What happens on the road…

Zoey Archer has a long, glorious history of disaster. Financially, professionally…and, oh, yes, a junkyard full of romantic wreckage. All she wants is a chance to prove that she can be Absolutely Capable and Reliable Zoey. And if that means escorting her sister’s high-maintenance purebred dog to the other side of the country, nothing can stop her.

Except the weather.

Fortunately, craft brewery owner Cameron MacNeil is just as desperate to get to Seattle as Zoey. But while her new travel companion seems like a gift from God, he’s also one very hot distraction. And on a cross-country road trip with a blizzard raging outside, there are very few places to hide from the storm….

“It would be worth it.”

Zoey’s eyes widened. “What makes you so sure?”

“The chemistry between us.” Cam gestured back and forth. “You’ve felt it. I know you have.”

“Prove it,” she said.

“What?”

“Prove we’ve got chemistry worth pursuing. Give it your best sh—”

Cam pulled her to him, lowered his head and locked his lips to hers. Yeah, he kissed her. Right there, right then, in the perishable cargo area of one of the largest airports in the world. Reliable, hardworking, you-need-to-loosen-up Cameron MacNeil kissed a woman he’d known less than an hour. Deeply kissed. Passionately kissed.

Warmth raced through him, with desire close behind.

Zoey gasped, drawing his breath from him.

Wow, did they have chemistry. Combustible, take-cover chemistry.

She tasted good. She was warm toasted malt and wheat. He also detected a little added unidentifiable spice, a secret Zoey spice that kept it interesting. If he could bottle her, he’d have a winner.

Cam lost himself in the slow, thorough kiss. Gus was right again. Cam needed a woman—but not just any woman.

This woman.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever been stuck in an airport? Several years ago I was stranded at SeaTac. After standing in line for hours, I learned that it would be five days before I could fly home. Fortunately, I didn’t have to spend them in the airport. Others decided not to wait. I watched total strangers form groups and rent cars and vans so they could drive to another airport. I knew that someday I was going to write a book where the hero and heroine did the same thing. Taken by Storm is that book.

After a blizzard cancels their flight, Zoey and her sister’s champion Afghan hound accept a ride with Cam, a handsome Texas brewer. Thus begins their road romance as they battle time, snow and a neurotic dog—and fall in love anyway. I hope you enjoy their adventure!

Best wishes,

Heather MacAllister

www.HeatherMacAllister.com www.Facebook.com/HeatherMacAllisterBooks www.Twitter.com/Heather_Mac

Taken by

Storm

Heather MacAllister

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Heather MacAllister lives near the Texas gulf coast, where, in spite of the ten-month growing season and plenty of humidity, she can’t grow plants. She’s a former music teacher who married her high school sweetheart on the fourth of July, so is it any surprise that their two sons turned out to be a couple of firecrackers? Heather has written over forty-five romances, which have been translated into twenty-six languages and published in dozens of countries. She’s won the Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award, several awards from RT Book Reviews and she’s a three-time Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, but she’s most proud of the notes from readers saying her stories made them laugh. When she’s not writing, Heather collects vintage costume jewelry, and loves fireworks displays and sons who answer their mother’s texts. You can visit her at www.heathermacallister.com, like her at www.facebook.com/heathermacallisterbooks, or follow her at www.twitter.com/heather_mac.

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To Sherry and Kevin Fontenot

May you have a life filled with romance and happiness

Contents

Dear Reader,

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Extract

1

ZOEY ARCHER WAS three steps away from her desk when the phone rang. Three steps toward her first weekend off in months. And she hadn’t even left early, unlike all but one of her colleagues—the weird girl who spoke to people in a variety of accents and dressed in monotone outfits that didn’t quite match under the greenish fluorescent light of the Loring Industries customer-service call center, deep in the heart of Texas.

The phone chirped again. Weird Girl shot a look at Zoey, grabbed a pinkish red jacket and ran out the door before the call could roll over to her section. Zoey wondered what life Weird Girl was running to because nobody chose working in a megacorporation’s customer-service call center as a career. This was a survival job, one people kept to pay a few bills until they became successful in their real lives.

Zoey’s real life, however, was...complicated, meaning she’d taken a few wrong turns on the road to success. She wanted a career where she could help people, but, to be honest, many people no longer wanted her help—specifically, those she’d encountered in the health-care and teaching professions, the food-service and travel industries and anyone who ran a children’s summer camp. People loved her, at least in the beginning. She was described as sincere, enthusiastic and full of great ideas. She’d also been called impulsive, but Zoey considered herself proactive. She took charge and made things happen.

Unfortunately, some of those proactive things had been mistakes. Huge mistakes. Expensive mistakes. Her intentions had been good, but the execution was flawed, as they say.

But she was always a big girl about it. When she messed up, she accepted responsibility, apologized, tried to fix whatever she’d gotten wrong and paid for any damage, even when she couldn’t afford it. Did she learn from her mistakes? Sure. Did she get a chance to prove it to those she’d wronged? No.

She understood why people were reluctant to give her a second chance. Money couldn’t fix everything and some opportunities were lost forever.

However, recommending a competitor’s product because Loring’s cream caused a rash had not been a mistake...even though going off script had landed her on the night and weekend shift in the shipping center to prevent her from talking to actual customers. And it had cost her a boyfriend, who hadn’t liked the fact that she worked every night. But even that hadn’t been a mistake.

Management had meant the suspension as a punishment, but Zoey had become inspired while filling thousands of orders during the Christmas season. She happened to know a thing or two about skin care. For years, she’d mixed her own organic moisturizers and soaps. The complaints she’d fielded in the customer-service call center had shown her that the world needed her products. That’s how she could help people—by offering them a better alternative. Nobody would get a rash from her creams and lotions, unlike the cheap chemical cocktail Loring put out.

Not that the Loring Quality Control Department had appreciated her input. Well, they’d had their chance. They’d pay attention to her when she started selling her Skin Garden products online, and word of mouth created a huge demand. In fact, she was going to go home right now and mix up a new batch of lemon–olive oil balm.

