Page 1 of Pour Decisions (Stryker Family #3)

JD

The first sign next to the office kitchen reads, Do not give Bubba people food!

!! He is a dog!!! in bold, black lettering.

Someone else hastily taped a second sign next to it with a picture of my chocolate lab, Bubba, looking like he had taken on all the world’s suffering on his dog shoulders, with even if he looks at you like this! !! scrawled underneath.

I glance down at Bubba, who’s looking into the break room with a single drop of drool leaking from his mouth.

Then, he looks up at me, a mirror of the photo on the wall.

As if he’s being forced to go work the mines for sixteen hours straight rather than lay in the middle of the hall and get belly rubs and treats from everyone who works here.

“Stay, Bubba,” I say. He tentatively lifts a paw to cross the threshold of the break room. “I mean it.”

He grumbles and lays down, one paw on the tile floor.

“Clam chowder?” Dolores, a marketing manager, thrusts a small bowl of clam chowder toward me. My stomach turns.

“Dolores, it’s eight thirty in the morning. On a Tuesday.”

The only reason Dolores doesn’t shrink back is because she’s known me since I was a gangly, awkward teenager. The fact that I’m a VP here at Stryker Liquors doesn’t hit her the way it hits everyone else.

“And?” Dolores winks and nudges me with her shoulder. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

“I don’t think they were referring to clam chowder when they coined that phrase,” I say.

”Well, whatever. It’s better than Jerry’s,” she says, lowering her voice.

Jerry, who’s been in sales for as long as she’s been in marketing, is standing on the far side of the small break room with my cousin, Amy.

He’s pushing a small bowl of clam chowder on her, and for whatever reason, she takes it.

“I need coffee,” I say. More coffee than any one human should drink, probably. Then again, I need some chemical help to process the clam chowder in the break room first thing in the morning.

I step past her to the coffee machine. I’ve been in the office since seven and I’m already on my third mug. As people have trickled into the office, they’ve left the machine empty. I sigh and start making another pot.

“You try this?” Amy appears next to me, her mouth half full of clam chowder. She’s also in the marketing department, just a handful of years younger than me. Amy isn’t afraid of anything, not even me—a rarity I somewhat appreciate.

“Again, it’s eight thirty in the morning.” I pour water into the machine, then more grounds. “Why are you eating that for breakfast? Are you being blackmailed?

“First of all, it’s not that weird to have clam chowder for breakfast.”

“It’s absolutely that weird,” I say as I watch her take a bite. The smell of brewing coffee and clam chowder is nauseating.

She waves her spoon at me as she swallows.

“They were going to do a whole seafood boil,” she says, an eyebrow raised. “First thing on Monday. Thank god Jerry couldn’t do it. Can you imagine?”

I nod. A seafood boil would be measurably worse, especially since we’re at the base of the mountains in Tennessee. Jepsen is small enough and just far away enough from the nearest big city, Nashville, that no one is getting fresh crab or shrimp easily.

Also, we’re in a fucking office .

“And it’s a continuation of Jerry and Dolores’s cooking battle,” she adds, as if that explains anything. I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t know about the cooking battle?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re in your office a lot. But that’s why we have new foods every week. We keep convincing one of them that the other’s is better, so they feel the need to one-up the other person the next week.” She grins.

My eyebrow creeps up higher and my frown deepens. “Okay…”

“Hey, marketing is hitting their numbers, so you can’t be mad.” She holds up a hand.

I sigh through my nose. She’s right. All kinds of office bullshit happens around me, and I don’t get on anyone’s ass about it unless performance is slipping.

Generally, the more weird shit that goes on in the office, the better people do.

Dad, who’s been at the head of the company since he took it over from my grandfather twenty years ago, doesn’t feel the same way, but he doesn’t stop anyone either.

As much as having clam chowder in the break room first thing in the morning makes me nauseous, I want to gently encourage stuff like that around the office whenever I take over for my dad.

Which is supposed to be very soon, if his mumblings about drastically cutting his hours and becoming more of an adviser have any weight.

I can’t wait, to be honest. Dad isn’t the easiest person to work for, and I know I can make the company grow even faster once I’m leading it. He hasn’t been training me up for this job for no reason—I’m the most capable of taking over.

“Are you going to my mom’s birthday thing?” Amy asks.

“She’s having a birthday thing?” Amy’s mom—my dad’s sister-in-law—celebrates a whole birthday month, so I don’t see the point in her having a big party too.

“Yes. And you’re definitely invited. I checked.” Amy polishes off the remaining chowder in her bowl.

“Then no, I’m not.” I stare at the coffee machine. It’s new, but painfully slow.

“You should actually try going to places besides the office and your house every once in a while.” Amy sucks on the tines of her fork. “It’s great. Fresh air. People. Dates.”

I scoff. “I get out of the house, Amy. Just because I’m not going on dates doesn’t mean I’m rotting away at home. I train for trail races. I lift weights.”

Or I used to, before I hurt my back. I tried to put off physical therapy for as long as possible, but I finally caved and have my first appointment today.

I thought I could work through it on my own, but shooting back pains whenever I move wrong and aches when I’m just sitting there are getting in the way of the only things that keep me sane.

Plus, Jepsen just opened its first physical therapy clinic, so I won’t have to drive forty-five minutes to the area around Crescent Hill University.

“My mom says she could set you up if you want,” Amy says.

“Why does everyone want to set me up on fucking dates?” I ask.

I haven’t wanted to date since my early twenties anyway. I fucked up the best possible relationship, so I don’t think I could find that again and keep it alive.

“Because you’re a single man with a good career over six feet tall in this small town.” Amy shrugs. “And good-looking.”

