Over a Barrel, page 5
“That’s why we negotiate.” Al dropped into the visitor chair. “Not one of our problems.”
“Problems, as in plural.”
She winked. “Was softening you up.”
“I have a question first.” One that had intrigued her for the better part of a week. “How did a real estate lawyer become Dotson’s go-to closer on their whiskey deals?” No one person’s journey in the legal profession was exactly the same, and CC was particularly interested in those that took interesting twists and turns. Perhaps because her own had swerved so unexpectedly too, and she was still trying to find a road that felt right.
Al relaxed in her chair, kicked off her shoes, and drew a knee up, like they were having a casual conversation on the couch instead of in the office. “Bo’s been with me since he started investing in data centers. I do all the joint venture and real estate work for those. That’s been . . .” She paused, as if mentally counting. “Over fifteen years. Working together that long, he learned about my family’s hospitality and venture capital connections.”
The winding road was making more sense now. “And Dotson wanted to use those connections.”
“They wanted someone who could speak their language across all their investments.”
“Impressive.”
“I could say the same about you. You’re a food and beverage lawyer with her hands in real estate and corporate law.”
Her cheeks heated, but she didn’t lower her chin or divert her gaze, not shunning the spotlight on the rare occasion it was given. “It’s virtually impossible to separate them, especially in New Orleans.”
“Also makes you versatile and keeps your options open.”
“That too.” MRM wasn’t an ideal fit, but there hadn’t been a lot of options six years ago for an attorney who’d had to restart in a new town with virtually no connections. She was just starting to feel like she had a solid book of business and was wary about risking it solo or giving it up to go in-house. MRM, as a firm, had a solid reputation, decent infrastructure, great support staff, and associates like Brynn who would make a difference one day.
“You’re good, CC.” Al’s compliment drew her back to the present. “I may have bled all over your draft APA, but that’s tactics. You do good work for your clients.”
“Thank you.” She leaned forward, forearms on the desk, taking the opening to get them back on track before she was as bright red as the sweater she’d grabbed out of the closet that morning. “But my clients have problems, plural, it sounds like.”
“Easy, medium, or hard?”
That didn’t sound good. “Give me the medium.”
“Rail lines. You got a copy of the survey in here?”
“Yep.” CC rose from her desk, retrieved the survey from the stack of rolls in the corner, and unfurled the oversize paper on the round table tucked into the windowed corner of her office.
Al stood beside her, leaning over the survey and pointing at the unused spurs that ran across the back corner of Tchin Tchin’s lot. “Title company is refusing to insure over these this time.”
“If this is medium, I fear hard.” Chasing down anything from rail companies was a bitch. “And how is this only medium?”
“Because I have a contact whose entire job is to chase down easement releases. Will cost the sellers, though.”
CC righted herself and leaned a hip against the table. “Why does the buyer need this? Those lines are a relic at the back of the property. It’s not like the rail company is going to resume use, they don’t interfere with access, and there’s no encroachment by the Tchin Tchin building or any neighboring building.”
Al mirrored her posture, arms crossed. “Keeping our options open for future expansion.”
Last week’s sliver of worry returned—not yet a full-blown wave, but an undertow nipping at her heels. What exactly were the Dotsons going to do with this property?
Before she could press, Al carried on. “You didn’t let Jen and Etienne close without coverage when they bought the property. We’d take the title coverage if they’d give it, but they won’t.”
“Fine, get the release.” It would be a costly hassle, but one that would serve everyone’s interest in the long run. “Okay, what’s the hard problem?”
“Your specialty. Transfer of the liquor license.”
CC left the survey on the table and returned to her desk chair. “We already started the paperwork.”
“Yes,” Al said as she reclaimed the guest chair. “But we need wiggle room on the capacity.”
The undertow grew stronger. She’d been in New Orleans long enough to be wary of a brewing riptide. “To go with your expanded facility?”
“Hence the hard part. You got a contact?”
“Y’all don’t?” This wasn’t the first whiskey brand Dotson had purchased.
“Our contact is in enterprise distribution. This will be the first tasting room Dotson is operating.”
“So they intend to keep it?”
Al eyed CC curiously, like she’d suddenly grown a third head. “Of course they intend to keep it. They want to expand production and distribution, but with a high-end product like Tchin Tchin, Bo intends to show it off. This is what he’s been after for some time.” She curled her fingers in air quotes and hilariously imitated her client’s Southern drawl. “Completes the collection.”
The undertow eased, the riptide threat passing. “I’ll make a call,” CC said before rotating toward her computer and maximizing Al’s revised APA. “Which brings us back to your bloodletting.”
Al chuckled as she leaned back and folded her hands over her middle. “We’ll get there, but that’s not the easy problem.” Her dark eyes sparkled, that mischievous glint CC remembered from the airport and from Dram the other night begging the question.
“All right,” CC said. “I’ll bite. What’s easy?”
“I’m hosting first night dinner for Hanukkah on Thursday night, and I have no idea where to find everything I need.”
“Like what?”
“A menorah, to start.”
“You didn’t bring one?”
“Everything we didn’t sell went to the winery in Sonoma.”