Never mind that it was Friday night, party night. Zoey didn’t have anyone special to party with, anyway. And honestly? She wasn’t all that torn up about it. She hadn’t had a date since Justin—wait, Jared...or was it Josh? Whoever it had been didn’t matter. All her ex-boyfriends had been fixer-uppers who she’d tried to fix—er, help. Ultimately, they hadn’t wanted her help, either.

So no more wasting her life on time-consuming, energy-zapping relationships. No more distracting boyfriends. From now on, it was going to be all about Zoey.

The whole weekend stretched ahead of her. Zoey hung up her headpiece, slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the door. Now that it was January, Loring no longer offered twenty-four-hour live customer service, as though people magically stopped having problems on nights and weekends. Zoey vowed that Skin Garden would offer full-time customer service, even if she had to answer the phone herself.

Speaking of... The phone warbled again and guilted Zoey into stopping. A person who called after hours—and seven minutes after five counted as after hours—would have to wait until Monday morning to talk to an actual customer-service agent about whatever issue they were having with whichever one of the thousands of products Loring Industries manufactured for their dozens of brands.

Someone probably had a rash.

Zoey could see the blinking light at her station out of the corner of her eye. It wasn’t as though she was abandoning someone in their hour of need. The customer could talk to a company rep through a live chat on their computer. Unless she was a “legacy customer,” Loring’s term for those who didn’t use computers. Zoey swallowed. What if the caller was some poor, elderly widow with a bad rash who could barely read the contact number on the label because her eyes were swelling shut? She wouldn’t have a computer, and even if she did, she certainly wouldn’t know how to do a live chat. Besides, the live part was likely another computer, anyway, at least for the first few levels....

Damn her work ethic, anyway. Zoey hurried back to her station and snatched up her earpiece.

“Loring Industries. How may I help you today?” Technically, the extent of Zoey’s help was routing the call to someone else who could do the actual helping, registering complaints or sending out coupons. Lots and lots of coupons. She was very generous with coupons. She was the coupon fairy.

“Zoey Archer, please.”

It was so unusual to hear herself asked for by name that it took Zoey a few beats to recognize her sister’s voice. “Kate? Is that you?” No wonder the call hadn’t rolled over. Her sister had dialed Zoey’s extension.

“Oh, Zoey. Thank goodness!” Kate exhaled in relief. “I tried calling your cell, but you didn’t answer.”

That’s because Zoey kept her phone on vibrate and hadn’t checked it yet today. Call-center operators weren’t allowed to make personal calls while at their station. Only during breaks. Or emergencies. Kate knew that.

Which meant... A sick feeling settled in Zoey’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong...”

Alarmed, Zoey had been smashing the earpiece into her head. Taking a calming breath she adjusted the rest of the headset as Kate continued, “It’s just...”

Clearly Zoey was going to have to coax it out of her. “Just what?”

“Alexandra of Thebes has gone into heat.”

These were not words Zoey had expected to hear at her customer-service call station at Loring Industries. And Zoey had heard lots of strange words in the Loring Industries customer-service call center. “Uh...okay.”

“Ryan and I are in Costa Rica! Remember, Zoey?”

“Right—the wedding is this weekend.” Friends of Kate’s were having a fancy destination extravaganza. Kate and her husband, Ryan, had introduced the couple and both were in the wedding party. “Are you having a good time?”

“Zoey.” Her sister sighed and there was a whooshing sound as she partially covered the mouthpiece. “I told you this was a bad idea,” she said to someone in the background.

“I heard that.” Zoey steeled herself against the automatic guilt that flooded her every time she heard her name spoken in that tone of resigned disappointment accompanied by a faint sigh the speaker didn’t bother to hide.

Some people were late bloomers, and others bloomed early and withered fast, she reminded herself. Except Kate. Kate had bloomed early and perfectly and showed no signs of withering. “Kate, so far all you’ve told me is that one of your dogs is in heat and you two are in Costa Rica. I haven’t heard an idea yet.”

“Zoey! You know Alexandra’s not our dog.”

Actually, she didn’t. “You have a bunch of dogs. I don’t remember all their names.” Her sister and brother-in-law owned a kennel and bred dogs. Big, hairy ones.

“We’re talking about Alexandra of Thebes.”

“I—”

“The Alexandra of Thebes.”

It was clear that she should be impressed by the name, but show dogs weren’t Zoey’s thing—that would be her sister and Ryan’s thing. “I don’t really keep up with the dog world,” she said carefully. Not since she’d temporarily lived with Kate and Ryan and had tried helping at the kennel. It hadn’t gone well.

“Obviously not, or you would know she’s not only won every breed title for the past two years, she’s also been named Best in Show at every national competition worth winning—”

“Okay! I get it. Is she one of those big hairy white dogs like Casper?” Kate and Ryan had been talking about Casper for the past year and a half. Their lives revolved around the dog. Zoey couldn’t avoid hearing about Casper and his shows and his ribbons and his trophies and his diet and his hair-grooming routines even if she tried. And she had tried. Oh, how she’d tried. Kate spent more time grooming that neurotic dog than she did herself.

“An Afghan hound, yes,” her sister confirmed. “But not all Afghans are white.”

Kate wouldn’t have called her at work unless she needed something. And she wouldn’t have called Zoey unless she was desperate.

“Alexandra’s puppies will be very valuable, even more valuable if the sire is also a Grand Champion. It’s been our dream to get one of her puppies, but we never imagined Martha—she’s Alexandra’s owner—would invite Casper to breed with her!”

Misplaced pronouns gave Zoey a highly inappropriate visual. “Uh...congratulations.”

“It’s an unbelievable honor. Especially since Casper isn’t a Grand Champion. At least not yet. He needs a lot more points.” Kate sounded as though she was hyperventilating. “The Moorefield show isn’t until the week after next. Martha must think Casper’s chances are really good—at least Best in Breed, if not Best in Show! Alexandra has always been his main competition, but Martha pulled her out of the show because she thought she’d be in heat then and she wants to breed her. Only it seems she’s early.”

