Over a Barrel, page 3
Etienne poured a round of shots, and as their clients clinked their glasses together, Al raised hers to CC. If CC had thought her seatmate from the weekend, her date for Friday night, had vanished beneath the designer threads, the sexy confidence in her I look forward to working with you made clear two things: that woman hadn’t gone anywhere, and this deal was about to get way more complicated.
Chapter Four
CC had intended to swing by home and change into something more Friday-night-out, but by the time she left her firm’s Benson Tower office, she had less than fifteen minutes to get to Dram in the Bywater. She pushed through the door of the packed gastropub with less than a minute to spare. She glanced around the immediate vicinity for Al. Not seeing her, CC breathed a sigh of relief. She hated being late. She hung her trench coat on one of the hooks by the door, chuckling at the seasonal-yet-not-for-New-Orleans snowflakes dangling from the rafters, then navigated around the patrons at the host stand and through the pub tables in the center of the dining area.
Reaching the bar was like running a gauntlet, but at least everyone she accidentally bumped into was kind, some even shooting her interested looks. If Tchin Tchin was her favorite distillery in town, Dram was her favorite restaurant. Expressly queer-friendly, the Bywater sensation was full of people like her in a town—hell, country—where it felt like precious few places were still safe. But at Dram, the word Haven was etched in copper in the multicolored stained glass above the door, and that was what it had always felt like to CC. No shame or hiding here, just loud and proud queer folk living their best lives.
The award-winning food and drinks were the cherry on top.
As she neared the bar, CC kept her eyes peeled for Al. Still not seeing her, she diverted to the relatively quiet end of the bar where friends and family stools were tucked near the bar flip. She snagged the one Colby’s polka-dot raincoat was draped over and dragged it out of the way of the bar mat where Tony, the head bartender and part owner of Dram, set two drinks for pickup.
He took one look at her and whistled low. “That kind of week?”
She laid her phone on the bar, then gathered up her massive halo of humidity curls into a topknot. “You have no idea.”
“You interested in the specials?” He swiped his own black curls off his forehead, his mohawk similarly a humidity-amped riot. “Fireside Rye is back.”
She loved Tony’s spicy winter concoction, but she needed something stronger tonight. “Vieux Carré.”
“Oof, liquor in a water glass. It really has been a week.” Tony called for the rolling ladder, then scaled to the top-shelf whiskeys for the Tchin Tchin he knew she preferred.
CC—and at least half the bar—admired Tony’s trim hipster body poured into dark jeans, a tight vest, and a light blue dress shirt. While she had no sexual interest in Tony, she could appreciate a fine ass on anyone. And Tony’s was one of the finest.
“Stop staring.”
CC glanced to the side and found her sister staring too. “You first.”
Colby’s grin was positively wicked as she pecked CC’s cheek. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Wednesday morning. I heard you come and go on your side of the house, and I heard that godforsaken bullet blender you think makes actual breakfast, but otherwise you’ve been Casper.” They shared a shotgun double a few blocks from Dram. Each had their own space, but they still existed under one roof and shared a large backyard and pool, a major selling point for two women who’d grown up with chilly summers and zero humidity.
“I’ve been negotiating a letter of intent for a client.”
Colby unbuttoned her chef’s coat, the polka dots of her dress underneath matching her coat . . . and her Crocs. “Did you get it signed?” she asked as she climbed onto the stool beside her.
“Clients are signing over dinner tonight.” Three pages of blood, sweat, and tears. None of the last, really, but plenty of paper cuts and a lot of mental sweat. Al had been a tough negotiator. Tough, but fair. She’d reined in Dotson the Younger’s nonmarket terms multiple times. Something about Robert bothered CC—she didn’t trust him—but his father seemed genuine. Bo seemed to understand the prize he was getting and wanted to do right by Jen and Etienne. So did CC, which was why she’d been working longer hours than usual.
