Page 11 of Brands

He seems to agree with a small nod. “I just don’t know if I can keep up, yet. I’ll ask Libby if she minds. Maybe. Don’t mind her if she’s salty. She doesn’t quite agree with my decision.”

I remember seeing the look of pain on her face when she learned of his illness, then how she broke down to Char at Thanksgiving.

“I think she loves you more than this place, Clay. She’ll understand.” I grab an empty chair from the corner and bring it over near where I’ll be sitting.

It’s an empty flat surface I can use to start sorting.

His grizzled jaw ticks. “I just have a feeling that no matter what I do, I’m messing it up.”

“Shit, Clay. If you only do one thing, make it getting healthy. That’s all we want.” Reaching out, I take a fistful of notes and start wading through them.

“Thank you, Blue.” His heavy palm claps my shoulder before he shuffles out.

Damn there’s a lot here. There’s a chill in here, concrete adjoining the cooling tanks for the milk storage must keep it colder.

The little space heater in the corner is just starting to catch up enough that I can shed my Carhartt coat when I hear the industrial steel door swing open.

Libby leans against the cinder block wall with a frown, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m here under duress.” Her bottom lip pokes out as she watches me.

I roll up the long sleeves of my flannel shirt, then thread my fingers behind my head and lean back. “What? Afraid I’ll bite?”

Her nose wrinkles, but the corner of her mouth teases up. “No. But I don’t want to do this. I can run things just fine.”

Twisting in the creaking chair, I cast my hand in a broad gesture across the messy piles of documents. “Okay. Show me your sale receipts for last year. Because if you have a secret filing technique, I’d love to see it.”

She moves closer, brushing my knee with her thigh.

I don’t want to move. There’s a bit of me that wants to keep the contact.

Ever since seeing her bare ass, then that damn hug, I’ve been hoping for the next chance to cross paths.

But not if she’s cranky, which she seems to be today.

Shuffling a few slips around, she triumphantly pulls up a wrinkled pink stub. “Here’s one.” Her deep blue eyessquint as she inspects it. “Is that your signature in the inspector spot?”

“Yep. I gotta sign ‘em all.” I don’t need to look at it. Clay’s the only one who uses those ancient carbon copies.

“Why does it say Beau Pierce? I thought your name was Blue?” Her golden brows raise.

“Blue is a nickname I picked up as a kid, and it stuck.” I grin, pulling my ankle up to set on my knee.

It pulls me away from her enough I can focus.

That dang touch of her coveralls was enough to distract me.

“Oh?” Her mouth makes a perfect circle. “There has to be a story.” She lets the paper slip from her fingers back to the desk.

When she grips the wooden edge and props her butt cheeks on it, it makes the thick fabric of her overalls fold away from her, revealing the snug fit of her white thermal top over her chest and belly.

Does she have any idea how fucking distracting she is?

“Ain’t much of a tale. I was knee high to a duck when my mom was out picking blueberries. Apparently they’re my one true love.” I grin up at her. “Fell head first into a bucket full of them. From what I understand, I was berry-stained for a week.”

Her eyes sparkle when she laughs. “Little Beau Blue?”

“Something like that,” I chuckle along with her.

But then those pink lips of hers purse, and her palm finds the smooth top of the desk and she leans closer. “Can you show me how to do this so I can run this place, the right way?”

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