“It’s happened to all of us at one time or another,” Zoey murmured.

Her comment went right over Kate’s head. “Oh, my gosh, we’ve never had a Best in Show!”

In the background, Zoey heard Ryan telling Kate to calm down. Her older sister had always been tightly wound.

While Kate breathlessly babbled on about possible fame and fortune, the massive LED clock over the doorway helpfully flashed the passing seconds. The overhead fans slowed and automatic timers clicked half the lights off in preparation for the weekend. Zoey was alone in a huge room with empty cubicles and no windows. She couldn’t even see if it was raining or not. But she did know Kate wanted a favor and that she was stalling.

“I can’t believe this is all happening now!” her sister gasped.

Zoey could. Crazy stuff always happened to her, why not Kate for once? “Kate, do you need me to take Casper to his booty call? Is that what this is about? Because I’ll do it. You know I will.”

Kate inhaled. “I...”

The silence stretched and Zoey understood why. Unfortunately, her reputation as the family screwup was well deserved. She always had great intentions and great plans, if she did say so herself. It’s just that the execution rarely went according to Zoey’s plans, and after things fell apart, she’d had to call on the safety net of her family and friends—and credit-card companies—more than once.

She owed Kate and Ryan big time for letting her live with them for a few months when she’d run out of money a couple of years ago. She’d promised them that she’d earn her keep by helping as they established Ryka Kennels.

A memory flashed of a hot day, a fresh asphalt drive and tar embedded in dog hair. Never again would Zoey make the mistake of underestimating the wily intelligence of the Afghan hound. Could it be that Kate was about to give her a chance to prove it?

“It’s asking a lot,” Kate hedged, and Zoey knew she was trying to think of any other person she could ask. All of her friends were probably at the wedding in Costa Rica, too. “You’d have to fly to Virginia to get Casper and then take him to Merriweather Kennels, which is outside of Seattle.”

“I’ll do it. Gladly. Just tell me where and when.”

“I appreciate that, but you might have to take off as much as a week of work.”

“That’s okay. I can get someone to cover for me.” Zoey would have to pay someone on Loring’s temp list, but it would be worth it to rescue her sister for once.

“You know, maybe it would be better if Ryan came back...What? Ryan! All right, fine! I’ll go home and you can tell Lindsey why she’s short a bridesmaid!”

The next voice Zoey heard was her brother-in-law’s as he took the phone. “Hey, Zoey, thanks for helping us out. I really appreciate it. I’ll book the tickets, but I have no idea what kind of flights I’ll be able to get. I’ll try to get one out of Austin, but you may have to drive to Houston.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She meant it. For once, Kate-the-perfect needed Zoey’s help. “However it works out.”

“Thanks. Uh...Kate is going to talk to Phyllis—she’s the woman who’s running the kennel while we’re gone—and she’ll have all the instructions ready when you get there.”

“And promise me you’ll follow them exactly!” Kate yelled from the background. “Even if you think they’re stupid. Even if you think you know a better way. In fact, don’t think at all. We’ll do all the thinking.”

Her sister didn’t trust Zoey’s judgment. “Tell Kate to relax. I can do this.” She had to.

The truth was that Kate wasn’t the only one who doubted Zoey. Lately, Zoey had been doubting herself. She tried not to, tried to shake off her mistakes, tried to look at them as learning experiences, but her inner pep talks weren’t working anymore.

She had to do this for herself, not just for Kate. Zoey had to succeed at something. Once she tasted success, she could start her skin care business with confidence.

“It’ll be a pain,” Ryan warned. “Since it’s close to the date of the next show, you’ll have to maintain Casper’s daily routine. It’s all about the coat. You might even have to—”

“Don’t talk her out of it!” Kate’s voice was panicked.

“She has to understand what she’s getting into.” Ryan’s voice was filled with calm reasonableness.

Guess which made Zoey nervous? “Hey!” she said to get their attention. “I’m on my way home. Why don’t you call me in a couple of hours after you’ve worked out all this...stuff.”

They were still arguing as the call disconnected.

Although she knew she shouldn’t, as she walked to the parking garage, Zoey compared her life to her sister’s. Yeah, Kate was only two years older, but she had a husband and a house and a car that was less than ten years old and had a heater that worked. Although having a working heater in this part of Texas wasn’t that big of a deal. Kate also owned a successful business that was about to hit the big time.

Her sister deserved the success. Really. She and Ryan worked hard.

I work hard, too, Zoey thought. Except everything Kate touched turned to gold and everything Zoey touched turned to poo. It had always been that way. Her parents had expected another Kate—and got Zoey. In school, teachers expected another Kate—and got Zoey. So Zoey learned to avoid following in Kate’s footsteps while she tried to find her own success.

So far, all she’d found was failure.

But not this time. Zoey gripped the steering wheel on her fourteen-year-old Honda Civic. Here was the perfect opportunity to figure out where she’d been going wrong. Kate and Ryan were making all the plans, all the arrangements. Kate would leave incredibly detailed, nitpicky instructions telling Zoey exactly what to do and how to do it. She’d have a blueprint for success. All Zoey had to do was follow it.

Success breeds success. Zoey grinned as she backed out of her parking space. Or in this case, Afghan puppies.

* * *

CAMERON MACNEIL CAREFULLY packed a bottle of MacNeil’s Highland Oatmeal Stout in bubble wrap. Standing next to him—and not helping—was his annoyed cousin Angus.

“I don’t see why you want to bring in an investor,” Angus said. “And judging by your caginess, he’s no MacNeil.”

“Do you know a MacNeil with the kind of money we need who we haven’t already hit up?”

Instead of answering, because the answer was “no,” Angus chugged the rest of the bottle of stout he’d nabbed. Highland Stout was not a chugging type of beer, but the nuances of hops and yeast escaped Angus. The alcohol content did not.

“Easy,” Cam warned. “We don’t have a lot of that batch left.”

“Make more.” Gus reached for another bottle, but Cam grabbed his wrist and guided it to the Highland Spring Bock they were about to release.

“The stout is a seasonal. Try this one.”

