Love in Numbers: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Love Distilled Book 1)

  Love In Numbers

  Love Distilled, Book One

  Scarlett Cole

  Copyright © 2020 by Scarlett Cole

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published By: Kadelo Group Ltd.

  Edited by Angela James

  Cover design by Letitia Hasser at RBA Design

  Photo by Wander Aguiar Photography

  Formatting by DJW Formatting

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-8382469-1-4

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-8382469-0-7

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Scarlett Cole

  Dear You,

  You made it.

  You aren’t the you that you were.

  But this you is joyful.

  May this dedication always remind you of that.

  Acknowledgments

  To my readers. I’m sorry I took so long, and I’m beyond grateful that you waited while I took the time I needed. The fact you are all still here is a miracle. I hope you love Connor and Emerson as much as I do.

  To the bloggers, reviewers, and influencers of the romance community. Thank you for showing up to support me. I keep saying don’t call this a comeback, but we all know it is. It would be impossible without each and every one of you.

  To Angela James. This was the first time we worked together, and it was magic. I loved every moment of the process and this book is so much better for your input.

  To Isabel Ngo. I know you are reading this at the start of the copy edits, but I want you to know how grateful I am for the care you’ve shown me and this book.

  To Nicole Bailey and Olivia Kalb. Thank you for your keen eyes in making sure this book was perfect.

  To Letitia Hasser and Wander Aguiar. Thank you so much for providing me with such a wonderful cover and inspiring photograph. Your creativity has no bounds. Thank you for sharing it with me.

  To Lucas Loyola. Thank you for helping to bring Connor Finch to life!

  To Claire and Wendy. Thank you for stepping in at the last minute and saving my butt. You are life savers.

  To Cindy Kirk, Robin Covington, and Avery Flynn. Thank you as always for your friendship and words of wisdom. Writing can be a solitary occupation, but the three of you have never let me feel alone.

  To Vi Keeland. For reminding me what it looks like when another woman helps you lift the weight of your crown.

  To Antonia Aitken. Thank you for the joy you bring to my life, for being my opposite node, for being the Barbara to my Margo. I’ll meet you in the middle. With wine.

  To Lola and Finley. A pandemic forced us all to sit at the same table every day . . . but your patience and focus gave me the space and quiet to write this. I love your faces.

  To Tim. You remain my greatest cheerleader in work, life, and love. I love you.

  Chapter One

  Emerson Dyer reached the door of her father’s office in their family-run gin distillery. She ran her fingertips across the brass plate with his name on it. He’d regaled her a thousand times with the story of how her mother had hung it when they’d first bought the place. “I miss you, Dad,” she murmured before pushing the door open.

  The office was still her father’s. His raincoat still hung on the back of the door. The Denver Broncos mug she’d gotten him for Father’s Day when she was fifteen sat on his desk. Her mind returned to those frantic moments of finding him on the floor two months earlier. Of screaming for her younger brother, Jake, who as master distiller had just started the next batch of Dyer’s Medallion gin for the day. She’d frantically dialed 911 and balanced her phone beneath her ear while trying her best to deliver CPR to the man who had loved them so fiercely—who had been there for them ever since the accident happened fifteen years ago, when their mother had died a week after Emerson’s fifteenth birthday.

  It hadn’t been enough.

  The doctors had tried to reassure her there was nothing she could have done that would have saved him.

  It had been eight weeks yet thinking about that day still had the ability to take her breath away. She’d never get to hear another one of his ridiculous dad jokes, tease him for his vast collection of blue shirts, or plant seeds with him in his greenhouse.

  She swallowed deeply and tried to shake the image from her head. She’d barely stepped into his office since then, beyond grabbing the occasional piece of paperwork. Piles of unopened envelopes sat on the desk, and her stomach lurched at the thought of dealing with them. While it was hard to admit it to others, she knew she was overwhelmed. But the letter in her father’s will left her with no choice but to step into his shoes, shoes that were impossible to fill.

  My darling Emerson, he’d written.

  If you are reading this letter, it means I’ve gone exactly when I was meant to and way sooner than I hoped. I hope you know how proud I am of you. You have been my rock since your mom died, and now I have to ask you to be the glue once more. Jake and Olivia are going to need you more than ever. They’ll drift without you. You’ll all drift without each other. You have to run the distillery and keep everyone together. You are all each other has got. I have faith in you, Emsie-bobs.

  With all my love,

  Dad xxx

  Her father had never realized it, but his belief in not owing anybody anything had put the family-owned distillery at risk without any savings net or loans to pad their expenses. Ever since their mother had died, her father had been terrified that something unexpected was going to happen to him. And the idea of the three of them being left with a business in debt was more than he could process. As a result, they had been running month to month because her father had remained entrenched in his position.

