First Chapter: Golden Touch
Livia
Every morning when I wake up, the first thing I do is listen for trouble. It’s a lifelong habit, and today is no different. But all I hear this morning is birdsong. Lots of it. It sounds like a nearby blue jay and a chickadee have an ongoing disagreement.
Sitting up, I have to squint against the sunlight streaming through the windows. When I’d moved into this weird little apartment—carved out of the old pumphouse behind the Giltmaker Brewery—there’d been a set of faded curtains hanging from the windows. They were so tattered that I’d taken them down and hidden them in an upstairs closet.
Often, because I spend so much time alone, I mentally redecorate this place. New curtains. A cute paint job. A shower upgrade. A couch that isn’t lumpy.
But this place isn’t mine to redecorate. I’m only borrowing it. Lyle Giltmaker—the brewery owner—lets me live here for free. He’s not a generous man in my experience, but he likes the idea that I’m always early for work.
The downside: I don’t have a lease or any kind of job security. He could fire me and evict me in the same breath if he decided to. Still, it’s the best deal in town, and I’m determined to practice gratitude. This has been a stressful year, and it’s not every day that you find a job where the owner doesn’t ask too many questions, and also pays you in cash.
Lyle’s a world-class grump, but nobody’s perfect.
So I’m counting my blessings as I head for the tiny bathroom, pull back the rust-stained shower curtain, and crank the faucet. And I continue to count them, even though I’m not a morning person, and seven thirty feels stupidly early, and the water doesn’t stay hot for long.
Less than twenty minutes later, I’ve got my makeup done, my heels on, and I’m ready to make the short walk to the brewery’s office.
On my way out, I grab my phone from the charger in the kitchen and take a look at my notifications. And what I see there makes me pull up short—seven missed calls and a flurry of texts from my cousin. All of them from late last night.
Oh no. Even before I read her first text, I know it’s going to be bad.
Jennie:
Where are you?
Hell of a time for your stupid phone to die!!! There’s some asshole pounding on my front door and yelling for you.
Call me when you get this. Any hour. He’s gone now because my crone of a neighbor threatened to call the cops. But we have to talk. I’ve never seen this guy before, but he’s bad news.
There’s more, but I don’t read it, because I’m already calling her back.
“Hey,” Jennie answers sleepily. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. But, God, I’m so sorry—”
“It’s not your fault, babe. But I’m scared.”
“I bet!”
“No, I’m scared for you, bitch. He was asking for you. And then he said…” She takes a breath. “‘Tell that whore that somebody saw you two at the Busy Bean last week. Now I know which county she’s in. Tell her that Razor hired me to find her, and I’m really good at my job.’”
I can’t hold back my gasp. “Oh no.”
“Yeah,” Jennie says hoarsely. “I told him through the door that you refuse to tell me where you’re living. And he was wasting his time bothering me.”
“Did he believe you?”
“Probably. Yeah. But he made himself a nuisance anyway. Just to see what I’d do. So you have got to be really careful, okay? This man was a scary dude. I got a look at him through the peephole.”
“What did he look like?”
“Like he could snap us in half. Big shoulders. Muscular. Lots of ink. Brown hair, dark eyes.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “Honestly, he was exactly your type.”
I bristle with resentment, probably because it’s true. All the men I’ve dated look just like that. And it always ends badly. “New rule—no men, unless they weigh ninety pounds or less.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You like ’em big and rough.”
This is unfortunately true.
“The worst part, babe?” she adds. “This means we can’t hang out for a while.”
“Oh shit.” My heart dives, but she’s right. We’ll have to steer clear of each other, even though our rare meetups at bookstores and coffeeshops are the only thing keeping me sane. “He’ll try to follow you.”
“Maybe you need to get out of Vermont for a while. It’s a small state.”
“Maybe,” I echo. But this is my home, damn it. And disappearing on a tight budget is not as easy as she makes it sound. “I’ll think about it. Help me spot this guy—what was he riding?”
“Couldn’t see the bike. Only heard the growl.”
Damn. “Any other distinguishing characteristics?”
“I’ll try to remember. But babe? I gotta get Henry to school.”
“Go,” I say immediately. “We’ll talk later.”
“Watch your back. Chin up.”
“Love you! Don’t worry! I’m fine.”
We hang up, but I’m not actually fine. I’m freaked. My pulse is ragged. My hands are sweaty.
Razor strikes again. I was such a fool to get involved with him. And then I was an even bigger fool to think that leaving town would make him forget about me. I’ve been hiding in Colebury for ten months, and he hasn’t given up. Instead, he’s hired a guy to intimidate Jennie and try to find me.
My hands shake as I stash my phone in my pocket. This is exactly what I’ve been worried about. God. I’ll never be free of him.