“Dishwater,” Gus grumbled and went for the high alcohol Pumpkin Porter they’d experimented with last fall. Cam let him have it. He didn’t like the way the porter tasted, although a lot of folks did. There seemed to be some unwritten rule now that all brewers had to come out with a pumpkin beer in the fall. Personally, Cam didn’t think the mixture did the beer or the pumpkins any favors. And don’t get him started on raspberries. Their Highland Heather Honey beer had promise, but so far, he wasn’t satisfied with the recipes they’d developed. But he would find the right one eventually. At least the failures weren’t wasted, he thought with a glance at Angus.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Gus said after a deep swallow. “Och, laddie, ye just gotta have faith in y’self.”

Cam shook his head at the accent. Cam’s problem wasn’t a lack of faith; it was a lack of help at the brewery. He considered a moment and then packed a bottle of the Pumpkin Porter to take to Seattle.

“What?” Gus tilted the bottle to his mouth.

“The accent. It wasn’t that strong when you lived in Scotland.”

“Lassies luuuuuv m’ accent. It’s part of the package.” He burped.

“Is that part of the package?”

Gus waved it off. “It shows I’m a man who enjoys life.”

“Or at least beer.”

Gus turned the bottle until the label faced Cam. “Yeah, and whose mug is that on the label, I want to know?”

A swath of the MacNeil tartan ran across a corner of the label behind a smiling, red-bearded man with a receding hairline—Gus. Although in current versions of the label, his hairline had been considerably filled in, thanks to the miracle of digital photo enhancement. “We don’t want the lads to be associating drinking beer with losing their hair,” Gus had explained virtuously.

Cam nodded to the label. “Are women really and truly impressed by that?”

“A man capable of fully appreciating a good brew is a man capable of fully appreciating a good woman.”

“And that line actually works for you?” Cam decided to add another bottle of the Pumpkin Porter to the wooden sample crate. Gus actually did know his beers. He was the front man for MacNeil’s Highland Beer. Cam was the everything-else man.

Gus patted his belly. “You’ll never get a hit if you don’t swing your bat, if ye get what I’m sayin’.”

Cam gave an unwilling laugh. “I do, but I wish I didn’t.”

“Yer just jealous because the ad folks didn’t pick yer pretty face for the label.”

“I don’t want to be on a beer label.”

“Och, surprised ya, though, di’n’t it? That they picked me over you.”

“Not really.”

“Oh, come on, Cam. Give a guy a break,” Gus said, dropping the accent. All but the part that was real, anyway. “When I’m hanging around you, I need some kind of an edge. Women won’t notice me otherwise.” He took another sip of beer.

Cam glanced down to where Gus’s huge belly draped over his kilt. His cousin must have put on thirty pounds since they started brewing beer commercially a couple of years ago. Aesthetics aside, it was also a health issue. And Gus believing his beard disguised his double chin wasn’t good, either.

“What are you staring at?” Gus spread his arms wide. “The kilt?”

Actually the stomach, but now wasn’t the moment to get into it. “That’s not a kilt.”

Gus looked down. “What would you call it then?”

Cam hid a smile. “A denim skirt.”

“Get with the times, Cam. Not all kilts are plaid wool anymore.” Gus drained the rest of his beer. “And I gotta tell you, they’re a helluva lot cooler for a Texas summer.”

He wiped his shining forehead on his sleeve. He was sweating in the unheated brewing room in a Texas January. It didn’t bode well for when it actually was summer in Texas.

“The ladies do like a man in a kilt,” Gus informed him. “Now, I know what’s running around in that head of yours.”

Probably not, Cam thought.

“But here’s the way I see it—on our next Saturday tour, you put on a kilt and flash those dimples of yours—”

Cam hated his dimples.

“—and maybe a little more—” Gus twitched the hem of his kilt and laughed uproariously, holding his belly. He looked like a Scottish Santa Claus. “And every female in the room will buzz right on over to you.”

“Cut it out, Gus.”

“It’s true!”

“Then why would you want me to wear a kilt?”

“To get it over with. You take your pick of the girls and free up the others for the rest of us mortals. The women will be disappointed, but then they’ll see me in a kilt and if they squint real hard, and sample enough of the beer, they’ll be reminded of you.”

“I must be getting tired because that makes a weird kind of sense.” Cam arranged curly wood shavings around the bottles for padding. He’d remove the bubble wrap and fluff everything up for a nice presentation after he got to Seattle.

“And it solves another problem.”

Cam reached for the crate’s top. “That would be?”

“You don’t have a woman in your life.”

“Gus...” They’d been over this, although why Gus felt Cam’s love life, or the lack of it, was his business escaped Cam.

“I know. You don’t want a girlfriend. You don’t have time for a ‘relationship.’” Gus used air quotes, which Cam ignored. “But you being unattached gives all the lassies hope. And if they have hope in their hearts for you, they aren’t going to fully appreciate my magnificence.”

“I apologize for the fact that my lack of a girlfriend is impacting your love life.” Cam fit the top onto the presentation crate and admired the MacNeil logo burned into the corner. Without Gus’s face. That had been one argument Cam had actually won.

Gus set the empty bottle on the table next to Cam’s box of samples. “It affects more than that. And more than me. We’re all well aware you don’t have a woman in your life. You need a woman.”

“I need to hire help at the brewery.”

“Why hire someone when you have your family? I’m not talking about a relationship.” Gus moved his arms in a big circle. “Just a short acquaintance. A night or two, even.” Cam picked up a rubber mallet and Gus backed off, palms outstretched. “That’s all I’m saying.”

It probably wasn’t, knowing Gus.

“A woman might even be able to change your outlook. You might see things a little different and not want to expand the brewery and take on all that extra work. You’re already complaining about the work you’ve got.”

“Expanding shouldn’t cause much extra work. Not with all my brothers and cousins around to help.” Cam was being sarcastic, but he didn’t expect Gus to notice.

“Cam.” Gus touched his arm. “Leave things be.”

“I can’t.” He faced his cousin. “MacNeil’s is too big to be a family hobby, but we’re not big enough to get any kind of regular distribution. We grow, or we fold.”

