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I huffed. “But now isn’t the time for pride. We’re on the same side.”

A pitying glance. “You don’t work well with others, do you?”

“I work fine with others.”

He shrugged, skeptical. “Booboo’s more sensitive than most. Helps to approach things gently, or he takes offense.”

People were always going on about the fragility of women, but I had never come across anything so delicate as a man’s ego. The bartender placed our drinks before us. I thanked him, but Xavier only acknowledged him with a rather rude chin lift. I swirled the gold liquid in the glass and stole a sip. Smoky heat bathed my tongue, flavored with hints of vanilla and honey. The spirit was luxurious and decadent. I stared at the golden liquid in near disbelief. “This is fantastic.”

“It’s a newer line,” Xavier said. “Henley Honey.”

Honey? My heart thumped hard against my ribs, then did its best to strangle me from the inside. My throat grew thick, and the drink in my hand took on new significance.

A mere coincidence, though. It meant nothing.

Xavier’s voice filtered through my thoughts from far away. “He was trying to branch out, I think.”

“He?” I asked, though I already knew.

“Camden. First thing he did when he came home with his MBA was reorganize the company and begin this new product line. Apparently worked on it every time he came home from Connecticut.”

I fingered my glass before stealing another sip, this time noting traces of caramel.

Xavier watched me, his gaze fixed on my mouth. “It’s a good seller in the store, but we don’t push it.”

“Why not? How have you marketed it?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Edmond’s area.”

“Honey would be a good one to market to women.”

He pursed his lips. “Booboo wasn’t wrong, you know. Women aren’t really our target audience.”

“I know.”

He eyed me skeptically.

I raised both hands to placate him. “No, I know. But pandering will get you far. Recognize the mistake, learn from it, change, and people will see it. Things will go back to normal soon enough, and you can do all the marketing you want toward young professional men.”

He rubbed his bald head and sighed. “Maybe that’s enough about work.”

Bemused, I took another sip. “Wasn’t that why we came here? To talk about work?”

He ignored me. “So I heard you grew up here, right?”

Prickles of unease twined up my arms. “Yes. In Sweetwater.”

“Ah.” He said the single syllable with an incomprehensible amount of judgment, as if the mere fact that I grew up in Sweetwater said everything he needed to know about me.

Maybe it did.

“I went to school here though,” pride compelled me to say.

“Oh, I know. Even I heard about the social crusader in Sugar Springs, and I grew up in Buford.”

I hoped another drink of the fabulous bourbon would hide my discomfort. “Yeah…”

“They named you their Sweetheart, right? A strange nickname for a social justice warrior, but looking at you, I get it.”