Prologue
Sitting in her apartment with her bare feet propped up on the small table in front of her armchair, twirling the stem of a wine glass in her hands, Brooke Marino scrunched her brows in deep thought, wondering what in the hell she was going to do.
In the past ten years since she had graduated from college, Brooke had forged an impressive career for herself as one of the top graphic artists in the craft microbrewery space in Florida. She had fallen into it completely by accident; Brooke and her family were of Italian descent, so it was wine and not beer that had figured more prominently in her life as she was growing up. However, as she was working on her graphic design bachelor’s degree at Full Sail University in Winter Park, Florida—just outside of Orlando—a fellow student had asked her if she was interested in working in the taproom of a tiny area microbrewery part-time.
The job, Brooke had rapidly discovered, was great fun and had introduced her to the world of craft brews. Although she was still a wine girl at heart, she had enjoyed learning about different types of craft beer and meeting the eclectic, fun people who hung out in brewpubs and taproom breweries, while pursuing her degree in graphic design. One day while she was on shift, however, she’d looked askance for the hundredth time at the plain, unexciting beer tap handles in the small taproom and decided she needed to do something about them.
As a gift to Ricky and Schroeder, the taproom owners, Brooke had produced four custom beer tap handles, molded from polyurethane resin, painted with fine, exquisite detailto represent their brand, then sealed. With a grin that had stretched from ear to ear, Brooke had presented them to the two men one day for their three-year wedding anniversary, telling them she was killing two birds with one stone.
“First, it’s your anniversary, so congratulations on another year with your ball and chain,” she’d smirked, giving them a large, wrapped box and kissing them on their cheeks. “Second, since my eyes have been bleeding for quite some time, this is as much for me as it is for you. Frankly, I didn’t think queer boysdidboring…but evidently, it took the femme lesbian to sail to the rescue and yank you out of Dreary Land. You’re welcome.”
When they’d unwrapped the package and saw the custom beer tap handles Brooke had designed and produced for them, their mouths dropped open in utter shock. “Gurllll…if I had ovaries, they would be hitting the floor,” Schroeder had enthused when he got his voice back, holding one reverently as he admired its artistry. “Seriously, Brooke, thank you so much! You have someseriousdamn talent, my friend. I cannotwaitfor our customers to see these.”
Brooke hadn’t thought anymore about it until about a week after Schroeder and Ricky had switched out the taps, gushing to anyone who would listen about Brooke and her amazing skill. Then, a customer had asked her if she would be interested in producing beer tap handles for her cousin’s taproom, which was located on the east coast of Florida. Almost before Brooke knew it, she’d built a thriving business, which she had expanded to include graphic design services specifically geared toward the craft microbrewery space upon her graduation.
Throwing herself into her new career, Brooke had focused on learning every aspect of brewing, right down to understanding how CIP—or Clean-In-Place—systems worked: the standardized method of cleaning and disinfecting the interior surfaces of the tanks, pipes, and process equipmentused in the brewing process, all without having to disassemble the complex systems that brewed and fermented the product.
“If I’m going to do this,” she had told Alyssa Riker, who had been her best friend since kindergarten, “I need to understand every single thing—at least at a high level—about how craft beer is made. As a graphic designer, my job is to communicate ideas and create visual concepts, so consumers understand what they are buying…not to mention, enticing them to buy the product in the first place. How can I do that if I don’t thoroughly understand what I’m trying to sell?”
Brooke had grown to be such an expert in her field, she was continually offered far more work than she could accommodate, with a line of eager, patiently-waiting clients snaking out her door. Early on, she had decided against taking a partner or hiring other designers to handle projects for her, feeling that Brooke Marino Designs would do best as a one-woman show, with various independent contractors providing assistance where needed. Now, she rubbed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes as she took another sip of her wine, pissed that her excellent reputation in the craft microbrewery space was in jeopardy—all because some greedy, amoral dicks thought she was too stupid to figure out what they were doing.
A cynical smile lifted the corner of Brooke’s mouth as she took another swallow of her wine.
Whether she was being discounted because she was a woman, or because she was only a graphic artist, Brooke didn’t know. What shedidknow, however, was that Thom Geralt, Clayton Tucker, Jack Webb, and Robert Hoyt were going to wake up one day to find out she had scorched their asses so hard, their tiny, shriveled balls had also been seared fiery raw. What you did not do to a Marino—ever—was steal from them or show them disrespect.
Hernonnohad taught her that from the time she was a very small girl. AlthoughNonnowas no longer on this earthly plane, she knew he wouldn’t recognize his beloved granddaughter if she didn’t take steps to protect what was hers—plus, he’d befuriouswith her. There was no question that she was going to make those tools sorry they had ever decided to mess with a Marino. What was throwing her off at the moment, however, was figuring out the best way to strike back.
As she had previously explained to Sabine Burns, Thom Geralt had approached her one day and expressed his interest in working with her to turn around an already-established microbrewery on the verge of bankruptcy. As it turned out, Brooke knew the owner—someone she had a great deal of respect and liking for—but had been sorry to hear he had fallen on hard times because his wife’s breast cancer diagnosis had diverted his attention from his business. Thankfully, Sandy was expected to make a full recovery, as her latest scan had showed her to be cancer-free, but the months of neglect had driven his microbrewery to the brink.
Thom told Brooke that he and his partners had bought into Cask & Canvas and were looking for a graphic artist who could help them to rebrand. Because they had invested in four breweries in the Tampa Bay area, he had told her that—should the graphic design for Cask & Canvas be a success—they were interested in signing a contract with her for her to do the graphic design for the other three breweries they owned.