“You have to relax, Cam. Enjoy life.”

If he did, there wouldn’t be a MacNeil’s, a point he hoped to make while he was gone next week. “You mean I should stand around and drink beer and spout clichés in a fake accent while wearing a skirt, like you?” Cam immediately regretted his words—not because they weren’t true, but that he’d indulged himself by saying them.

Gus didn’t take offense. “And didn’t that nonsense you blathered just prove me point about you needing a woman?”

Let it go, let it go. But he couldn’t. “It was a little harsh, but it wasn’t nonsense.”

“Och, laddie.” Gus shook his head.

“Fake accent.”

“It’s the excess man juices bubblin’ around in yer blood talkin’.”

“You did not just say ‘man juices.’” Cam whacked at the metal fastening staples. They sank into the wood and started a tiny split. Great.

“It’s the truth. Your juices are all backed up with no place to go, so they’ve spilled over into yer blood, where they’ve been bubblin’ and fermentin’.” Gus illustrated this by wiggling his fingers.

Cam whacked another staple into the box.

“Until one day, you’ll see a female and you’ll blow your top, just like that batch of summer ale the first year.”

“Gus.” A corner of Cam’s mouth twitched.

“It’s why men make poor decisions with the wrong women.” Gus took the mallet from him. “Or they let the right one get away ’cause they’ve got no finesse and scare her off.” He expertly pounded in the final staples and tossed the mallet onto the table. “Or they go begging to some Sassenach for ‘expansion’ money so he can share in the profit after we’ve spent years establishing ourselves, doing all the hard work, developing and testing recipes and pouring free beer down the gullets of the public so they’ll get a taste for it.”

Cam clapped. “Very dramatic.”

“But true.”

“Agreed. But now that they’ve got a taste for our beer, we’ve got to supply it to them. Here’s the thing. The Beer Barn in Wimberly is getting rid of their tanks. They’re outsourcing the house brew.”

Gus gasped. “That’s sacrilege!”

“That’s opportunity. For us.” He gestured for Gus to hand him a foam cooler. “I want to buy the tanks and then lease the space so I can leave them there for now. We brew more of our two bestsellers there or we brew one of ours and make a pitch to brew the Beer Barn’s house label in the other.”

“Och, laddie, yer a crafty one.” Gus waggled his finger, then turned shrewd. “Who’s our competition?”

“It doesn’t matter if we slip in with a cash offer.”

“Ah.” Gus gave him a long look. “But we don’t have the cash.”

Cam shook his head. “Not yet. But if my meeting in Seattle goes the way I hope it does, I’ll have the money.”

Gus shrugged. “Bringing in an outsider will have to come to a vote, and the lads won’t agree.”

He meant Cam’s two brothers and assorted cousins for whom the brewery was more a source of fun and free beer than a business. “Then the ‘lads’ can take over. Because I’m tired of going without. I’m tired of being poor. I’m tired of never having a day off. I’m tired of living paycheck to paycheck.”

Once Cam got started, the words just rolled out, louder and louder. “I’m tired of driving an old car. I’m tired of paying credit-card interest. And I am bloody well tired of not having a girlfriend!” His voice echoed in the cavernous space.

Gus didn’t even blink. “Fair enough.” He opened the door to the visitor fridge and stared inside. “You never said who your investor was.”

“A guy I know from school.” The crate squeaked as Cam forced it into a cooler. “A computer geek who sold an app to Apple or Google or some big company.” Cam taped the lid on to make sure it stayed put. “He thinks owning part of a brewery will make him seem hip.”

Not that Cam intended to sell any part of MacNeil’s. He was hoping to sell naming rights for a custom-brewed beer, but if his trip made the family nervous, so much the better.

Cam set the cooler into the shipping container for the plane and added more padding. It might be overkill, but he didn’t want to chance the bottles breaking or freezing.

Gus was still staring into the fridge. “I suppose I could live with an outside investor.” He shut the fridge door without taking a beer. That meant he was still thinking. The thing about Gus was that he wasn’t stupid, although he encouraged people to believe so. But he was less smart after a few beers.

“As long as you aren’t asking us to get into bed with one of those infernal Campbells.”

Gus needed more beer.

Cam bent down to grab a double handful of the packing shavings.

“What’s this investor’s name?” Gus asked.

Oh, here we go. “Richard.” Cam straightened. “Hey, as long as you’re standing there, would you slap a label on the box?”

Gus took his time peeling the backing off the label. “Would ye be referrin’ to the aptly named Dick Campbell?”

“He prefers Richard.”

“I’ll bet he does.”

“Campbell is a common last name.”

“Common, yes.”

“Gus! Don’t go there. Clan rivalries are fun at the Highland Games, but nobody takes it seriously.”

“I take it seriously.” He did.

“Then be serious in Scotland.” Cam held his gaze. “This is Texas. The brewery’s at stake. Are you really going to fight me on this because of some quarrel our ancestors had with the Campbells hundreds of years ago?”

“If I don’t fight with you now, you’ll be fighting with him later.” Gus slapped the label on the box. “No Campbell is going to write you a check and just stand back and let you do whatever you want with his money.”

“Richard has his own business to run, and he’s in Seattle. He’s not going to bother us.” As Cam added samples of yeast and hops to the shipping container, he was aware of Gus’s stare. “Look.” He turned to his cousin. “We’ll invite him down and let him help us brew a batch of beer. Then we’ll send him a few cases and he can give it to all of his friends. Trust me—this is only about Richard wanting to be cool.”

“Trust me,” Gus warned. “It’s about a hell of a lot more than wanting to be cool.”

Cam finished taping up the shipping box and Gus reached around him to flip off the light. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Going home. Aren’t you?”

“I wish.” Cam had another few hours of work ahead of him. “I’ve still got to check in with the volunteers for tomorrow’s tour and start setting up.”

“No, you don’t.” Gus flipped off the rest of the lights. “You’re just making extra work for yourself. They know they’re supposed to be here to set up.”

Cam turned the lights back on. “Some forget.”