Tony returned with her drink, plus shots for Colby and himself. A quick toast, then CC took a healthy sip of the spicy smooth cocktail with its herbal twist. She never ordered these outside of New Orleans; they’d never be as good. The French Quarter original went a long way to easing CC down from the stressful work week.
“When’s the deal close?” Colby asked.
“December 29,” she said, wincing internally.
Colby winced right out in the open. Year-end deals were a fact of life for transactional attorneys. In her fifteen-plus years of practice, CC could count on one hand her deal-free Decembers. Colby had lived through the last five with her. “Why do you do this again?” her sister asked.
“Because I love it.”
“Good thing I love you too. Guess I’m flying solo for Hanukkah?”
“Hey, I just did Thanksgiving solo.” She tilted her glass toward Colby. “You can handle Hanukkah.” Took another sip. “I’m aiming to have this deal buttoned up in time to make Christmas.” Theirs was a multifaith family, their father Methodist, their mother Jewish. Usually, the holidays fell close enough that she and Colby could make one quick trip out from New Orleans together. This year, however, Hanukkah fell early in December.
Colby plucked the glass right out of CC’s hand and polished off the rest of the cocktail. “That’s for being a pain in my ass.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“I know, babe.” Colby kissed her temple before hopping off her stool and rebuttoning her chef’s coat. “You want dinner? Greg’s doing goulash tonight. It’s perfect for this weather.”
“Tempting, but I didn’t eat lunch until three.” Colby opened her mouth to chide her, and CC cut off her well-intentioned lecture. “Whatever you’ve got for the Sweet Spot will be perfect.”
Colby squinted a hazel eye, deciding whether to lecture still, but a shout from the kitchen saved CC’s day. Colby let out a frustrated huff, sending a long red wave that had escaped her own topknot fluttering. “Give me ten.”
CC was grateful she didn’t push. If she had, CC would’ve had to confess it wasn’t exhaustion, but nerves killing her appetite. While she and Al had spoken and exchanged emails countless times the past three days, all those points of contact had been in a purely professional context.
“Will you think me terribly forward if I come right out and ask to take you to bed?”
Purely unprofessional.
CC rotated on her stool, bringing her face to face with the cause of the belly gremlins. “You? No.”
“Would you be terribly disappointed if it was just to sleep?” Al smiled, not her usual sexy one, but a tired one that was a mirror of how CC felt right then too.
“Definitely not.”
Al set her phone facedown on the bar and clambered onto the stool Colby had vacated, just as easily in today’s three-piece twill suit as she had in the maxi skirt and sweater from Sunday. “Opposing counsel put me through the wringer this week.”
“And we’re just getting started.”
“Mama Al!” A muscled arm in chef’s whites snaked between them, then around Al’s front, engulfing her in a hug. “Where you been?” Greg, the head chef and Tony’s husband, gave her cheek a smacking kiss.
Al laughed and leaned into Greg’s hold like old friends, like . . . family? CC didn’t think she was related to Tony, despite their New York connection, and Greg was born and raised in New Orleans. “Working, Sonoma, working.”
“Oh!” Greg—who, in CC’s experience, was already an excitable fellow—grew impossibly more excited. “Did you—”
“I did!” From her purse, Al withdrew a jar that she handed to Greg.
He held it to his chest, and for a second, CC was sure he would pet it and call it his precious. “This shit is crack,” he said, far more Greg-like.
“What is it?” CC asked.
Al splayed her hands, fingers wide. “The base of that gravy my grandkids covered the walls with.”
Greg glanced back and forth between them, as if suddenly catching on to the fact two people he knew were sitting side by side companionably. “I think I interrupted.”
CC did the same, glancing between chef and attorney. “And I feel like I walked into a convo in progress, even though I was here first.”
Everyone laughed, momentary awkwardness broken. “We’re family,” Tony said as he returned to their end of the bar. “Or as near as.”
“My son, Tyler, runs Rosin Hospitality,” Al explained. “Which is Greg’s business partner in this venture.”
