C2 2

“Are you even listening to me?” Brayden asks, but I’m so hung up on Reason 1 and memories of his tanned skin against white sheets that I’m really not listening. At all.

I chew on the inside of my cheek and nod, digging through my mind to recall what made him approach my table at the back of Jackson Brews. “You don’t like the shirts,” I say, but I’m still so sucked in by the memory of his mouth on my neck that the words come out like a purr.

Brayden frowns. “You’re not in trouble, Molly.”

I shake my head, trying to snap out of it and more than a little grateful that he mistook my turned-on voice for insecurity. Reluctantly, I pull my gaze off Brayden and to the new Jackson Brews shirts on display at the far end of the bar—or what’s left of them. They’ve been selling fast. “Levi approved them.”

“Why did I think it was a good idea to let him do the marketing?” He glances around the bar, his eyes landing on each of the half-dozen staff members in their brand-new T-shirts. The Jackson Brews logo is on the front, and on the back, the new tagline my friends and I came up with while drinking on our last girls’ night.

Jackson Brews

The bar. The beer. And . . . oh, Lord . . . the BROTHERS.

Levi thought it was hilarious. Jake just smirked and shrugged. Ethan rolled his eyes, and Carter grinned and gave me a little once-over that seemed to say, “You know it.” I didn’t think Brayden would love the design, but he tends to stay out of it when he disagrees with my executive decisions. Not this time.

“How do you think that shirt is going to make Nic and Ava feel?” he asks.

I snort. It’s almost adorable that he thinks his brothers’ significant others wouldn’t like the shirts. As if they aren’t proud as fuck of their hot Jackson men. “Who do you think helped me come up with the idea? They claimed the first shirts. Even Ellie got one.” Ellie, who’s currently not with Levi Jackson but is clearly in love with him. We all know they’ll be back together for good any day now.

Brayden scowls. “You’re kidding me.”

I laugh. “It’ll be okay.” Then I make a rookie mistake—I reach out and squeeze his arm.

Christ. His biceps bunch beneath my hand. My life would be so much easier if this man weren’t so dedicated to his morning workouts. It’s just not fair. He runs a brewery, for heaven’s sake.

When I worked for Brayden as his northeast territory sales manager, I put on ten pounds in the first two months. Everyone thinks it’s the coolest job in the world—working for a growing craft brewery—but the reality is driving around to bars, drinking beer, and subsisting on greasy bar food while you try to get buyers to put Jackson Brews beer on their tap lists.

Somehow the Jackson brothers defy all odds. I think they have a genetic mutation that transforms beer into muscle mass. It’s the only explanation.

Brayden should be soft and have a beer belly that hangs over the waistband of his pants. Instead, he’s all hard lines and corded muscle. The only soft thing about Brayden is the look in his eyes when he talks about his family. And his face, the night we slept together.

A shiver races down my spine at the memory of dark eyes fixed on mine, hands stroking my curves with reverence, and his body, hot and attentive as he moved over me.

I bite back a moan. This is why you don’t sleep with your boss.

“Is everything set for the Yuseki luncheon Thursday?”

I nod and pull my hand away. I should probably enforce a don’t touch the boss rule. “Yep. Everything’s good to go.”

“Staffing’s covered? The food’s ordered? The hiccup with the linens is all resolved, and you’ve confirmed the headcount?”

I fold my arms. “I’m trying not to be insulted.”

He rolls his shoulders back and exhales slowly. “Sorry. Old habits.”

“You hired me so I could do this. Not so you could have another pile of tasks on your plate.”

“I know. And I trust you.”

“Then act like it,” I say, my tone gentle. Giving up control doesn’t come naturally to him, and despite what I said, I don’t take it personally. His family’s always giving him a hard time about how much trouble he has letting go, and he’s nagged Levi as much about the taproom grand opening as he’s nagged me about the banquet center. Hell, Levi probably has it way worse as the little brother.

From the moment I interviewed to work for Jackson Brews last spring, I’ve noticed how Brayden’s siblings are always trying to get him to delegate more. His impulse to micromanage wasn’t all that noticeable when I was working as a sales manager eight hundred miles away, but up close and personal, it’s impossible to miss.

“You’re as territorial with your business as Noah is with his Pokémon cards,” I say.

Brayden’s eyes warm at the mention of my son. “Where is the little rascal tonight?”

“Mom wanted to take him to the movies.” Which means I have a kid-free night off work—a once-rare occasion that has become more commonplace now that I live in the same town as my mother. I put in another ten-hour day at the banquet center today, so I have every intention of using my free evening to drink a very tall beer and gorge myself on Jake Jackson’s fried delicacies.

“How’s everything working out with Veronica?”

I grin at the mention of my son’s nanny, a woman with a newborn son of her own. “Noah loves her so much. And baby Jackson . . .” I shake my head. “Noah’s newest mission is to convince me he needs a little brother of his own.”

Brayden’s brows shoot up into his hairline.

I roll my eyes. “Relax. This uterus is closed for business.”

Of course, Brayden’s brother Jake chooses that exact moment to appear at my table with my beer and food. His gaze shifts back and forth between me and his brother. “Is there a reason the two of you are discussing Molly’s uterus?”

“Noah wants a baby brother.” I snag the plate of fried goat cheese from his hands, unwilling to wait another minute for those sinful bits of honey-coated heaven. “It’s not happening.” I pop a piece into my mouth and moan. “How do you make these so damn good? Did you sell your soul to the devil, or what?”

Jake sighs. “Do you really want to know my secret to good food?”

“Here we go.” Brayden groans, crossing his arms.

“No, seriously,” Jake says.