Gus waved away his words. “So what if they do? Plenty of people will be around to pitch in if you need extra help. Relaaax, laddie boy. It’ll all work out.”

Relax. It’ll all work out was Gus’s standard response to Cam’s concerns about the brewery. “I’ll relax next week when you’re the one making it all work out.”

“You do that,” Gus said. “And find a woman while you’re at it.”

2

AS SOON AS Zoey got home, she flipped on The Weather Channel and started packing. Central Texas generally had mild winters, but she was flying first to Virginia, then renting a car to drive to her sister’s kennel, then flying to Seattle and renting another car to drive to Merriweather Kennels. Apparently dog breeders favored rural locations.

She caught the tail end of the report: “...stalled over the Rockies. This area of high pressure is feeding all that moist Gulf air, and when it eventually moves along this line, the Midwest will be in for heavy snow, probably within the next couple of days...”

Snow. Zoey did not do snow. She didn’t see snow all that often and had driven in it only twice.

While she waited for Kate and Ryan to call with her itinerary, Zoey transferred samples of Skin Garden creams into airline-approved containers. Flying all over the country was a great opportunity to test which formulas best combated dry airplane air. She even added extras to make a nice gift bag for Alexandra’s owner. Word of mouth had to start someplace.

Near midnight, her sister called. “Hey, Zoey, sorry about the slop in the flight schedules, but not all the commuter planes have pressurized, temperature-controlled cargo holds. And the layover must be long enough to let Casper potty when you change planes in Chicago.”

Chicago. Chicago was in the Midwest. “Hey—have you been watching the weather? There’s a big storm—”

“It’s January. There’s always a big storm,” Kate snapped.

Zoey had kept the TV on for company, and the projections had changed over the past few hours. The storm was growing and moving faster than originally predicted. Meteorologists were thrilled and trying not to show it, which was never a good sign. “Maybe you should have the woman at your kennel put Casper on the plane in Richmond and I’ll just fly to Chicago and meet him there. It would save a day.”

“In other words, leave the kennels unattended for hours, and then let a future Grand Champion travel by himself?”

“Unless there’s something you’re not telling me, he’ll be by himself in the cargo hold anyway. You should turn on the TV. I think this storm—”

“Zoey! You promised not to think!” Kate sucked in a deep breath. “Just follow the plan.”

Right. Zoey’s plans led to failure. Kate’s led to success. “I was just wondering about the effects of the snow.”

“I appreciate your concern, Zoey.” Ryan’s voice. “But Casper needs to become familiar with you and you’ll have to learn his routine. Believe me, it’ll make traveling with him a lot easier.”

* * *

AT CHICAGO’S O’HARE AIRPORT, Cam watched with a crowd of cranky passengers as flights on the departure monitors changed from “delayed” to “canceled.”

He should have called off his trip after waiting for hours at the Houston airport because he knew incoming flights from Denver had been delayed. Snow and ice. Hadn’t Colorado figured out how to deal with snow yet? And now the storm was bearing down on Chicago. If he couldn’t get a flight out, who knew how long he’d be stuck here?

Cam made his way to baggage claim to find out where the checked luggage was being stored. If it was in some unheated warehouse, then he’d have to retrieve the beer. The foam cooler would probably keep the bottles from freezing, but the samples of wort, hops and yeast weren’t protected.

He stepped off the escalator at baggage claim into a solid wall of people and lines that were so long, he couldn’t see the end of them. The babble and smell of overheated travelers made it hard to concentrate.

To heck with this. He’d find the climate-controlled shipments himself. Better to ask the guys actually handling the cargo than to rely on the agents at the counter, who could only repeat what they’d been told.

There weren’t as many people at the end of the building where the administrative offices were located, and Cam took a moment to appreciate the lack of crowd noise. And fresher air. As some of his stress eased, he heard a dog bark. Right. Pets would be traveling in the same cargo hold as his beer. Following the signs, Cam found the area where the animals were being held. Great. Another long line.

Several frazzled owners were trying to soothe their unhappy pets, but Cam’s eyes were immediately drawn to a woman struggling with a large dog wearing what looked like a shower cap and a blue jumpsuit with “Ryka’s Casper” embroidered on the side.

The dog’s butt was firmly planted on the floor; it did not want to go back into its crate. The woman gestured, clearly trying to reason with the animal. She finally grabbed the harness and slid the sitting dog toward the crate. The poor thing had probably been confined in there for hours already.

Cam and the rest of the waiting travelers silently watched as the woman struggled to remove little blue booties from the dog’s paws.

“Casper, please!” She slipped off her backpack and set it next to the crate. “They’re all wet. I don’t even know why I bothered.”

She bent over and the end of her knit scarf caught on the travel crate. As she tried to free the scarf, the dog pulled on its leash.

“Here, let me help you.” Cam quickly moved forward and knelt by the crate.

The scarf was striped red and white, like a candy cane, and made him smile as he unhooked it from the wire door.

“Thanks,” he heard as he straightened and came face to face with flushed cheeks, huge pale green eyes and a grateful but weary smile.

The air left his lungs as though he’d been punched in the chest. He stared, well aware he was staring, but he couldn’t stop. Worse, he didn’t want to stop. He’d happily devote whatever hours before his flight was rescheduled to staring at her and her sea-glass-colored eyes, her flushed cheeks and her...nose. Okay, there was nothing remarkable about her nose. He couldn’t call it cute or even little. She wasn’t crinkling it adorably or anything. It was just a nose. But it really looked good on her.

She did have nice skin—he noticed that. And brown hair, judging from the pieces of her bangs that stuck out from the candy-cane hood she wore. The hood appeared to be attached to her scarf, and he saw the remnants of a price sticker along the turned-up edge.

She blinked at him, and the wool fringe of her scarf moved through his fingers as she gently tugged.

“Oh.” He glanced down and gave a short laugh as he released the scarf. “I guess you want that back.” He stepped away to give her space because her smile seemed a little fixed.

The dog whined and pulled in the direction of the exit.