“And Ty,” Greg said, “is married to my best friend’s ex-wife.”
Facts that did not make CC any less confused. “I think I need a flowchart.”
Al was still wiping away the tears from her laugh when Tony placed a Manhattan on the bar for her and a fresh Vieux Carré for CC. “I saw Colby steal most of yours.”
“And how do you two know each other?” Greg asked, gesturing between her and Al.
CC’s face heated, then heated more when Al shifted on her stool so her leg pressed against hers under the bar. Above the bar, Al swatted Greg’s chest, distracting his knowing brown eyes. “We were seatmates on the flight back to New Orleans.”
He tipped his head back and laughed, almost as loud as Al just had over CC’s flow chart comment. “Half the regulars in this place have been trying to pick up CC since Colby first brought her in here, and you manage it on a plane.” He turned his attention to CC. “You know, this one”—he waggled a finger Al’s direction—“is trouble.”
“Oh, I’m aware.” On more than one level.
He laughed again. “This one might give you a run for your money,” he said to Al, then tapped the bar with the hand not holding the gravy base. “I’ll go check on your dessert,” he told CC, then asked Al, “You want anything?”
“Whatever she’s having.”
Greg leaned across the bar flip, gave his husband a quick kiss, then headed back to the kitchen. Relatively alone again, CC reached for her drink and angled toward Al. “I went straight for dessert. Doesn’t mean you have to.”
Al nudged her knee higher, spreading CC’s thighs farther apart. “Less courses means we get to bed sooner.”
“To sleep still?”
The smoldering look in Al’s dark eyes made CC wonder. Had her thoughts instead strayed the same heated direction as CC’s? Before either of them could say another word, though, Al’s phone vibrated on the bar top. She flipped it over; Rob Dotson’s name lit up the screen.
CC’s rang the next second, Jen’s picture on-screen. “Hopefully it’s good news.”
They spun opposite directions to answer, backs to each other, as the noise in the pub swelled. A large party broke out into “Jingle Bells,” the song catching on with other nearby tables too. CC could barely hear her own client, much less Al talking to hers.
Tony appeared across the bar from them and tossed a key ring to Al. “Use the office and wine closet.”
“Hold just a second,” CC told Jen, then followed Al toward the service area of the restaurant.
Al walked past the wine closet to the office, unlocked it, and gestured for CC to enter. Two minutes, she mouthed, then unlocked the next-door wine closet and disappeared inside.
CC closed the office door behind her and lifted the phone back to her ear. “Alright, Jen, I can hear now. What’s going on?”
“Do you think we could get something added to the LOI that says the real estate won’t be sold separate from the business?”
The unease that had lived at the back of CC’s mind the past three days reared its head again. “You think Dotson might?” She crossed the office and leaned a hip against the desk scattered with spiral notebooks and restaurant supply catalogues. “Did they say something to make you think that?” CC had heard nothing of the sort, but other than their meeting Wednesday, her only contact with the Dotsons had been through Al.
“It’s not what they said,” Jen replied, “so much as what they didn’t. All they talk about, especially Rob, is the business, the whiskey, and the operation, but like, in a vacuum, separate from the distillery itself. And their counsel . . .”
CC straightened. “Al?”
“You said she’s a real estate attorney.”
“The real estate is half the value of the deal. I’d be more concerned if there wasn’t a real estate attorney involved. But let me talk to her and see what we can get.”
“You think you can reach her now?”
The office door opened, the woman herself entering. “Yeah, should be able to. Give me ten, and I’ll get back to you.” She hung up and set her phone on the desk while Al closed the door.
She leaned against the back of the closest guest chair facing the desk. “My clients think yours are balking.”
“Not balking, just concerned.”
“About? You’ve seen the cash flow and the financing term sheet. You’ve got contingencies.”
CC didn’t see the point in hiding the ball. Not when their clients were literally across the table from each other. They’d move forward with this deal tonight or not. “Are your clients planning to sell the land and move the business elsewhere?”
