Page 1 of Crave Me

Chapter One

Blaire

“For the love of God, what is your problem?” My boss looks up at me from behind the rim of his coffee mug as he sits smugly in his stupid, fancy office chair. “There’s a room full of our coworkers and their families downstairs, and you’re up here pouting. This event is important to the distillery.”

“It’s really not important though, Blaire. It’s a nuisance and I want no part of it. I’ve been saying that since the beginning. Let them eat and drink, play pin the tail on the damn donkey or whatever trivial shit you have planned, but I’ll be up here, actually working.”

My hip cocks to the side as my hand rests on it, and I don’t miss the slow perusal of my body that he unashamedly makes with those sky-blue eyes. I snap my fingers loudly with my free hand.

“Eyes up here, Dallas.” His eyes work their way up my body slowly until they meet mine. I have to work hard to keep my breathing steady, but I’ve become a professional at keeping my features and emotions in check. “It’s been three months. When are you going to get over this? I don’t know why you hate working together so much, but I’m not going anywhere. Sawyer hired me for a reason, and you need to learn to deal with it.”

Dallas stands now, walking around to the front of his desk. Each step with purpose and composure, each step leading him closer to me. I hold my ground, not wavering or cowering, even if on the inside my body is lighting up like a live wire. He stops a solid foot away from me, towering over me at what has to be six feet to my five feet, five inches. His piercing blue eyes are cold, irritation etched into his strong features. His disdain for me is obvious in the way he looks at me.

“I don’t like repeating myself, Blaire, so this will be the last time I say it. You workforme. Not with me. I don’t care if my shithead brother says otherwise. And if I don’t agree with something, I’m most certainly not going to support it. So, head back downstairs to your little party, schmooze with everyone, do whatever you’ve got to do to make yourself feel like you’re important here, and leave me out of it.”

My eyes squint into slits as I stare up at my asshole boss. From the first moment I met him during my interview, he had decided he hated me. A preconceived notion he concocted that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with him not getting his way.

I tip my head to the side slightly, giving him a wide, fake smile.

“Of course, Mr. Hayes. But I will remind you,again, that according to the terms of my employment, we worktogether, not the other way around. Enjoy your afternoon.” I spin on my heel and pull open his office door. Looking over my shoulder I say, “Do us all a favor, though, and drown in your coffee. We’ll all be enjoying ourselves downstairs while you’re up here struggling to breathe. Fingers crossed it’s a slow, torturous death.”

My nails dig into my palms as I walk out the door, keeping my chin held high, his patronizing laugh echoing behind me. I leave his office and walk down the long second-floor hallway to the stairs that lead to the open room below. Taking a deepbreath, I pull my shoulders back and join the rest of the people here to celebrate this new venture for Aspen Ridge Distillery.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur of introductions, small talk, and tours of the distillery grounds. I’m on cloud nine, but slightly anxious for the real deal tomorrow when tourists and community members arrive.

I pull my jacket tighter as I walk into the chilly Washington evening. It’s much colder than I expected, and I hustle to my car, parked at the back of the distillery staff lot. My first function as the event coordinator for Aspen Ridge Distillery went smoothly and without any hiccups, minus my asshole boss storming out of the room like someone had kicked his puppy. After twenty-seven years of being on my own, you’d think I’d have tougher skin, but when it comes to Dallas Hayes, he easily slides right under, grating and digging until I snap. I’ve never had anyone affect me the way he does, and I wish he didn’t breach my armor every day.

I quickly start my car and crank up the heat, rubbing my hands together in an effort to warm my frozen fingers. Pulling out of the parking lot, I can’t help but marvel at my surroundings. Aspen Ridge is an enchanted forest, practically plucked straight out of a Disney movie. It’s a small town, tucked away west of the Olympic National Forest, backing up to the Pacific Ocean. On clear days, we have a gorgeous view of the misty mountains and tall Sitka spruce trees. The cloud cover is fairly constant, but I don’t mind it. The fresh air is like a healing balm for my soul, and I could never imagine living anywhere else now that I’m here.

I pull my car around to the back of an old brick building on Main Street and climb the stairs that lead to my place. Once inside, I kick off my boots and walk into my little studio apartment, if you can even call it that. I’m renting a room above Rogue, the tattoo shop in downtown Aspen Ridge.I got extremely lucky when I arrived here three months ago. Desperate for a caffeine boost after my drive across the state, I walked into Bean Haven, ordered a black coffee and chocolate croissant, and sat in the only free booth when a giant of a man walked in. Every inch of his exposed skin was covered in tattoos, but I didn’t get “bad boy” vibes. He ordered a coffee and looked around for a place to sit, and considering I was by myself in a booth and the others were filled, he asked if he could join me. My intention of keeping to myself was thrown to the wayside after five minutes of conversation. Something about this heavily tattooed Hulk, who was the most soft-spoken man I’ve ever met, made it easy to open up. Small talk turned into me confessing that I was new to town and interviewing for a position at Aspen Ridge Distillery later in the week, but that I had no family, no lodging figured out, and I didn’t know a soul. He sympathized and offered to rent me a room above the tattoo shop he owns. The fact that he didn’t offer me a handout, somehow knowing I wouldn’t be comfortable with one, that I needed to pay something and was determined to make my own way, was exactly why I said yes. He never once looked at me like damaged goods, instead saying, “Everyone needs some help every once in a while.” So, I accepted.