She didn’t say anything, and Cam didn’t say anything, either, although he wanted to. He was doing well just to remember to breathe. After months of easily chitchatting with the public during Saturday tours at the brewery, now Cam couldn’t string a sentence together to save his soul.

“I guess Casper didn’t get enough of the snow and slush, so I’m going to walk him some more.” She pointed over her shoulder as she backed away, the dog straining at his leash. “Thanks again.”

Cam opened his mouth to offer to walk with her, but he was afraid of coming off as stalkerish, so instead he said, “Have fun.” Yeah. That was the best he could come up with.

He stood, unmoving, and watched the dog pull her away. He couldn’t gauge much about her body beneath the wrinkled beige coat she wore, but her legs were encased in tight jeans tucked into boots. Nice.

She stopped walking and said something to the dog. Abruptly, the dog—Ryka’s Casper, according to the ridiculous doggie coat—returned to her side and froze, head up, tail curled and legs straight. She dug in the pocket of her coat and pulled out red-and-white striped gloves. No. Mittens. She was putting on mittens. Cam grinned, pegging her as one of those quirky, sexy girls. Usually, he avoided that type because the quirkiness wore on him after a few hours, but somehow he knew she was different. Her coat said practical, her legs said sexy, and the mitten/scarf/hat combo said quirky. He liked it. A lot.

Once her mittens were on, she gave a command to the dog and they trotted toward the door in perfect step.

A show dog. No wonder he was dressed in the fancy getup. Ryka’s Casper. Did that mean the woman’s name was Ryka?

Cam might have the opportunity to find out because it seemed he’d be hanging around here for a while. The customer-service line hadn’t moved at all in the past fifteen minutes. He watched the overworked clerks. They had to be as tired and as frustrated as the passengers, but so far, they were doing an admirable job of hiding it. Still, if he got into line now, by the time he made it to the counter, his beer could be frozen.

He looked around for a cargo handler and noticed a black backpack sitting by the empty dog crate. Unattended luggage. Bad. Very bad, as the airport announcements warned. Over and over and over. But Ryka had abandoned it in her haste to get away from him. Yeah, he’d definitely come off as stalkerish. It would be his fault if someone stole the backpack or messed with it or reported it as unattended luggage. So Cam casually sat on the floor next to the crate. He’d keep an eye on the bag and leave when she returned.

He felt a disappointed pang at the thought of walking away from her, although he wouldn’t walk far because the baggage-service line wrapped around the pet area. He could catch a glimpse of her cute nose or sexy legs, but he had to make sure she didn’t catch him at it.

Cam rested his forearms on his knees, hands dangling free. A wave of tiredness smacked him and he dropped his head. He’d oh-so-carefully arranged this meeting with Richard after reading an interview in his college alumni magazine where Richard had expressed an interest in brewing craft beer. Fortunately, the Yakima Valley in Washington State was a huge hop-growing region, so Cam had mentioned he’d be in Washington visiting growers and offered to meet with Richard. When Richard had agreed, Cam then actually had to plan a visit with a grower; Richard was just the sort of man to verify his story. Richard was also the sort of man to refuse to meet with Cam if he was late, even if it was because of the storm of the century.

Cam drew a deep breath and lifted his head, his gaze falling on the backpack again. A tiny edge of white paper taunted him from beneath the bag. The paper looked a whole lot like one of the temporary ID strips the airlines provided at the ticketing counter. If Gus were here, he’d move the backpack so he could read the information on it, but Cam wasn’t Gus. Besides, if Ryka saw him messing with her bag, he’d have a hard time explaining his motives to her—or to whoever monitored all the security cameras trained on the area.

He’d have a hard time explaining it to himself. What did it matter who she was and where she lived?

Deliberately, Cam sought out the door where owners were being reunited with their pets and vowed to talk with one of the workers as soon as Ryka returned. It was while he watched the handler match a man’s ID to a tag on his pet’s crate that Cam thought to look at Casper’s crate.

And there it was, visible for anyone to see: Ryka Kennels, Leeland, Virginia. Virginia. Not close to Texas. A kennel wasn’t exactly a portable occupation, either. Neither was a brewery. And Ryka probably wasn’t her name.

So much for that. Not that there had been a “that.” Cam drew a deep, deep breath and exhaled in a whoosh, trying to blow away his disappointment. Just what, exactly, had he hoped would happen, anyway? After they went their separate ways, was he going to get in touch with her and say, “Hey, I’m that guy you thought was going to hit on you at the airport. You want to go out some night?” And then if she actually said okay, he’d have to fly to Virginia.

Not happening. Getting MacNeil’s up and running consumed all his time and energy. The family had agreed that Cam’s brothers and cousins would put up the money for the brewery and help out when they could, but Cam would run the show. So right now, the brewery had to come first in his life. When Cam started a new relationship, he was very up front about his responsibilities. Women always said they understood, but after a few weeks, when the novelty of spending Saturdays at the brewery wore off, they lost patience. Cam didn’t blame them; they deserved more than he could give.

The brewery needed more than he could give, too, and convincing the family of that was one of the major reasons for this trip. If he succeeded, then maybe he would have time to fly to Virginia.

The minutes crawled by. The arrival and departure screens flashed a notice stating that O’Hare was closed until further notice. Not good. Televisions were tuned to The Weather Channel or news stations discussing the weather. Maps showed the middle of the country as a blob of white and blue with fringes of purple. Roads were closed. Transportation was at a standstill. He watched lots and lots of footage of stalled cars buried in snow and icy branches that had fallen on power lines.

Great. Just great. Cam got out his phone and texted Richard that his flight had been delayed due to weather. This probably wasn’t news to Richard, but Cam had to give him some explanation for being late.

For the next few minutes, he checked his phone, hoping that Richard would text back right away. At some point, he became aware that the background noise had changed. He raised his head, trying to figure out what was different, and noticed people were starting to line the glass of the exit vestibule that buffered the outer doors. Beyond them, where he should have spotted taxis and shuttles picking up passengers, was a wall of white.

Just as he realized he was seeing snow, and a lot of it, and that Ryka and her dog were out in that mess, people backed away from the entrance. Ryka and the dog and a bunch of snow blew in through the automatic doors.