She cut Al an exaggerated frown. “Well, that was poor planning.”
“Not gonna argue.”
Chuckling, CC opened her web browser and the tab with the online order she’d already started. “I’ll add another menorah to my cart to go with the one for the conference room. I can tell you where to find the rest if you give me a list.”
“Or you could show me.”
“Al—”
“As a friend and colleague.” She leaned forward and braced her forearms on her crossed knees. “And as someone you might trust with more in the future.”
The idea had merit. While they’d agreed to no sex until the deal closed, their agreement didn’t prevent them from spending time together, from getting to know each other better outside of work. Even if nothing more developed postdeal, she’d make a friend, which was hard to do as an adult, especially one who worked as much as CC. A friend who worked just as hard and who would understand if she needed to cancel on a dime. And if something more did develop postclosing, if it included the kind of sex CC needed, she would need that trust to be there with Al.
“All right, I’m in,” she said. “But when are we going to have time for this shopping spree?”
“Tomorrow night, assuming we get medium and hard taken care of.”
“And a draft APA out to our clients.”
Al righted herself in the chair and scooted closer. “Deal.”
Chapter Eight
“Hard’s done.” CC slapped a piece of paper down on top of the title commitment Al was reviewing. “Or as much of it as I can do.”
Al scanned the notice of public hearing for her client’s expanded liquor license. December 19, preclosing. “That’ll work.” She grabbed her phone and fired off a calendar invite to the Dotson folks who would need to attend.
As she typed, CC spun out the adjacent conference room chair and plopped into it, still graceful despite her way-past-quitting-time slouch. “Have you been through these hearings before?”
“Not here.” Al removed her reading glasses, tossed them onto the table, and rubbed her tired eyes. The past week of squinting over ancient documents was catching up with her. She’d happily take a break from title hell to prepare for a zoning hearing. “I’ve handled plenty of others, though, and we had to get a variance for the winery last year.”
“You’re barred in California too?”
“Hell no. Couldn’t waive into that one.” She drew a knee up, propping the heel of her bare foot on the edge of her seat. “I had a local counsel assist, a specialist from the firm my daughter-in-law, Sloan, works at in San Francisco.”
“But you handled the rest of the transaction?”
Al nodded. She had an idea where this line of questioning was headed. The inevitable place it went with most folks who were new to her circle of familial chaos.
“And it works? For real?” CC asked. “You still being best friends and business partners with your ex?”
Exactly where Al had anticipated. “You’re skeptical,” she said with a chuckle.
“I had to leave California because of mine.”
Al’s laughter died. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
CC waved off her apology. “Ancient news.”
Except Al didn’t think that it was. She suspected that history—whatever it was—probably had something to do with CC being slow to trust now. Al would have to earn more of her trust before she’d get the whole story. Al’s story, on the other hand, was an open book. “Ezra and I met at a frat party freshman year, and then we met at a different kind of party. The sort my parents had disowned me for. The kind of trust Ezra and I built over three decades doesn’t just go away, not when neither of us did anything to violate the other’s. I want what’s best for him, he wants what’s best for me, and for both of us that was to go our separate ways romantically. But in other aspects of our lives, he’s still my partner, and we both want what’s best for our kids and grandkids.”
CC remained quiet for several long seconds, the squeaking swivel of her chair the only sound in the room. Then, seeming to reach acceptance, she smiled the soft shy grin that made Al’s heart race. “Like Hanukkah all together here?”
“I’m not sure that’s what’s best for any of the adults, but there you have it.” Al spread her fingers wide, a gravy reminder, and CC laughed, full-throated and enticing.
Would a little flirtation here be a push too far for CC? She kept her gaze locked with the one across from her, watching for any hesitation. Seeing none, seeing that warm brown heat, Al began to scoot her chair closer.
Only to be interrupted by a knock on the conference room door. “Getting late, isn’t it?” Ted said. He leaned his tall, spindly frame against the doorjamb and turned a pack of cigarettes end over end in his hand. “No one at home waiting for his supper?”
“We’re just hammering out some title issues,” CC said, politely ignoring Ted’s heteronormative misogyny.
“I bet I could make quick work of that,” he offered.
“We’re good,” Al said, eschewing polite for getting rid of this asshole as quickly as possible. “And when we’re done, my personal chef will have dinner waiting for us.”
“Oh.” He pushed off the door and tucked his smokes away. “You’re having dinner together?”
Al couldn’t tell if he was suspicious or judgmental, or both. In any event, she was reckless enough to poke the bear. Might as well get it all out on the table. “Least I could do for CC showing me where to find what I need for my family’s Hanukkah celebration.”
Ted’s nose wrinkled, and he pressed his lips together, yellowed mustache bushy enough to tickle the bottom one. “Then I don’t suppose you’ll want an invitation to the firm’s Christmas party?”
“I would love one,” she replied enthusiastically. And then continued to fuck with this man’s preconceived notions enthusiastically. “Assuming I’m not in Cape Cod celebrating Christmas with our daughter-in-law’s family.”
CC, who had apparently lived in the South long enough to learn the fake polite skill, spared Ted further confusion. “I’ll make sure she has the date.”