  Every day was a struggle to balance it all.

  “Knock, knock.” Jake burst through the door, running his hand through his shoulder-length, dark hair that matched her own. She envied the natural waves he’d been blessed with compared to her own pin-straight locks. “Wanted to catch you before you head out to the airport. Have you got the preliminary production schedule for the month?”

  “It’s on my desk next door. I can’t believe it’s the start of October already,” she replied. “Are you sure you don’t want to switch places and go to the liquor awards in my place? You know you love San Francisco.”

  Jake looked down at his gray jeans with holes in them and his black-and-red plaid shirt. “Not exactly dressed for it. And unless you want to do a twelve-hour production shift every day for the next three days, you’re the only one who can go.”

  Emerson slipped her purse off her shoulder and pulled out the large black bags she brought with her. “I wish Liv felt better so she could go.”

  At the beginning of June, a violent storm had ravaged the distillery’s events hall, leaving it partially roofless and flooded. They had been forced to close it and had done everything they could to accommodate all th
e weddings they had booked. The tasting room and bar in the main building had the same rustic ambience—red brick, faded wood, and a hint of contemporary in the bar and seating area, but it was designed for something a lot more intimate. Private tours, tastings, even the occasional book club. There had only been so many wedding parties that had been small enough to fit. They’d had to cancel the majority of weddings for the summer months. Losing out on peak season weddings had been ruinous to their cash flow. As damage control, her father, just before he’d died, had offered cancellations without loss of deposits to wedding parties as far out as March the following year, a decision that had exasperated Emerson.

  As the distillery’s event planner, social media manager, and all-around administrator, Olivia had carried the brunt of informing all the wedding parties about the flood. They’d ranted, sworn at her, and even made threats against Olivia and the company. One groom had taken to stalking Olivia on her personal social media profiles. Dyer’s Gin Distillery’s social media pages had been flooded with hateful comments, fueling online trolls until it became too much for Liv. The deep depression and frightening levels of anxiety had shown signs of lifting as of late, but it was still too early to expect their youngest sibling to return to work.

  “Me too. But we can keep it together until she gets back, right? You starting on Dad’s office?” he asked.

  “I was going to, but now that I’m here, I don’t know if I can face it.”

  In the past, when she’d thought about how her father would have handed over the reins to the three of them, she’d always imagined it would be at least a decade away and involve a big cake wishing her father a happy retirement. They would cut it on the production floor instead of in the office so everyone could be involved. They’d talk through her plans—the ones that included turning the distillery into a state of the art environmentally friendly masterpiece. He’d have tidied his office, removing the personal debris built up over a lifetime. The pictures of her parents’ wedding, of Jake holding a glass of his first distillation, of Olivia’s first wedding event, of Emerson’s graduation.

  But now it was up to her, and she didn’t feel even close to being ready. She put her hands on her hips and looked at the piles of papers, the tchotchkes.

  Jake threw his arm over her shoulder. “I have faith in you, Em.”

  Her father’s letter had assured her the same. But somehow, she didn’t feel as though she deserved the faith placed in her.

  Four hours later, Emerson was at the airport ready to board. “Ms. Dyer, there was a problem with seating a family together, so with your permission, I’d like to give you an upgrade,” said the attendant.

  Doing a mental high five, Emerson smiled. “That would be wonderful, thank you.”

  The flight was only two and a half hours, long enough to have a drink to calm her nerves and perhaps watch a movie—anything to take her mind off the thousands of feet between her butt and the ground. Plus, she fully intended to embrace the time as her first period of enforced relaxation in months. Two and a half hours without calls, interruptions, or emails. Any work could wait until she was safely ensconced in her hotel that evening. She placed her laptop bag in the overhead compartment and slid her purse under the aisle seat in front of her.

  “Wine?” asked the flight attendant.

  Emerson took a glass from the tray. “Thank you.” She took a sip, acidulous flavors exploding on her tongue. It was a touch fruity for her personal tastes, but it was free and available. She switched her cellphone off and let her head fall back, eyes closed, on the headrest. Two and a half perfect hours without being bothered by a soul.

  “Excuse me, you’re in my seat.”

  Emerson opened her eyes with a start. A tall man, looking way too handsome for his own good in a fitted navy suit, stared at her like a rather deliciously imperious Clark Kent with his black hair a little on the long side and most definitely ruffled. He looked down at her through glasses that quite possibly made him even hotter.

  “I’m sorry.” Emerson placed her glass down and pulled the ticket out of her purse. “I was upgraded; they gave me a new ticket as I boarded. Perhaps they made a mistake,” she said, wondering why she felt the need to apologize to the ungracious man glaring at her.