Al’s brows raced north. “Why would they?” The surprise in her voice seemed genuine. Either she was a fantastic actress, or this was the first she’d heard about selling the land too. “The current location, that building is ideal for the brand.”
“Would they commit to a covenant not to sell?”
Al chuckled as she circled to the front of the chair. “You’ve been doing this long enough to know that one”—she held up a finger—“they’re not going to tie their hands like that, and two”—raised a second one—“this is a letter of intent. Covenants get negotiated in the asset purchase agreement.”
All correct. None the answers CC wanted. “A right of first offer, then?” Those were sometimes specified in term sheets.
“Same answer.”
Albeit rarely.
She pushed off the desk, meeting Al in the narrow space between them. “Five years ago, I walked into that tasting room, and it was a complete mess. Sections of the roof were missing, the walls shook, and there were critters crawling through the rotted-out floors.”
“They’ve restored it beautifully.”
“And their hands and hearts are on every piece of it. We just don’t want a bulldozer to come in and—”
The rest of her words were stolen by Al’s kiss. By her mouth covering CC’s, her tongue tangling with whatever argument CC was making. Obliterating it from her mind. She clasped Al by the jacket lapels and hauled her closer, craving those tits, that body pressed against hers. If they weren’t so far from the damn wall, she’d shove Al up against it and pray they didn’t make it shake.
Shaking walls.
The deal.
Fuck.
She wrenched their lips apart and staggered back until the backs of her thighs hit the front edge of the desk. “We can’t do this.”
“Unless you’re suddenly going to become incompetent, I don’t see how that’s possible.” Al moved between her spread legs and coasted her hands up CC’s thighs, the teasing touch sending heat straight to CC’s center. “Competence is such a fucking turn-on.”
Regretfully—so, so regretfully—CC laid her hands over Al’s and stopped their journey toward where she wanted them most. “My competence dictates we can’t do this because one”—she tapped the back of Al’s right hand—“ethics, and two’’—tapped the back of her left one—“I have to trust you and myself that what we’re doing is for our clients, not for ourselves. These clients mean something to me, Al.”
“And mine don’t?”
Al’s sharp tone and the sudden jerk of her hands, as if to yank them free, made CC realize how bad that had sounded. She clasped Al’s hands before they were gone for good. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just . . .” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and regathered her words. When she opened her eyes again, Al’s dark ones were watching her closely, the lines at the corners deepened. “I have to be able to fight for them and not get distracted by the woman I want to fuck.”
Al’s expression relaxed, and one corner of her mouth began to hitch. “Well, that’s good to hear.”
“After we close.”
The threatening smirk disappeared, and CC was afraid Al would too, especially once she withdrew her hands. But then Al crossed her arms over her chest, plumping her breasts and exposing the hint of orange lace that matched today’s “tie” disappearing beneath the plaid vest. “That’s not fair,” CC said.
Al flicked a hand at her. “Neither is you all flushed and heaving.”
“Pause.” She stood, forcing Al to step back and creating some much-needed space between them. “My clients need some assurances on the future use of the land.”
“We can negotiate something in the agreement, and if we can’t, then your client walks. It’s a nonbinding letter of intent.”
“After they’ve held the property for Dotson and spent how many dollars on me and other fees?”
“Dotson came to them, so it’s not like the property or assets were on the market. There’s no loss there. As for costs, we can agree to a breakup fee.” That sounded better, and CC had already talked to Jen and Etienne about their number. But she wasn’t above making Al sweat an extra few seconds. “Come on, CC. This is us, as two professionals, ignoring the heaving bosoms of it all.”
Her tough negotiator mask cracked, a chuckle sneaking out.
“Our clients are at a dinner table. Let’s give them something to celebrate, Red.”
CC ignored the wave of desire Al’s Red sent crashing through her and turned instead. She found a pen among the mess of Tony and Greg’s desk, tore off a corner of a catalogue, and wrote the number she was authorized to present to Al.
