Good Girls Don't (Donovan Brothers Brewery 1)

“My daughter hasn’t exactly shown good judgment where the Donovan family is concerned. I disregarded her opinion on the matter.”

“Have you finalized the deal yet?” she asked in panic. “Did you sign a contract?”

“No, but—”

“What if we…” Tessa considered the numbers. They were right there at the front of her brain on constant display. Then she thought of her monthly salary. Then the value of her car. Finally, she added in her savings account. “What if we supplied High West with enough beer to cover your customer demand for the next six months?” She swallowed the heavy lump in her throat. “At no cost to you.”

“Pardon me?”

“We’d require the two-year contract, of course. The last eighteen months at the rate already negotiated by you and Eric.”

Silence greeted her words. Tessa clenched her eyes shut and breathed. In and out. In and out. She could swing this. If it meant that her brothers would be happy, she’d pay for the beer herself. She didn’t need her car. She only lived a block from her work and Boulder had a great bus system. But her brothers…they were irreplaceable.

“If you can come through on that deal, Ms. Donovan, I think we can put this little incident behind us.”

“Really?” Tessa pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from sobbing with relief. She should’ve known from the start that money would trump ideals with this man. She should’ve offered him an outrageous deal from the very start. Despite that she was about to start leaking money like a sieve, Tessa felt a surge of power burn through her muscles and settle in her bones.

She wasn’t a fool. She was the one who’d run the numbers in the first place. This deal wouldn’t cost her more than four thousand dollars a month. That would be well worth the priceless return.

“I’ll speak to Eric,” she said, “and I’ll have the contract to you next week.”

When she hung up, Tessa clasped her shaking hands together. She’d done it. She’d fixed the unfixable problem. Granted, she’d thrown a big chunk of money at it to get the job done, but the cost would be well worth it, long-term. After all, her brothers had already sacrificed more than her, Eric most of all.

But the shaking wouldn’t stop. Maybe she should grab another sample of Wallace’s chocolate stout. Failed or not, that brew had a high alcohol content. But her stomach turned at the thought.

Tessa closed her eyes. She listened to the familiar late-afternoon sounds of the brewery. Their dishwasher, Henry, was filling a pail with hot water, preparing to mop the floors. Eric’s voice filtered faintly through the office wall as he talked on the phone. His voice floated on top of the muted hint of music from the front room. And even at this early hour, laughter from customers occasionally crept through the walls.

She identified each and every sound, and it soothed her. This place was as much their family home as the house they’d grown up in. And she would lie, cheat or steal to hold on to that.

Well, maybe not steal. Luke might frown on that.

She managed a smile, though adrenaline still pooled in her stomach like acid.

This was good. She had nearly a week to work out the details of how to keep this deal from her brothers. She’d have to hide it. They’d never, ever support it. But she could handle it. She had to.

As if in reward for her positive thoughts, her phone beeped out a text alert.

I’m heading home. Why don’t you stop by later?

Luke. This was a slightly more pleasant shot of adrenaline. Her muscles went warm instead of sizzling. Her stomach did a slow, lazy turn. Tessa finally felt steady enough to rise to her feet. She found Jamie behind the bar.

“What the hell was that ‘Danny Boy’ crap last night?” he asked when Tessa sauntered over with a smile.

“Oh, that? How’d it go?”

“You know I hate that damned song.”

“But did you sing it?”

His scowl told her that, yes indeed, he’d sung for their patrons. “That wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was having to listen to everyone else hum it for the rest of the night.”

“Sorry,” she said, making sure he knew she wasn’t the least bit sorry at all.

“You’re a brat.”

“Maybe, but I’m a brat who just saved your butt.”

He raised an interested eyebrow, but he had to break off the conversation to fill pint glasses for the people who’d just arrived.