She stomped her feet and the dog shook himself. They continued through the next set of doors into the main area where she stopped to wipe more snow from the dog. Her funny candy-cane hood fell back and she jerked it and the scarf off impatiently and shook them. Then she used them to brush snow off her coat as Casper plopped down and tried to chew off his booties. Ryka saw what he was doing and removed them—without trouble this time. She stared at the mess in her hands and Cam smiled at the face she made before stuffing the booties into her pocket along with her mittens. She jostled her scarf once more and reached behind her neck to free her hair.

Glossy brown waves cascaded down her back as she raked her hair away from her face with her fingers and fluffed her bangs, which were hopelessly crinkled from being squashed beneath her hat.

The scene was like a commercial. It only lacked slow-motion camera effects.

She said something to the dog and tugged at the leash. Looking skyward, she shook her head, straightened and spoke a command. The dog immediately got to his feet and positioned himself at her side. Together, they jogged toward Cam and the crate in that peculiar trot used at dog shows.

Cam didn’t need TV special effects. He saw them in slow motion. Ryka, her cheeks flushed and hair swinging, a dog in a goofy outfit trotting beside her...and a soundtrack. A voice from on high chanting, “If you claim her, do not leave her unattended. Keep her in your possession at all times and do not allow strangers to give her anything to carry.” And to make sure he got the message, the voice chanted it in a couple of different languages.

He got the message, all right. His heart pounded and his man juices bubbled, just the way Gus said they would.

And then she noticed him sitting there and her step faltered. The wary expression on her face stabbed him in the chest; he’d blown any chance of spending more time with her.

Cam got to his feet so quickly, he became lightheaded. He forced a smile and mouthed, “You left your backpack” to her as he pointed. Understanding wiped the wariness from her face, but Cam wasn’t going to push it. He raised a hand in farewell and walked blindly in the opposite direction.

“Oh, hey!” he heard but didn’t turn around. He could have imagined it, and anyway, he didn’t want her to think he was paying attention to her.

But he slowed. A little. Just in case.

Seconds later, he heard her say, “Excuse me,” and felt her hand on his arm. He was sure it was her hand because at the touch, his skin burned beneath the leather jacket...and beneath the navy cashmere pullover his mom had given him for Christmas and beneath the shirt he wore under that. Yeah. He reacted that strongly to her touch.

Gus’s words echoed in his mind, One day, you see a female and you blow your top, just like that batch of summer ale the first year. It’s why men make poor decisions with the wrong women, or they let the right one get away ’cause they’ve got no finesse and scare her off.

Cam turned then and gave her a questioning look. Finesse. Think finesse.

“Um, thanks. Again.” She smiled uncertainly. “I appreciate you watching my stuff.”

“No problem,” he murmured. There. Finesse. His voice hadn’t cracked or anything. He was especially pleased that he hadn’t grabbed her and planted his mouth on her lips, lips that were clearly made for kissing. Generous. Wide. Not too pillowy.

“I’ve got to ask you another favor,” she burst out.

“Okay.” He tried to avoid appearing overeager.

“I—” She stopped and exhaled. “Casper won’t get in his crate and I’ve got to go to the restroom. Would you please watch him for me?”

“Sure.” Cam allowed himself a smile and glanced down at the dog. I owe you, buddy.

“Oh, thank you!” She shoved the leash at him. “I’ll be just a minute!” And she hurried toward the restrooms.

Cam watched her go, her hair rippling. She had great hair—straight, long and glossy. He wanted to run his fingers through it. He wanted to feel it against his bare skin. He wanted to lie back in bed and have it curtain their faces as she leaned down to kiss him.

He heard a frustrated sound, and at first he thought it had escaped him. But then he realized it had come from the dog, who was staring down its long nose at him, as though he could read Cam’s mind.

“Hey, Casper,” he said. “How’s it going, buddy?”

With a tiny whine, Casper sat down.

“I hear ya.” Cam looked in the direction of the restrooms. As was typical, the women’s had a line and Ryka, or whatever her name was, hadn’t made it around the corner yet.

“What say we walk over to your crate?” Cam said. The backpack was still lying on the floor next to it.

He started walking and the dog followed him, which was good because he didn’t want to have to drag the animal across the floor.

Once they got to the crate, Cam sat on the floor again, and the dog flopped beside him, head on his paws. Another little whine escaped.

Cam reached out to pat him. “Hey, this thing she’s got you wearing is all wet.”

She couldn’t want her dog to stay in wet clothes. He took off the blue bonnet. “Oh, buddy. I thought the hat was bad.”

Casper’s fur was white, as Cam might have guessed from his name. But the hair on his head and ears was gathered in blue elastic holders. Probably to keep it out of the way. Cam scratched Casper all over his head, and if the dog had been a cat, he would have purred.

Another glance toward the women’s restroom revealed that Ryka had only just made it to the corner beneath the sign.

“Okay, buddy. Let’s get this off you.” Slowly, Cam reached around the dog’s stomach, seeking the straps. Casper obligingly rolled onto his side. Cam unhooked the clasps and peeled off the wet coat, releasing the aroma of wet dog and something sweet—doggy shampoo?

Casper panted.

The rest of his hair was also bunched with blue bands, but Cam could see there was a lot of hair and it was all white. And damp. Unfortunately, the baggage terminal floor wasn’t very clean, with people tracking in the wet sludge from outside. Occasionally, the maintenance crew came by with mops, and earlier they’d placed black rubber mats by the exit, along with yellow tented caution signs.

Cam draped Casper’s outfit over the crate to dry out and gently petted him, scratching between the ponytail bunches.

“Does that feel good, boy?”

Casper licked his mouth and resumed panting.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” Cam liked dogs, although he didn’t own one. If he did, he’d never pick this breed. Too much hair.

Casper twitched and rolled over onto his back, curving himself into an S shape.

“You want a tummy rub.” Cam used both hands. “This must mean you’ve warmed up to me. Now let’s see if we can get your owner to warm up to me, too.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.