“Fine,” he huffed, then turned on his heel and bolted. They waited for his footsteps to fade around the corner before devolving into a fit of snickers.
Victorious, Al propped an elbow on the table, chin in hand, and grinned. “He’s so confused.”
“Personal chef?”
“Greg Valteau, of course, who”—she checked the time on her phone—“will have a table waiting for us in an hour. We better get going.”
“What about the asset purchase agreement?”
She stood, slid her feet back into her heels, and offered a hand up to CC. “Already reviewed and sent to my clients.” CC opened her mouth, and Al, anticipating her next question, continued. “And the rail company’s in-house counsel just has to review and sign off on the quitclaim deed the consultant got in front of him this afternoon.” She squeezed CC’s hand still in hers. “So, how about that shopping spree, Red?”
Chapter Nine
“I’m glad we shopped first.” Al folded her hands over her stuffed belly. “I will not be functional for the next six hours.”
“Make that seven.” Colby appeared beside their table, two plates in hand. She lowered the first in front of her sister. On it was a fluffy open-faced biscuit slathered in what looked and smelled like apple butter. It was topped with a mountain of whipped cream and an artful swirl of deep red coulis—cranberry, if Al had to guess. “Today’s Sweet Spot for you.”
CC’s grin was so wide, so fond that it was all Al could do not to grab her phone and snap a picture. Or to glide the foot resting against CC’s under the table higher. Al was seriously considering the latter when Colby placed the second plate in front of her. “And cranberry apple sufganiyot for you.”
All thoughts of tempting CC momentarily fled, replaced by her own giddy delight. The doughnuts were fluffy, lightly powdered, and oozing jelly. Joy on a plate, one of Al’s favorite foods of the holiday season. And fuck if they didn’t taste as good as they looked. She was so lost in the sweet, tart, fried batter thrill that she didn’t even notice Colby rummaging through their bags until CC untangled their feet so she could nudge her sister.
“Manners, Col,” she lightly chided.
“Since when?”
“It’s fine.” Al plucked the second doughnut off her plate. “I have grandchildren who rummage through everything.”
“Yes,” CC said, “but they are children.”
“Ooh!” Colby held up one of the two stained glass dreidels Al and CC had found at a funky little shop just around the corner. “This is gorgeous.”
“CC picked it out,” Al said. “Check out the menorah she found too.”
Colby nosed around in the bags some more until she uncovered the spinning menorah, a wheel of rainbow colors, each with a candle holder.
Colby’s wide eyes swung to her sister. “Please tell me you bought one of these for our place.”
“Of course I did.”
She planted a smacking kiss on CC’s cheek, transferring her bright red lipstick in a stamp-worthy smudge. “I love you.”
“Ugh, I love you too.” CC wiped at her cheek, but the affection in her words belied the exaggerated annoyance. “Are you packed?”
“Yep, before I came to work.” Colby rewrapped the goods and placed them carefully back in Al’s bag. “Cab is picking me up at fuck-off early.”
CC chuckled around a bite. “I’ll take you.”
“And then you’ll go to French Truck and work all day.”
Al lowered the last bite of her doughnut. “You’re not going home too?” she asked CC.
“We traded,” Colby answered. “She took Thanksgiving, I took Hanukkah.”
“And we’re both going at Christmas,” CC said. “If we”—she gestured with her fork between herself and Al—“get the deal mostly wrapped by then.”
“I’m not doing two alone, so you better,” Colby said, then skirted out of reach before CC could swat her with her napkin.
“You two are exactly like I imagined,” Al said with a laugh.
“How so?”
“She tests you, and you adore her. Reminds me of how Tyler and Noah were growing up. Definitely how Molly and Michael are already.”
CC nodded as she finished her last bite, then wiped her hands. “Colby’s the one who lured me down here. If she hadn’t, I don’t know where I’d be.”
“With that bit of delicious”—Al pointed at the plate CC had just wiped clean—“of course you came with her.”
CC traded her napkin for her coffee. “She’s been making these for me since I was a kid, though back then it was Smucker’s and Cool Whip. But she’s been baking biscuits since she could reach the dials on the oven. Now the jelly changes with the season, even more so here, and sometimes she flavors the whipped cream, but the biscuit is still the best part.”
Al popped in the last bite of her doughnut and hummed happily. “She’s truly magic with baked goods.”
CC’s sexy laughter was cut short by a ding on Al’s phone. She wiped her own hands and flipped the device, reading the text on-screen. “We’ll have the quitclaim deed for the rail tracks in the morning.”
CC lifted her mug. “And that’s medium done. Thank you.”
Al clinked her own cup against CC’s. “I know exactly how to celebrate.”
CC slumped in her chair and waved a hand, palm out in surrender, groaning dramatically. “There’s no more room.”
“Not tonight, silly.” She slid her foot back against CC’s under the table. “Tomorrow night. Join us for Hanukkah.”
“You don’t have—”
“I know I don’t have to, but I want to. It’s a day for family and lights.” She glided her foot that little bit higher she’d wanted to earlier, notching it behind CC’s calf. “And you’re one hell of a firecracker, Red.”