Now I understand how my brother, Waylon felt with our mom trying to set him up with any woman with a pulse before he got with Bianca, his fiancée. At least with Waylon, I can see how Mom would pitch him. He’s a kind, friendly veterinarian at the clinic here in Jepsen.

I don’t know how anyone would pitch me besides the fact that I make good money, I’m fairly good-looking, and I’m tall. Leaving out the fact that people have consistently described me as cranky and overly serious feels like selling someone a car knowing it has a bum transmission.

“It’s annoying.” I pour milk into my mug so I don’t have to stir it in when the coffee is ready.

“I’m just the messenger, JD.” She eyes the pies on the table. “And as a messenger, I’m telling you to talk up Jerry’s chowder because Dolores won last week.”

Finally, Amy leaves me alone. The coffee finishes brewing and I pour myself a cup. I leave Dolores and Jerry behind, bickering over their chowder, and head to my office.

I’ve been working in the family company in some capacity ever since I was eighteen, starting as a bar back at our bar, The Copper Moon. Sixteen years later, I’m a VP. I was fast-tracked because of who I am, sure, but I’m not going to coast because of it.

Dad wouldn’t let that shit slide anyway. He doesn’t let anything slide, even with his own brothers. He definitely doesn’t let things slide with me—he’s been hard on me for as long as I can remember, preparing me to take over for him when he retires.

I swing by Dad’s office and find him frowning at his computer, as usual. He’s on board with some technological changes, but not others, and our newest switch to a better system to monitor what’s going on in the distillery is his latest annoyance.

“Why can’t we just walk in and look at this shit?” Dad mumbles, looking over his glasses.

I’m surprised he doesn’t go on a “back in my day” spiel.

Petting Bubba distracts him. My dad doesn’t like most people, but he’s never met a dog he doesn’t like.

It’s one of the few features about him that convinces me he’s not an asshole deep down.

I have to call upon this fact about him when I’m moments from telling him off.

“Because that wouldn’t be efficient. Do you want me to take a look?” I ask.

He gestures at the screen and rolls backward so I can take a closer look. My back twinges hard when I bend over and I suck in a breath, barely holding in a groan. I close my eyes for a second and pull it together.

“What’s wrong with you?” Dad asks.

“Nothing,” I say, even though for a second I’m frozen in place. “Just my back.”

“Shape up,” Dad grunts.

I bite back the annoyed response I’m longing to let out. If there’s anything Dad hates, it’s physical weakness.

I hate it too, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

“Everything looks good,” I say, carefully standing back up. The stabbing pain still happens but I cover it up by clearing my throat.

Dad leans back in his seat and sighs. He’s a big man—tall and broad—but soft from age. He’s worked himself to the bone for decades and it’s starting to show on his face. Mom’s been on him about taking it slower lately.

“Good.” He folds his hands over his belly. “You’ll have to stay on production about this. We need to keep raising our bourbon sales in a big way. Especially once I retire.”

We’re already one of the top bourbon brands in the region—our energy would probably be better spent trying to expand in other ways instead of chipping away at something that’s honed.

I need to get back to work, so I hold back my opinion for now.

I don’t have time to get into a debate. And once I take over, I can put our energy in the right place.

Assuming Dad actually retires and becomes an adviser to the company.

He’s waffled on it back and forth the past few years, but this time it seems like he’s really going to do it.

Dad goes back to his work on the computer, poking at the keys to type out an email—likely without punctuation—and I go back to my office. I churn through my work, only taking a break to take Bubba on a quick loop around the building, and eventually leave for my appointment.

The physical therapy clinic is attached to another doctor’s office on the main strip downtown. Downtown has grown faster than its available parking, so finding a spot is a nightmare. I end up parking five blocks away in the one larger lot that always seems full whenever I drive past it.

The clinic is much friendlier than a regular doctor’s office, with warm lighting and colors. The receptionist tells me where I can change my clothes for my session, and that my physical therapist will be with me shortly.

I kill time checking my email while I wait. I have no idea what to expect, but I hope it doesn’t run long. I want all of this to be done as soon as possible so I can get back to normal.

A familiar laugh pulls me out of my inbox. Even though I haven’t heard it in about ten years, I can place it immediately.

My ex, Katrina.

For a second I think I’m hallucinating—that I’m seeing another Black woman with the same build, height, and splotch of a birthmark across the top of her forearm that’s shaped vaguely like Tennessee. But it can only be her.

My stomach swoops to my feet again and my thoughts wipe clean as she comes down the hallway with another client. She says goodbye to them with a smile, then sees me.

She’s not surprised to see me at all, but I sure fucking am.

I’m not surprised that she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.

Her brown skin is dotted with more dark freckles than before, her eyes a shade or two lighter.

Something about her features parallels just how sweet she is—wide eyes framed with long lashes, soft, feminine angles, and full lips.

Her lush curves look good even in a standard-issue polo shirt.

I think back to my paperwork. I remember my physical therapist being listed as Katrina, but Katrina’s a somewhat common name. Her last name when we were together was Wheeler, but the last name on the paperwork was Andersen.

So unless she decided to change her last name on a whim, she got married.

I’ve dreamed of seeing her again over and over in the ten or so years since everything fell apart.

And those dream speeches managed to distill most of my feelings—that I’ve regretted how things ended every fucking day and that I feel the gap where she should be every time I do something we could have done together.

That I wish I could have had enough of a backbone to figure out some alternative besides ending things.

Now it’s too late, apparently, and it’s like someone’s twisted a knife that’s been piercing me for a decade further into a wound that's still unhealed.

Instead of keeping it cool and saying hello, I blurt, “You’re married?”

Like a fucking idiot.