  She looked at the ticket, then up again at the numbers above the row of seats. 3B. The aisle seat. She was in the right spot. “There must be some mistake,” she said, showing him her ticket.

  The man growled. It was low and quiet, but it was most definitely a growl. “I so don’t need this today,” he muttered under his breath, before leaning over her to press the buzzer for the flight attendant.

  In spite of his rude behavior, he smelled delicious. Nothing floral. Decidedly woodsy. And the move revealed a shirt that fit his taut frame as if it had been painted on.

  “Are you sure you aren’t in A?” Emerson offered quietly, pointing toward the empty seat next to her, not that the jerk was worth any of her time. But other passengers were looking, and she’d rather fix the problem than continue to cause a scene.

  “I never sit by the window,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  A flight attendant arrived and smiled so hard Emerson’s jaw ached at the sight. Perhaps, Emerson thought, she was the only one immune to Mr. Grumpy’s style of charm. “How can I help?”

  Mr. Grumpy explained. Emerson offered her ticket as proof.

  “I see the problem,” said the flight attendant, taking a look at both their tickets before placing her hand on Mr. Grumpy’s arm. “You’ve both been given the same seat. It’ll just be a moment while I figure this out. Please, take a seat.”

  Mr. Grumpy looked at her expectantly. Emerson scoffed. He wanted her to move. And while she half expected she’d have to move back to the economy cabin any moment, she wasn’t going to make this easy for some smooth-talking idiot. Even if he did have the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

  “It would make more sense for you to move over,” Mr. Grumpy said.

  Emerson tucked her legs up against the seat. “There’s plenty of room for you to get by.”

  “I can’t work if I sit by the window, too much light on my laptop screen,” he said, pointedly.

  “What, so a woman on a plane can’t possibly be wanting to work because…?” She let the words hang.

  Mr. Grumpy’s jaw twitched, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of his dimple. “That wasn’t what I was implying.”

  “Oh, so you just want it to be more convenient for you to work than me?” Damn. She hadn’t intended to work, but if she ended up staying in the aisle seat and not back in 34E, she would need to work just to make her point.

  Now it was Mr. Grumpy’s turn to scoff. His glacial eyes looked toward her glass of wine for a moment, then back at Emerson. “I can only imagine how focused you’ll be.”

  Standing, she quickly realized that there was still a good six inches in height between them. “Are you honestly trying to shame me and my ability to work because of one minuscule glass of wine, taken because I happen to be terrified of flying? Which, by the way, is the reason I don’t want to sit next to the goddamn window. First, you get mad because of an administrative error that I did not cause. Then, you invade my personal space to call for assistance…assistance you could have gained had you walked ten feet to the cabin crew. Judgmental and rude is really not a good look for you.”

  Mr. Grumpy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hmm. That’s a lot to tackle in one go. You want me to take them one by one, or—”

  “Problem solved,” said the flight attendant brightly. “There’s another aisle seat that’s empty over there.” She pointed to the other side of the cabin a few rows back. “Or one of you can take the window. Which would you prefer, Mr. Finch?”

  Feeling somewhat embarrassed yet unapologetic over her outburst, Emerson reached for her purse. “Look, I can go back—”

  “I’ll go,” Mr. Finch said, although he’d always be Mr. Grumpy to her.

 
“Thank you,” the flight attendant said, casting a look in Emerson’s direction, as if she’d been the problem all along. “We’re grateful for your cooperation.”

  Silently seething and mortified, Emerson sat back down.

  “Thanks for taking your seat, Ms. Dyer. Mr. Finch, if you’d like to go and take your seat, we’ll be departing shortly.”

  Mr. Grumpy’s demeanor shifted. His spine straightened, and his pale eyes glared at Emerson. He spun on his heel and marched up the aisle without another word.

  It was the oddest part of their whole encounter.

  Emerson raised the wine to her lips, but it tasted sour on her tongue. The enjoyment taken away by a man she didn’t know and shouldn’t possibly care about.

  In an attempt to reclaim the positive mood she’d been embracing just before Mr. Grumpy’s arrival, she forced herself to sip the wine anyway.

  But she couldn’t resist one last look in his direction, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she found him staring right back at her.

  Catch. Power. Recovery.

  Catch. Power. Recovery.

  Connor Finch focused on the repetition. He kicked his legs, propelling himself forward, turning his head every second stroke to gulp for air. When the end of the pool came into view, he tucked his head and turned, kicking off the edge of the pool to gain momentum.

  Catch. Power. Recovery.

  His arms burned, muscles already tired from an hour spent in the gym. His mind was empty of any thought other than lap count and form.

  The hotel pool was less than ideal, but thankfully it wasn’t busy enough to stop him from achieving his goal. Five kilometers. Six days a week.