Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
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I rolled silverware into napkins while Monty waved his hands with his customary dramatic flair, nearly knocking over the flight of experimental brews lined up between us.
“Darlin’, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried a sour with blood orange and hibiscus. It’s absolutely divine.” He lifted one of the small glasses, holding it up to the pendant lights like he was examining a precious gem. “Though I suppose we should probably give it a more marketable name than ‘Divine.’”
“Your last divine creation was that chocolate porter that tasted like burnt tires.” I snatched the glass before he could spill it. The brew had a lovely rose-gold color, and the aroma wasn’t half bad.
“That porter was ahead of its time.” Monty pressed a hand to his chest. “And Peter loved it.”
“Peter loves you. He’d drink motor oil if you served it to him.” What I wouldn’t give for a partner with that kind of devotion. I credited my brewmaster and his husband for the fact that I hadn’t one hundred percent given up on true love. I’d only given up about eighty-five percent.
“True.” A dreamy smile crossed Monty’s fine-boned face. “That man is a saint. Unlike my mother, who still can’t believe her only son is ‘wasting his degree’ making beer instead of practicing law in Charleston.”
“And God love you for it.” I took a sip of the sour. The tartness hit first, followed by citrus notes and a subtle floral finish. “Okay, you might be onto something with this one.”
“Of course I am. When are you going to learn to trust my genius?” He leaned against the bar, waggling his perfectly groomed eyebrows. “Now, what shall we call it?”
As it was January and the slow season, the Tuesday night crowd was thin—just a few regulars at the far end of the bar and a couple of tourists sharing a pizza in the corner. I had time to play this game. “Island Sunset?”
“Too basic.” Monty wrinkled his nose. “This is art in a glass, sugar. It needs something with more punch.”
“Hibiscus Hurricane?”
“Better, but still not quite there.” He grabbed a cocktail napkin and started scribbling. “What about... Blood Orange Bombshell?”
A gravelly laugh erupted from the end of the bar. “Sounds like what Duck’s ex-wife used to call herself,” Wally called out.
“Watch it, Briggs.” Duck shifted on his barstool. “That woman was a natural redhead.”
“What?” Milt cupped his ear. “Who’s dead?”
“Nobody’s dead,” Pop shouted, then turned to me. “How about calling it ‘Sunset Strip?’”
I poured them each a taster. “Pop, that sounds like a gentleman’s club.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Cliff grabbed his glass. “Might boost sales.”
“Lord help me.” I dropped my forehead into my palm. These guys were impossible, but they were my impossible.
“Orange You Glad?” Duck offered.
Monty gasped. “I will not have my creation subjected to puns.”
“What about ‘Island Time?’” Pop raised his glass. “Because one sip of this, and you’ll want to slow down and stay awhile.”
“That’s...” Monty paused mid-protest. “Actually, not terrible.”
“Ed’s still got it.” Wally clinked glasses with my grandfather. “Unlike some people around here.”
“Who’s got it?” Milt squinted.
“Island Time it is.” I started writing it on the specials board. “See what happens when you old coots put your heads together?”
“Who you calling old?” Duck protested. “I’ve still got all my own teeth.”
“Half of them anyway,” Cliff muttered into his beer.
The Gray Beards dissolved into their usual bickering, and I caught Pop’s eye. He winked at me, and I felt a surge of gratitude and affection. These men might drive me crazy, but they’d been my family’s backbone since the day Pop had brought me back to Hatterwick, when I was just a skinny, scared eight-year-old, who’d half wondered if social services had handed me over to a pirate instead of my ostensible grandfather. With his booming captain’s voice and scruffy beard, Pop had absolutely given off that vibe. But it turned out that crusty exterior hid a heart of absolute gold, and I’d do anything for the man who’d given me roots, a home, and a purpose.
I grabbed fresh silverware rolls and headed out to check on my tables. With two servers out—one with the flu, one at her kid’s basketball game—I’d picked up the slack. Didn’t bother me. I’d done every job in this place since I was tall enough to reach the industrial sink. Moving between tables felt as natural as breathing. I’d learned to balance plates on my forearm before I could drive. Pop had insisted I learn the business from the ground up, even though I’d practically grown up in the original building.
For a split second, I saw the charred beams of the old tavern, smelled the acrid smoke that had lingered for weeks. Marv the marlin, Pop’s pride and joy, nothing but ashes. We’d thought we’d lost everything. And in the face of that devastating grief, I thought I’d finally gained the one thing I’d always wanted.
Nope. Not going there.
