parts. Normally, he didn’t care if that happened—so long as he made a profit, he was happy.
But like he told Jamal, he was here to stay. He was a Beaumont and this was his brewery. He cared about this place and its history because it was his history, acknowledged or not. Not that he’d wanted anyone to know that this was personal—he’d kept his quest to take what was rightfully his quiet for years. That way, no one could preempt his strikes or lock him out.
But now that he was here, he had the overwhelming urge to shout, “Look at me!” He was done being ignored by the Beaumonts and he was done pretending he wasn’t one of them.
Whispers of his arrival must have made it to the executive suite because when he rounded the corner, a plump older woman sitting behind a desk in front of what he assumed was the CEO’s office stood and swallowed nervously. “Mr. Richards,” she said in a crackly voice. “We weren’t expecting you today.”
Zeb nodded his head in acknowledgment. He didn’t explain his sudden appearance and he didn’t try to reassure her. “And you are?”
“Delores Hahn,” she said. “I’m the executive assistant to the—to you.” Her hands twisted nervously in front of her before she caught herself and stilled them. “Welcome to the Beaumont Brewery.”
Zeb almost grinned in sympathy. His assistant was in a tough spot, but she was putting on a good face. “Thank you.”
Delores cleared her throat. “Would you like a tour of the facilities?” Her voice was still a bit shaky, but she was holding it together. Zeb decided he liked Delores.
Not that he wanted her to know that right away. He was not here to make friends. He was here to run a business. “I will—after I get settled in.” Then he headed for his office.
Once inside, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it. This was really happening. After years of plotting and watching and waiting, he had the Beaumont Brewery—his birthright.
He felt like laughing at the wonder of it all. But he didn’t. For all he knew, Delores had her ear to the door, listening for any hint of what her new boss was like. Maniacal laughter was not a good first impression, no matter how justified it might be.
Instead, he pushed away from the door and surveyed his office. “Begin as you mean to go on,” Zeb reminded himself.
He’d read about this room, studied pictures of it. But he hadn’t been prepared for what it would actually feel like to walk into a piece of his family’s history—to know that he belonged here, that this was his rightful place.
The building had been constructed in the 1940s by Zeb’s grandfather John, soon after Prohibition had ended. The walls were mahogany panels that had been oiled until they gleamed. A built-in bar with a huge mirror took up the whole interior wall—and, if Zeb wasn’t mistaken, the beer was on tap.
The exterior wall was lined with windows, hung with heavy gray velvet drapes and crowned with elaborately hand-carved woodwork that told the story of the Beaumont Brewery. His grandfather had had the conference table built in the office because it was so large and the desk was built to match.
Tucked in the far corner was a grouping of two leather club chairs and a matching leather love seat. The wagon-wheel coffee table in front of the chairs was supposed to be a wheel from the wagon that his great-great-grandfather Phillipe Beaumont had driven across the Great Plains on his way to Denver to found the brewery back in the 1880s.
The whole room screamed opulence and wealth and history. Zeb’s history. This was who he was and he would be damned if he let anyone tell him it wasn’t his.
He crossed to the desk and turned on the computer—top-of-the-line, of course. Beaumonts never did anything by halves. That was one family trait they all shared.
He sat down in the leather office chair. From as far back as he could remember, his mother, Emily Richards, had told him this belonged to him. Zeb was only four months younger than Chadwick Beaumont. He should have been here, learning the business at his father’s knee, instead of standing next to his mother’s hairdressing chair.
But Hardwick had never married his mother—despite the fact that Hardwick had married several of his mistresses. But not Emily Richards—and for one simple reason.
Emily was black. Which made her son black.
Which meant Zeb didn’t exist in the eyes of the Beaumonts.
For so long, he had been shut out of half of his heritage. And now he had the one thing that the Beaumonts had valued above all else—the Beaumont Brewery.
God, it felt good to come home.
He got himself under control. Taking possession of the brewery was a victory—but it was just the first step in making sure the Beaumonts paid for excluding him.
He was not the only Beaumont bastard Hardwick had left behind. It was time to start doing things his way. He grinned. The Beaumonts weren’t going to see this coming.
He pressed the button on an antique-looking intercom. It buzzed to life and Delores said, “Yes, sir?”
“I want you to arrange a press conference for this Friday. I’m going to be announcing my plans for the brewery.”
There was a pause. “Yes, sir,” she said in a way that had an edge to it. “I assume you want the conference here?” Already Zeb could tell she was getting over her nervousness at his unannounced arrival.
If he had to guess, he’d say that someone like Delores Hahn had probably made the last CEO’s life miserable. “Yes, on the front steps of the brewery. Oh, and Delores?”
“Yes?”
“Write a memo. Every employee needs to have an updated résumé on my desk by end of business tomorrow.”
There was another pause—this one was longer. Zeb could only imagine the glare she was giving the intercom right about now. “Why? I mean—of course I’ll get right on it. But is there a reason?”
“Of course there is, Delores. There is a reason behind every single thing I do. And the reason for the memo is simple. Every employee needs to reapply for their own job.” He exhaled slowly, letting the tension build. “Including you.”
* * *
“Boss?”
Casey Johnson jerked her head toward the sound of Larry’s voice—which meant she smacked her forehead against the bottom of tank number fifteen. “Ow, dammit.” She pushed herself out from under the tank, rubbing her head. “What?”
Larry Kaczynski was a middle-aged man with a beer gut, which was appropriate considering he brewed beer for a living. Normally, he was full of bluster and the latest stats on his fantasy football team. But today he looked worried. Specifically, he looked worried about the piece of paper in his hand. “The new guy... He’s here.”
“Well, good for him,” Casey said, turning her attention back to her tank. This was the second new CEO in less than a year and, given recent history, he probably wouldn’t make it past a couple of months. All Casey had to do was outlast him.
That, of course, was the challenge. Beer did not brew itself—although,
