“Nice job, big man,” she said, blushing.

“Yet another man doing Jessica Does,” a woman behind them murmured, just loud enough to be heard. Jess flinched, and Connor jerked upright, looking around.

It had to be someone from high school. So far as Connor knew, he was the only guy she’d been with in a decade. A decade, for Christ’s sake.

Tanya Cross was studiously checking her phone. She glanced at Connor, then smiled sweetly. She always had been a jealous pill. Used to try to tear Colleen down all the time.

“Did you say something, Tanya?” he asked.

“Hmm? Me? No. How are you, Connor?”

“Great. A very happy man these days.” He looked down at Jess, who cocked an eyebrow. She was tough, his Jess, but he knew that name still hurt. “Very happy.” Then he kissed her again, a little longer this time, a little softer.

“Stop kissing,” Davey said. “It’s gross.”

Connor felt her smile.

“I have to agree with Davey,” Colleen said, appearing with the baby and a big smile. “Jess, you know you can do better, but I do appreciate you taking pity on my brother. Can we sit with you guys? Gerard’s giant head is in my way.” She handed Isabelle to Jessica. “Want to admire the most beautiful baby that ever was?”

“Her face is scrunchy,” Davey observed.

“If by scrunchy, Davey, you mean perfect, you’re absolutely right. Oh, hey, Tanya. You okay, hon? You look a little under the weather.”

Ah, Colleen. There were times when he’d cheerfully drown her, and then there were times like this. She winked at him. Frickin’ psychic, that’s what she was.

Connor tousled Davey’s hair, put one finger on his niece’s little head—she was wearing a hat with bunny ears on it, and it was crazy cute. Then he went back to the dugout to receive his much-deserved congratulations and slip Ned a fifty so he’d watch Davey overnight.

Fun and sex. And food. That’s what Jessica needed.

One of these days, she was going to marry him.

* * *

ON THE MORNING of the big pitch to the Empire State Food & Beverage, Jess called him. “You nervous?” she asked.

He was lonely, that was what he was. This bed seemed way too big without her in it. “No, since you’ll be doing all the talking.”

“You’ll do some. Don’t worry. You’re a good bet, Connor O’Rourke. I’d totally back you.” The unintended double entendre hung there for a minute. “By the way,” she said quietly, “my offer on the house was accepted.”

“Great! Congratulations.” Shit. He’d been hoping someone would swoop in and steal the house from under her nose. “That’s fantastic, Jess.” He’d be happy for her. He didn’t have much choice, and besides, he understood.

“Thanks for saying so.” There was a weighty pause, then she took a quick breath. “Okay, I have to make sure Davey brushes his teeth. See you later. Two fifteen, don’t be late.”

“I’ll be there.”

At 2:15, however, she wasn’t there. Connor was shown into the small conference room at the Radisson Hotel in Corning. Manningsport didn’t have a real hotel...plenty of B&Bs and a motel by the lake. But for this, Jess had suggested something a little more official, a place with a conference room and a projector screen.

Their meeting was at 3:00; Jess said she’d set up the conference room so it would look fantastic, flowers and stuff, one of the things she did at Blue Heron during press pitches or special events. That was good, because, being a guy, prettying up the conference room had never occurred to him.

The last time Connor had had a business meeting was when Sherry Wu, his old prom date, had him come in to sign the papers for his loan. He hadn’t worn a suit; he’d worn jeans and a T-shirt, probably. Who could remember? Today, though, he wore a suit. And shit, his mother’s wedding was tomorrow, and he’d have to wear a suit again. And a tie.

He was sweating profusely. When was the last time he’d worn a tie? A funeral probably. Colleen’s wedding. Whatever. He felt like he was being strangled. Jeremy Lyon wore a tie every day. Every single day.

His phone buzzed. It was Jessica.

Running a little late.

Thank God Colleen had suggested Jessica, who was nothing if not grace under pressure. First, the Empire Food people would be dazzled with her good looks; three men, one woman. Jess always looked understated and elegant; she looked that way in pajamas. Something about her posture.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a painting. He looked like a hit man, the suit, the clenched jaw, tight shoulders. “Relax,” he told himself. This tie was choking him, had he mentioned that?

He had a hundred grand for the brewery, thanks to a decade of saving. Jeremy was in for another fifty. The bank had approved him for a decent loan, but he still needed about $600,000. Renovations on the building, insurance, equipment, furnishings, supplies, Tim’s salary, counter staff salary, a liquor license, advertising, and enough to cover the loss they’d be sure to operate under for the first year, maybe two.

Six hundred grand.

It seemed like so much money. But with it, he could get started right away. And the brewery wasn’t just a whimsical idea. He’d been working on it for fifteen months.

Jess had run through the presentation again last night. She was damn good at her job, that was for sure. She’d had a dozen booklets made online, bound and everything, the kind of thing he would never have thought to do. The covers said O’Rourke’s Brewing: Investment Opportunity & Business Plan, with a close-up shot of a Pilsner, a Stout and an IPA, taken on the bar of the restaurant. It was like beer porn.

Each page of the book was beautifully laid out. The first few pages were the labels; she’d hired a graphic designer to finesse her basic ideas. His favorite was for the Dog-Face IPA, which showed a picture of a very happy collie who actually did look a bit like Colleen. There were photos of the proposed building, taken by Jack Holland, who was a really good photographer, and then the “after” vision of the brewery—Faith had made a mock-up on her architect’s software, complete with people sitting at the tables, leaning on the tasting bar, on the patio. There was a nice shot of him and Colleen behind the bar of O’Rourke’s, taken a couple of years ago.

The marketing breakdown focused on Connor’s experience as a chef, same as in the PowerPoint presentation. Why he was specially positioned to craft beers that not only stood on their own, but also elevated the beverage to enhance both fine and everyday dining. That was the part that made Connor the most nervous. The stuff about him.

Then came the financial breakdown, which Connor had emailed her, and which she formatted to look clean and professional—where the money would be spent, and how. Then the timeline, projected one-, three-and five-year costs and profits.

And then, finally, the last page—the logo for the company, and that great tag line—Make every day special. Drink O’Rourke’s.

He could never have done this without her. Though she didn’t know it, once the funding came through, he’d be making her a partner.

Last night as she’d done her thing, he sat there, entranced—not by the brewery, but by her. She was smooth and confident with a wry edge to her words, and he would’ve bought a shoe box full of dirt from her, because she had a way of making everything sound fantastic.