We’d rebuilt bigger and better. The new OBX Brewhouse had risen from those ashes like a phoenix, transforming from Pop’s casual tavern into something that drew craft beer enthusiasts from up and down the coast. The exposed brick walls and reclaimed wood gave the space an industrial-meets-coastal vibe that perfectly balanced modern and rustic. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the sound, and the deck offered prime sunset views back toward the distant mainland.
I’d spent countless nights poring over business plans, researching equipment, studying brewing techniques. Pop had backed my vision one hundred percent, even when the bank turned up their noses at a woman, who hadn’t yet been old enough to even drink, wanting to open a brewery. But I’d done my homework. Craft beer was exploding, and the Outer Banks had been ready for something beyond mass-produced lagers.
Hiring Monty had been the last piece of the puzzle. His experimental nature and classical training had elevated our offerings beyond typical beach brews. We now distributed to restaurants across three states, and our seasonal releases drew lines around the block.
I traced my fingers over the smooth bar top—reclaimed heart pine that Pop and I had salvaged ourselves. The fire had destroyed so much, but we’d managed to incorporate pieces of the original building into the new space. The old sign hung in the entry. Brass railings now lined the stairs to the second floor. And behind the bar, I’d mounted a shadow box containing Marv’s partially melted brass nameplate—the only piece of Pop’s prized catch we’d recovered.
Over a decade of blood, sweat, and more than a few tears had built this place into something extraordinary. Something that was mine. Sure, technically Pop still owned controlling interest, but he’d stepped back years ago, content to hold court with his buddies while I ran the show. This was my home, my legacy, everything I’d worked for.
The register dinged as another order came through from the kitchen. I grabbed fresh plates and headed that way, ready to tackle whatever came next.
I dropped off a fresh round of IPAs to the Masons—third generation shrimpers who’d been coming here since before I could see over the bar—when Lindsay Messina waved me over to her table. She sat with Astrid Thompson, both of them sharing what looked like our fish tacos.
“Hey stranger.” I slid into the empty chair. “Haven’t seen you in here this week.”
Lindsay pushed her dark hair behind her ear. “Been crazy at the office. Boss fired one of our seasonal workers today, which is always ugly. And you wouldn’t believe the paperwork involved in getting ready for Corbin to come back.”
“Corbin O’Connell?” The name caught me off guard. “Didn’t know he was coming home.”
“His dad’s knee surgery isn’t healing right.” Lindsay’s cheeks flushed slightly. “He’s taking leave to help run things for a few months.”
Astrid grinned over her Corona. “And Lindsay here hasn’t stopped talking about it since she found out.”
“Oh my God, stop.” Lindsay threw a napkin at her friend.
“What? You only had the biggest crush on him all through high school.” Astrid turned to me. “She used to find excuses to walk past the lifeguard station.”
“That was one summer!” Lindsay buried her face in her hands. “And he totally saved me from drowning at that beach party.”
“You mean when you ‘accidentally’ got caught in that tiny riptide?” I arched an eyebrow. I hadn’t known these women well during high school, but even I remembered that incident.
“I hate you both.” Lindsay peeked through her fingers. “Besides, that was forever ago. I’m sure he doesn’t even remember.”
“Uh-huh.” Astrid’s knowing look said everything. “And you volunteering to handle all his onboarding paperwork has nothing to do with those memories.”
Lindsay’s blush deepened. “I’m being professional.”
“Professionally thirsty maybe,” Astrid muttered.
“Speaking of thirsty,” Lindsay dabbed her napkin at the corner of her mouth, “did you see all the Wayward Sons are home?”
My hand tightened on the edge of the table. I forced my fingers to relax.
“God, yes.” Astrid fanned herself. “Whatever the Navy’s doing, it’s working. Did you see Rios’s arms?”
“Please, Ford is where it’s at.” Lindsay sighed. “Those tattoos.”
My chest squeezed in a familiar vise grip. I pushed back from the table, pasting on what I hoped passed for a neutral expression. “I should check on the Gray Beards before they start arm wrestling again.”
“Oh, come on, stay.” Lindsay caught my wrist. “When was the last time we just sat and dished?”
I extracted myself as gently as possible. Years of practice had taught me how to dodge these conversations with surgical precision. “Some of us have to work. Rain check?”
The truth was, I couldn’t bear to hear his name, let alone discuss how good he looked. No one had ever cut me as deep as Ford Donoghue. Not my father, who’d dropped my mom and me, and disappeared. Not the mom who’d chosen drugs and addiction over me.
That was why I kept my relationships light, casual, and firmly time-limited these days. Three months max, no exceptions. No one got close enough to see past my walls. No one got the chance to break what I’d spent years carefully piecing back together. And, so far as I was concerned, no one ever would again.