah. I, uh… I guess that’s me,” I agreed.