I’m extra cautious as I open the door and scan the back lot and the big brick brewery building. It’s quiet, though. No cars except for my own. No sounds except the chattering birds.
I lock the door to my little apartment. It’s just a doorknob lock, though. A child could break it with one sharp twist. And I feel so exposed as I cross the gravel parking lot to the back door of the brewhouse.
I use a different key to let myself inside. There’s a cavernous hallway that runs front to back. Today it feels creepy as my footsteps echo off the tile floor.
But it’s just my nerves talking. I pace to the front door and try the handle. Locked. I’m the first one to arrive.
In ordinary times at the Giltmaker Brewery, Lyle Giltmaker himself would be the first on scene. But the man had a massive coronary last month that almost killed him. He’s temporarily recovering at a nursing facility, where he gets daily antibiotic infusions.
Ever since my boss was hospitalized, the brewhouse staff has been showing up for work later and later. And I happen to know that last night was poker night, so they’ll be tardy and hungover when they bother to stumble in.
I pause at the threshold of Lyle’s office and scan the big room. The place feels oddly empty without Lyle behind his desk, barking orders at me before he even says good morning.
Can’t believe I actually miss the old grump.
After opening a window to let in the morning air, I take his seat at the big old desk, because it has the best view out the window. And I pick up the stack of receipts that Leila—Lyle Giltmaker’s daughter—left here for me yesterday. As the bookkeeper, it’s my job to enter them into Lyle’s old-fashioned ledger system.
If I had Quickbooks, this job would be done in five minutes. But Lyle is eccentric and insists on a strictly paper accounting system. Today I don’t mind it. I need something soothing to occupy my thoughts, and numbers have always been my love language.
All is well in the land of bookkeeping for half an hour, and then I hear the low growl of an approaching engine. Even before I register that it’s a motorcycle, I’m on my feet and peering out the window. I have a perfect view of a biker swinging into the lot and parking by the brewhouse’s front door.
Oh my God. Oh God.
I can’t see much of his face, because of the helmet and mirrored sunglasses, but there’s something eerily familiar about the angle of his chin. He’s just like Jennie described. Tall. Broad shoulders. He’s got the cuffs unzipped on his black motorcycle jacket and I catch a glimpse of heavy ink.
I’m a dead girl.
* * * * *
Wasting no time, the biker swings a leg over his ride and struts toward the door.
Holy shit. How did he find me?
Tell her I’m really good at my job, he’d said.
But I’m too young to die! I’ve never been to Hawaii. I’ve never had sex on the beach. (The cocktail totally doesn’t count.)
My breathing shallow, I back away from the window and scurry into the corridor where nobody can see me. If he breaks a window in front, I can run out the back.
And go where?
Shit.
I’m light-headed from fear. The truth is that I only look like a badass. Don’t let my tats fool you—I’m a lover, not a fighter.
I ease into the shadows at the rear of the long corridor. This is where I feel the safest—with one door behind me and another ahead. I try to listen for him, but all I can hear is my pulse thudding in my ears.
When the big front door swings open, I wonder if I’m hallucinating. That door was locked when I checked it this morning. But it isn’t anymore. A piercing rectangle of light shines down the corridor as the man steps inside and removes his helmet.
I flatten myself against the wall out of his sightline and stop breathing.
“Hello?” he calls, easing down the corridor while I try not to pee myself with fear.
As I clench every muscle in my body, he pokes his head into the office, sees that it’s empty, then turns around slowly.
This is it. He’s going to drag me back to Razor, and I’ll die before ever seeing Taylor Swift in concert.
But he doesn’t notice me back here. Remarkably, he crosses the corridor and enters the brewhouse like he owns the place. I hear his footsteps echo in the wide-open space. “Hello?” he calls again. “Anybody home?”
Move, I coach myself. Now.
With terror in my veins, I ease toward the back door, fumbling for the knob. I open it as quietly as possible.
Inside my head, everything is loud. How much time do I have before he comes outside to look around? He’ll recognize my car. Razor would have told him the make, model, and plate number. And if I start the engine and take off, he’ll just hop on his bike and follow me.
After easing the door closed behind me, I realize I don’t have many options. This feeling is entirely too familiar—I’m in trouble, and nobody is coming to save me.
Story of my life.
After another ragged breath, I hurry toward the pumphouse. But if I go inside, I’ll be trapped again. So I double back and conceal myself against the brewery’s back wall and pull out my phone.
“What is your emergency?” the 911 operator asks.
“I’m…I’m at the Giltmaker Brewery. An intruder has just entered the building.”
* * *
The next ten minutes last forever. I listen to the thud of my heart and wait, shaking, for the police to arrive. There’s a river at the very back of the property. Worst case scenario, I could jump in if he’s chasing me. Not that I’m a great swimmer. But if he catches me, I’m probably dead anyway.