Brooke’s lip curled as she took her laptop from the seat beside her, propped it on her lap, and opened it.
She had expressed her willingness to work on the Cask & Canvas project immediately because of the circumstances surrounding its imminent failure, even though both her schedule and her waiting list were already full. Given her reputation and the situation with the microbrewery, Thomhad said, they really needed someone of Brooke’s caliber taking charge of the rebranding to make sure it was a winner. Confirming that he understood she needed limited access to their systems because of how she worked—assuring him she needed nothing that was proprietary or had to do with anything financial—Brooke had gone straight to work, creating three pieces of concept art that would provide her a direction in which to proceed, based on his feedback.
Her first misgivings came when she noticed Thom and his partners always seemed to be working very late at night—even through the wee hours of the morning—regardless of the day of the week. While it wasn’t uncommon for area microbreweries to stay open until midnight or one a.m. on Fridays and Saturdays, they were more apt to close at nine or ten p.m. on weekdays. However, Brooke consistently received emails and communications from Thom at one a.m., two a.m., even three a.m., with instructions that made it clear Thom was physically on site at the time he sent them.
Why?There was no earthly reason anyone had to be physically present at a brewing site during those ridiculous hours, especially someone who was not a part of the actual workforce.
Second, Brooke peered at notes on her laptop, the owner had mentioned casually in passing one day when Brooke was actually on site herself that there were some odd transactions taking place that hadn’t been making sense. Thom had immediately moved to give him a practiced response that had seemed to satisfy the owner, but Thom’s explanation had rung false to Brooke. Pretending she was completely uninterested in the conversation—telling Thom she was ready to talk about the next phase of the rebranding as soon as he was available to spend some time with her—she had nonetheless filed it away in her mind so she could think about it more when she was alone.
The kicker came when Brooke had overheard the woman who took care of all the accounting for the microbrewery complain there were missing financial documents—important ones. The next day, Brooke had found out the woman had abruptly resigned without giving notice, and that Jack Webb—another one of Thom’s partners—would be assuming all financial duties going forward. Brooke rolled her eyes as she drummed her fingers on the edge of her laptop. She might only be a graphic designer and not that well versed in complex financial matters, but she didn’t fall off the stupid truck yesterday.
Something was stinking to high heaven.
Brooke sat back and sipped her wine, thinking. Shecouldgo to APS, she supposed, and tell them about her suspicions. The Armstrong twins and the Seven were nine of the most brilliant, cunning individuals she knew. However, APS was a protection and security company for women. Unless they were dealing with a client’s assets, they didn’t get involved in the financial sector. They certainly had no reason to play in the microbrewery space either.
Besides—Brooke shuddered—what shedidn’tneed was to give Blake Seibert the slightest excuse to get any closer than she already was. Unbidden, Brooke clenched her thighs together just the slightest bit. She and Blake had gone to school together since they were very young, so Brooke had known Blake for practically her whole life. And, while Blake was the most irritating, aggravating,annoyingsmartass she had ever known, her auburn hair, light green eyes with little golden sunlit flecks in them, and leanly muscled body also made her the handsomest butch she knew.
When she had broken down after telling Blake about Sabine’s confrontation with The Candyman—feeling as though she had broken her word to the fitness instructor—the smartasshad morphed into a compassionate, protective friend who took care of her, calming her down until she felt better. Insisting that Brooke rest in her apartment while she went to a meeting, Blake had left her alone in the comforting peace—after flatly telling the astonished femme that knowing she was somewhere safe where Blake didn’t have to worry about her would prevent Blake from shooting The Candyman full of holes. Brooke had curled up in Blake’s bed—the intoxicating scent of the APS team lead all around her—and slept, feeling unusually soothed and safe.
Brooke was no stranger to the dating scene and had dated quite a bit throughout her adult life, although nothing had ever seemed to last for very long. While she was a femme who was most attracted to butches, there were times she had dated lesbians who were not part of the dynamic as well. Pretty, entertainingly snarky, intelligent—as well as outrageously funny—Brooke had always garnered more than her fair share of attention. She had also been teased by her Italian family for most of her life because of the stunning, eye-catching gray eyes she had inherited from her one-eighth Welsh father—rather than sporting the brown or green eyes of the rest of her Italian family.
“My Brooke, always trying to be different,” hernonnohad always joked, causing a very young Brooke to giggle. “But that is quite all right,trottola,” he would say, using the Italian nickname for a child who was energetic and tirelessly active. “I would want you to be no different. You are perfect just as you are.” His death when Brooke had been a senior in high school had brought her to her knees, her grief almost unbearable as she mourned the man who had been her greatest champion and confidante. Only knowing in her heart ofNonno’sstubborn otherworldly insistence—that Brooke pick herself up and go on without him—had finally allowed her to begin to heal.
Although Brooke had never shared her preference for women with her grandfather—Italian culture being what it was, she was never quite sure what his reaction would have been, as much as he had loved her—she couldn’t help asking herself with each woman she dated ifNonnowould like her or not. She was convinced there was something not quite ideal about all of them—as far as her grandfather would have been concerned, at any rate. It’s not that he would have disliked them. Giancarlo Marino was a social, outgoing man who got along with everybody. But, as far as them being a good mate for his beloved granddaughter—male or female?
Only Blake Seibert would have checked all the boxes and passed muster.
