“He is my favorite, so I see him all the time. I like you on the front row, Uncle Trent, because Auntie Harper said you’d be the bestest dancer because you’ve got moves and you are my favorite Miami uncle.”
Trent looked over at Harper. “Moves?” he mouthed, even though his heart melted at being her favorite Miami uncle. It just made Harper laugh even harder.
It took three notes for him to realize what their little dance troupe was going to do.
“Fucking YMCA?” Trent said with a laugh as Petal swung her hips from left to right.
“Copy me,” she shouted, as she began to march up and down. Her arms periodically going up into the air and back down.
Fuck it. He might as well make a fool of himself. Everyone was on their feet. His wife was almost crying with laughter. Elliott shouted that Dred owed him a Gibson Citation guitar. Cujo was severely into it, with Drea cheering his name.
And shit. How long was the fucking verse? Surely there should have been a chorus by now.
Nik laughed as his boys joined in on the edge of the dance floor. Even Daniel was up dancing with Noah in his arms.
And then everyone burst into the actions.
And Petal laughed as she turned around and saw all the men who were important to her dancing in her troupe. Her curls swung as she jumped up and down making shapes that looked nothing like Y, M, C, or A.
But it didn’t matter, because people filtered onto the dance floor, and Harper and Travis were suddenly right next to him, making letter shapes in the air. Cujo swung Drea around as Lexi encouraged Jordan to keep dancing. Reid kept putting his hands on Lia’s ass and Petal marched straight over to him and smacked his hands.
It was messy. It was loud.
It was fucking family and they were his heart.
“Are you okay?” Harper asked.
Trent nodded. “Yeah. I’m better than okay. Merry Christmas, Darlin’.”
Thank you!
Dear Readers,
I hope you loved reading The Sweetest Gift. And for those of you who tirelessly asked for a return to these two series, I hope it lived up to your expectations. If you have a minute to spare, I hope you’ll consider taking the time to leave a review at whichever retail platform you prefer.
Read on for the opening of Love In Numbers, my new contemporary romance series set in a Denver Gin Distillery. Hot men, smart women, and a barrel full of ice-cold gin.
Huge Hugs,
Scarlett
Love In Numbers
Emerson Dyer reached the door of her father’s office in their family-run gin distillery. She ran her fingertips across the brass plate with his name on it. He’d regaled her a thousand times with the story of how her mother had hung it when they’d first bought the place. “I miss you, Dad,” she murmured, before pushing the door open.
The office was still her father’s. His raincoat still hung on the back of the door. The Denver Broncos mug she’d got him for Father’s Day when she was fifteen sat on his desk. Her mind returned to those frantic moments of finding him on the floor two months earlier. Of screaming for her younger brother, Jake, who as master distiller had just started the next batch of Dyer’s Medallion gin for the day. She’d frantically dialed 911 and balanced her phone beneath her ear, while trying her best to deliver CPR to the man who had loved them so fiercely— who had been there for them ever since the accident happened fifteen years ago, when their mother had died a week after Emerson’s fifteenth birthday.
It hadn’t been enough.
The doctors had tried to reassure her there was nothing she could have done that would have saved him.
Eight weeks, and thinking about that day still had the ability to take her breath away. She’d never get to hear another of his ridiculous dad jokes, tease him for his vast collection of blue shirts, or plant seeds with him in his greenhouse.
She swallowed deeply and tried to shake the image from her head. She’d barely stepped into his office since then, beyond grabbing the occasional piece of paperwork. Piles of unopened envelopes sat on the desk, and her stomach lurched at the thought of dealing with them. While it was hard to admit it to others, she knew she was overwhelmed. But the letter in her father’s will left her with no choice but to step into his shoes, shoes that were impossible to fill.
My darling Emerson, he’d written.
If you are reading this letter, it means I’ve gone exactly when I was meant to, and way sooner than I hoped. I hope you know how proud I am of you. You have been my rock since your mom died, and now I have to ask you to be the glue once more. Jake and Olivia are going to need you more than ever. They’ll drift without you, you’ll all drift without each other. You have to run the distillery, keep everyone together. You are all each other has got. I have faith in you, Emsie-bobs.
With all my love,
Dad xxx
Her father had never realized it, but his belief in not owing anybody anything had put the family-owned distillery at risk without any savings net or loans to pad their expenses. Ever since their mother had died, her father had been terrified that something unexpected was going to happen to him. And the idea of the three of them being left with a business in debt was more than he could process. As a result, they had been running month to month because her father had remained entrenched in his position.
Every day was a struggle to balance it all.
“Knock, knock.” Jake burst through the door, running his hand through his shoulder-length, dark hair that matched her own. She envied the natural waves he’d been blessed with, compared to her own pin-straight locks. “Wanted to catch you before you head out to the airport. Have you got the preliminary production schedule for the month?”
“It’s on my desk next door. I can’t believe it’s the start of October already,” she replied. “Are you sure you don’t want to switch places and go to the liquor awards in my place? You know you love San Francisco.”
Jake looked down at his gray jeans with holes in them and his black-and-red plaid shirt. “Not exactly dressed for it. And unless you want to do a twelve-hour production shift every day for the next three days, you’re the only one who can go.”
Emerson slipped her purse off her shoulder and pulled out the large black bags she brought with her. “I wish Liv felt better so she could go.”
At the beginning of June, a violent storm had ravaged the distillery’s events hall, leaving it partially roofless and flooded. They had been forced to close it and had done everything they could to accommodate all of the weddings they had booked. The tasting room and bar in the main building had the same rustic ambience—red brick, faded wood, and a hint of contemporary in the bar and seating area, but it was designed for something a lot more intimate. Private tours, tastings, even the occasional book club. There had only been so many wedding parties that had been small enough to fit. They’d had to cancel the majority of weddings for the summer months. Losing out on peak season weddings had been ruinous to their cash flow. As damage control, her father, just before he’d died, had offered cancellations without loss of deposits to wedding parties as far out as March the following year, a decision that had exasperated Emerson.
As the distillery’s event planner, social media manager, and all-around administrator, Olivia had carried the brunt of informing all the wedding parties about the flood. They’d ranted, sworn at her, and even made threats against Olivia and the company. One groom had taken to stalking Olivia on her personal social media profiles. Dyer’s Gin Distillery’s social media pages had been flooded with hateful comments, fueling online trolls until it became too much for Liv. The deep depression and frightening levels of anxiety had shown signs of lifting as of late, but it was still too early to expect their youngest sibling to return to work.