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"Oh my gosh!" I burst into a fit of laughter. "Is that Paul?"
"He volunteered!" Sheila sings, giving her husband a little wave. He blows her a kiss in return. "Paul's our designated driver for tonight."
"Still. Poor man."
Paul grins as he tips his hat and gives a little bow.
"Come on, ladies," he calls to us, opening one of the van's sliding doors. "Your carriage awaits."
Sheila squeals and loops her arm through mine.
"Well, let's get on with it, girls! This night isn't going to start itself!"
CHAPTER2
Brett
Denise Lawson. That's the name of the day.
The name that is currently rattling around in my brain.
The car hits a bump in the road, and I almost drop my papers to the floor. I won't see her until tomorrow, so there's no real need to study this much. But for some reason, I can't bring myself to put the papers away yet.
I have all her information here. Everything except her photo, which my secretary accidentally left on the printer.
I know her middle name is Elizabeth. I know she's in her mid-forties. And I know she lived in Houston until about a year ago when her mother passed and left her the Sugar Breeze Bakery, a business she now runs herself. It's enough for me to complete the job I came out here to do.
And yet, it somehow doesn't feel like enough.
I got put on this bakery assignment at the last minute after one of our junior analysts screwed up royally. And if there is one thing the higher-ups at Westrock Investments don't take to kindly, it's screwups.
So even though I don't normally travel for work anymore — I'm way too senior for that —I figure cleaning up this mess will help earn me some goodwill, especially since I'm up for partner in a few months.
Plus, the bakery is in Barton Beach, where my brother lives. And I figure coming out for one weekend will give us a chance to catch up.
"We're almost there, sir," the driver says from the front seat, and I know it's time to pull myself together.
Slipping my files back into their folder, I tuck everything into my briefcase. "You'll stay in the neighborhood and wait until we're finished?" I ask.
"Yes, sir," he answers promptly. "I'll go get dinner while I wait. You have my number. Feel free to call me over when you're ready."
"Thank you."
The car slows to a stop outside the bar.
The Silver Coop, as my brother decided to name it. I told him it was a risky name, that it would make people think of farms and chickens before thinking about the pun on our last name, Cooper.
But my brother has always loved putting on a show. Naming the bar after himself was a logical next step in that lifelong need for performance.
When I step into the bar, it's a lot more packed than I expect. About three dozen people are crammed into its small space, most of whom seem to be young college-age women. Despite the number of people, the mood is relatively calm. Although, the longer I look, the more I realize that's not the right word. More like enraptured. Hypnotized.
Because, of course, they've all crowded aroundhim.
The numerous heads of the patrons part long enough that I can finally spot Bash at the head of them all.
He's behind the bar, pouring shots and mixing margaritas. And all the while, he's cracking jokes and winking at women. And unlike me, the grayer his hair becomes, the more dashing women seem to find him.
Perhaps "The Silver Coop" isn't such a poor choice of name after all.