The studio is cozy. Exposed brick walls give it a charming, vintage vibe, while the large window that filters in the daylight casts a warm glow across every inch of the space. A futon that I use as a couch/bed sits in the center of the room, and I actually like the options it gives me—not that I’m hosting anyone for brunch or anything. The space is completed with a little kitchenette that serves my basic needs, and a small bathroom. It’s honestly perfect. Some people may scoff at it, but it’s mine, and it will do until I get further on my feet and can afford something bigger. It sure beats any of the homes I lived in during my childhood, or the dorms at college, or the women’s sheltersI’ve stayed in. My salary at the distillery is way more than I expected, giving me the ability to save for the first time in my life, and I almost have enough saved for first and last months’ rent. If only my student loans weren’t eating me alive financially, I’d be sitting pretty already.

Moving to the mini fridge, I pull out a premade meal from my little freezer and toss it in the microwave to heat up before stripping out of my work clothes. I tug on a pair of night shorts and a large band tee and pull my crazy hair into a messy bun at the nape of my neck. No matter what I try to do, my waves are uncontrollable. I couldn’t get curly hair, or straight hair, no—I inherited a wild mix of both, which results in a new look every day.

It’s nights like these I wish I had a family to share my day with. While I’m content being alone, it would feel so good to tell someone how amazing today went. I love my job as the event coordinator for Aspen Ridge Distillery. These last few months, I’ve worked tirelessly to create an addition to their business that the Hayes family can be proud of. The CEO, Sawyer, gave me no strong parameters, so this project has been my baby. They wanted to open up the distillery to the public by offering scheduled tours of the grounds, tastings, and host events. While my heart hopes to be able to focus on weddings someday, this is an incredible opportunity to lead my own team and develop something from the ground up.

Today was the pre-grand opening, just for the employees and their family members. Tomorrow, we’re open to the public for tours and tastings, and I can hardly wait.

For the first time, I feel a real sense of accomplishment, and that lonely little girl inside me who still desires praise wishes I had someone to share it with. It’s too bad I don’t really drink. Tonight would be a great night to celebrate myself and simultaneously take the edge off.

Pulling my meal from the microwave, I grab my laptop and get comfortable in my spot on the futon. It’s not long before I’m completely lost to season two ofBridgerton. Anthony’s season is the best one, and anyone who says otherwise is lying. There’s something so deliciously addictive about an enemies-to-lovers story. The toxic bickering that’s fueled by passion, the stolen glances, and when the characters finally give in to each other? Chef’s kiss.

Closing my laptop, I clean up the small mess from my quick dinner and lay back on the futon, pulling my blankets and pillows out of the basket I keep them folded in. I go about my nightly routine, washing my face, moisturizing my skin, and brushing my teeth before quickly climbing into bed and pulling my comforter and fleece blanket over me. Reid told me he is already heating the place by heating his studio, and I am not about to crank the temperature up and add to the bill. I relax on my side, snuggle into myself, and prop my Kindle up on some of the bunched-up blankets so I can read until I fall asleep.

“What the hell are you doing home so early?” His voice never fails to make my heart drop into the pit of my stomach. I swallow hard, doing my best to keep calm and steady, not sure which version of him I will get today.

“We get released early on Wednesdays. I can go find something to do if you’d like me to leave. I don’t mind.” Please say yes. Please. I will gladly go anywhere but here so I don’t have to be alone with you. I grip my backpack strap for dear life, hovering in the space between the entryway and the living room of my foster parents’ trailer. I look down and kick my dirty shoes together over the stained, worn carpet. The house reeks of cat urine—even though I’ve never seen a cat since livinghere—the carpet is pulled up in places, and scratches and stains climb up the old walls.

“No, stay. Why don’t you come sit and watch a movie with me? Sherry said we should bond, let’s get to know each other better.” His voice slinks over me like a filthy snake. The blood in my veins curdles, bile turning over in my stomach. Ever since I moved in with my new foster parents, Andrew and Sherry Cain, I’ve felt like I’ve been on borrowed time. I’ve been here for three months, and I’ve considered running away a hundred times. I’m sixteen, almost seventeen, and I know how he looks at me. I know what he insinuates when he says things like that. I’m also acutely aware that I don’t look my age. Unfortunately for me, puberty hit early and it hit hard. I have large, full breasts that men’s eyes are drawn to, no matter how hard I try to tape them down. My trim waist, and hips that flare out, also gain unwanted attention and not-so-innocent touches as I walk by, or when they hold open a door for me. It’s hard to love my body when it brings so much unwanted attention.

“I really should go study, Mr. Cain. I have a chemistry test in the morning.”

“What did I tell you to call me, Blaire?” he says as his footsteps clomp in my direction.

I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could just disappear. My heart races in my chest. Can teenagers have heart attacks? It feels like we can. My hands shake as I grip tighter onto my backpack. I keep my eyes closed as his steps stop directly in front of me and the brush of his wiry, hairy hand drags down the length of my bare arm. A tear slips free, but I know that won’t stop him.

“Go ahead, Blaire. No one’s here but us. You can say it.” His hand moves to cup my breast and I wince, terrified to move.

---