The elevator doors had barely shut before Olivia's fingers were at the buckle of the belt cinching the waist of her trench dress. Drunk on his nearness, she ignored the security camera in the ceiling. It didn't mean a damn thing. Hell, who was she kidding? She was the wild Sweet triplet, the one voted most likely to do anything, and all she wanted to do right now was Mateo.

His gaze dropped down to the deep V of her cherry-red top and the pulse in his temple pulsed. For a second she didn't think he was going to say anything, which was good because she'd just forgotten her own name. His focus inched northward across her generous cleavage, up her neck and to her lips -- leaving a heated trail across her skin without ever making a move. The last dry spot on her panties surrendered.

Alcohol is evil … until your loved one gets employed by a brewery.

And suddenly, her day turned into the kind that explained why God invented chocolate, comfy pants, and booze.

Time for a showdown with her mutinous brewmaster. She'd tried nice. She'd tried all business. She'd tried cajoling. Now, it was time to try bitch with big brass balls.

In her career, she'd closed multi-million dollar deals without a hint of nerves. Now she needed a jumbo-sized bottle of antacids just to get out of her car. Or a double shot of whiskey. God, she was losing it.

She hadn't just drunk the Salvation Kool-Aid - she'd started to brew her own.