Finally, I hear the sound of tires on the gravel lot. I hold my breath and listen. There’s a loud pounding of fists against wood. “This is the police! We’re coming in!”
More than one voice starts shouting. I brace myself for violence, but the police must subdue this guy pretty quickly, because I hear a man say, “Handcuffs?” in an incredulous voice. “You’re shitting me.”
Only then do I emerge on weak knees, reentering the back door of the brewery just as the cops escort the guy out the front. I wave at the police, and one of them nods to me. “One second, ma’am.”
As soon as the door closes on them, I hurry down the corridor to the front windows to see what’s happening.
The scary dude is irate. Face red, and his cuffed hands curling into fists. He’s arguing while they frisk him.
I notice that he’s unarmed. All they find in his pocket is a wallet. No guns and no duct tape. Huh. Maybe he keeps his weapons in his bike’s saddlebags.
Or maybe he’s so highly trained he doesn’t need weapons. There’s plenty of muscle on him. And Jennie was right—he’s just my type. My former type, that is. I’m done with men, for obvious reasons.
The guy looks up suddenly, as if he can sense me watching from behind the glass.
Those eyes, though. I know those eyes. Who is this guy?
Quickly, I step away from the window. I can’t let Razor’s evil minion get a good look at me. Even if this dude is carted off to jail, my ex will just send another one in his place.
I’m so screwed.
Two minutes go by before there’s a soft knock on the door. “Ma’am?”
I open it to find a thirtyish policeman standing there. He’s handsome in a cleancut way that many women would find attractive. If I were one of them, my life would frankly be easier.
“Thank you for getting here so quickly.”
“We, uh, got a disagreement on our hands,” the officer says. “Your trespasser claims that he’s expected today. And I’m inclined to agree with him.”
“Why?” I demand, an edge of hysteria in my voice. “I’m not expecting anyone new today.”
“Well, I checked his ID, and his name is on the door.” He grins. “And he gave me this business card for you.”
The officer hands me a creamy ivory business card with embossed lettering. It says NASH M. GILTMAKER. Chief Operating Officer, BrewCo Industries.
“What?” I gasp. My heart starts pounding again. “That’s impossible.”
But maybe it’s not. I think I’ve made a horrible mistake.
Did I just call the cops on Lyle Giltmaker’s son? Holy…
“Omigod, I’m going to be fired.”
The cop actually chuckles. “He’s wondering who you are.”
“I work here,” I sputter. “For his father. Since last spring! And I’ve never seen him before in my life. There’s a photo of Lyle’s son on the desk in the office, and it looks nothing like that guy!”
The cop’s eyes crinkle. “Lyle Giltmaker has two sons. Is it Mitch in the picture?”
I shrug in an exaggerated way. “How the hell should I know? Some guy in a hockey jersey. Lyle’s daughter said Nash was arriving tomorrow.”
“Huh. Well, I think you guys got your signals crossed. And Mitch Giltmaker is the professional hockey player,” the cop says evenly. “Everybody knows that.”
“Not everybody,” I say through clenched teeth. My mind is spinning. “Apparently, the Giltmaker boys look nothing alike?”
The cop shrugs. “Look, I googled Nash Giltmaker on my phone as a failsafe and found this.” He holds up his phone for me to see the results of a Google search.
When I see the photo, I practically grab the phone out of the cop’s hands. “This is Nash Giltmaker?” I have seen him before. But only once, and it didn’t end well.
Oh. My. God. This is getting more embarrassing by the minute.
The cop takes his phone back with a shrug. “Maybe take a closer look next time before you panic?”
“He wasn’t supposed to arrive today,” I gasp. This can’t be happening. “And he had a helmet and glasses on, and he let himself in at eight in the morning. I was here all alone!”
“Simple misunderstanding,” the officer says. “But it’s not me you need to apologize to, yeah?” He pushes the door open wider, and I look outside.
There’s Nash Giltmaker, leaning against a patrol car. He’s talking to another cop and rubbing his wrists, probably where the handcuffs bit into his skin. He’s facing away from me, but I can tell from the set of his shoulders that he’s angry.
Honestly, I didn’t know people could actually glower with their whole body. But here we are. And all that tension in that muscular body is weirdly appealing.
Stop it! I chide myself.
Maybe he can feel my eyes on him, too, because he turns suddenly in my direction. I react without thinking, ducking back into the darkness of the brewery, keeping out of his sight line.
I’m stalling. Not that it will help. We’re about to have a very awkward conversation about what happened here today. And probably about that other time we almost met.
Maybe he’s forgotten? We’d first encountered each other last November, almost five months ago. But if he remembers that night, it means I’ve seriously messed up with the Giltmaker heir twice.
Oh my God. I’m going to be fired by lunchtime.
~ end scene ~