The kiss was sweet and soft and teasing and all but melted her bones. She’d kissed a few boys, but none like Sullivan Keene. None who meant it like him. Almost like he needed to touch her, hold her, to make his world right.
After he gave a low groan, he backed away and shifted onto his side, resting his head on his hand. “Better stop that, or your Pops is going to bury me six feet under.”
Clara mirrored his posture. “We both know who would win in a fight, and it wouldn’t be my Pops.”
Sullivan laughed and winked. “Well, in that case…” He wrapped his arm around her, tugging her in close. She stared up at him, her heart breaking for the pain she could see hidden behind the strong wall he projected. His mother had died two years ago after a long, cruel fight with cancer. But nothing got better after her death; it only got worse.
Her heart bled for him. “Everything’s going to be all right, Sullivan. You’ll see.”
His brows drew together as emotion filled those breathtaking eyes. “I know it will. Because one day we’ll get married and I’ll give you the life you’ve always wanted. Make you the happiest girl in the world.”
“I already am the happiest girl,” she said.
The heartbreak faded with his warm smile. “Yeah, but you’d also really like the wedding and the dress and all that girly shit.”
“You’re right,” she said, lifting up her head until she brought her mouth close to his. “I would like all that girly shit.”
This time, she kissed him, and she wouldn’t let him pull away when he groaned again.
A car door slamming brought Clara’s attention back to the work in front of her. She blinked, surprised to find tears on her face. Before Sullivan’s mother died, everything had been easy between them, simpler, with a whole world ahead of them. Back then, Sullivan was different. She’d been different. More carefree and not so guarded. She missed that old version of herself.
Her office door burst open. She was unsurprised when Amelia and Maisie strode in. She’d called them a half hour ago. “I’ve got good news and bad,” she announced, getting right to the point of the meeting. “What do you want first?”
“The good,” said Maisie, taking a seat on the tufted chair in the corner by the window.
Amelia sat on the armrest. “Yup, always the good first.”
Clara took a big, deep breath, steadying herself before addressing them again. “This morning, two other distributors reached out with offers to represent us.”
“No shit?” Amelia asked, eyes huge.
Clara nodded. “True.”
“Wow,” Maisie said with a bright smile. “That is amazing news.”
“It’s the exact news we’ve been waiting for,” Clara agreed. “But that said, the terms are terrible.”
Maisie’s smile fell. “That’s the bad news, then?”
“Exactly,” Clara confirmed. She pushed away from her desk and rubbed her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara. “Ronnie sent over his terms too.” When she dropped her hands, she glanced between her sisters and added, “All of the contracts definitely benefit the distributors more than us and give them far more control than I’d like.”
“We definitely don’t want that,” Amelia said. “This is our company. Our beer. Pops’ beer.”
“Hell yeah,” Maisie agreed. “What can we do now?”
“It’s simple,” Clara explained, rising and moving to the window, looking out at that big tree again. “We need leverage to lessen their profit margin. All three companies have offered us a 28 percent profit margin for the distributors’ share, which would give us seventy-two percent of the profit. We need to get that number closer to twenty-five or less so we end up with seventy-five percent of the profit.”
From behind Clara, Maisie asked, “Okay, ignoring profit margins, do any of the distributors stand out?”
Clara turned back around. “Ronnie’s looking like our best shot. His company knows how to sell craft beer. They made Moose Ridge huge in a very short time. They’ve got everything we need, including a brand manager responsible for Foxy Diva’s product line. Most importantly, they’re financially strong and growing.”
“But the profit margin?” Amelia asked.
“But the profit margin is a problem,” Clara agreed, moving around to sit on the edge of her desk. She folded her arms and told it to her sisters straight. “I don’t want to rush this and accept whatever deal they throw at us. We need a better offer, but we need leverage to ask for a better one.”
Maisie nibbled her lip then asked, “All right, how do we do that?”
“And there lies the problem,” Clara said, dead serious. “Do either of you have any ideas?”
“Oh, this is bad,” Amelia said, the color draining from her face. “You always have ideas.”
“Don’t faint on me,” Clara said with a soft laugh. “We’ve got this. Something will come to me. It always does. We just need to think bigger. We need more buzz, more exposure, more reasons that will have these distributors fighting over us. The offers all expire in a month, so we’ve got time to turn this around in our favor.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Maisie said.
Clara agreed with a nod as the alarm on her cell phone beeped. She headed back around her desk and turned it off. “I need to grab Mason from school, but let’s think on this. We need to push ahead. We need to make this work for all of us.” Even if Maisie agreed to a lesser share of profit now that she only did graphic design for the company, they all needed this company to succeed. “This is it, our one chance to take our little company and make it big.” She moved to the door and looked back at her sisters. “Until we get what we want, we can’t stop. Got it?”
“Got it,” her sisters said in unison.
Clara took a step out the door when Maisie added, “But you’re going to think of something, right? I mean, this is your wheelhouse Clara, not ours.”
Clara smiled back at her. “I’ll come up with something brilliant. I promise.”
Late into the morning, Sullivan arrived at the office of Dr. Elizabeth Stevens. Determined to deal with his past and be a better man by the time he left River Rock and to leave all his trauma there, behind him, he figured a therapist was his best way forward. The office was located in an old Victorian home a block off Main Street. He climbed the porch steps, opened the front door, and was greeted by a surprise. Working behind the desk was Gloria Winters, the mother of a player from his old baseball team.
“Sullivan Keene, as I live and breathe,” she said, her wise brown eyes just as he remembered them. “My goodness, it’s so nice to see you.”
Sullivan shut the door behind him. “You as well, Mrs. Winters. How’s Kenny doing?”
She grabbed a picture off her desk, flipped it around, and showed him Kenny with his wife and three young children. “He’s a busy family man now, not playing much baseball these days. But he’s got my oldest grandson playing local tee-ball.”
“Good stuff,” Sullivan said.
Before he could even sit down, the door next to Mrs. Winters’ desk opened. Dr. Elizabeth Stevens was younger than he was expecting, but still older than him. He guessed mid-to-late forties, with shoulder-length brown hair that was lighter on the ends and hazel eyes that seemed far too clever for her years. “Mr. Keene, please come on in.” Elizabeth moved aside for Sullivan to enter the room consisting of a large desk with a computer and telephone, along with a seating area.