Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
LIAM
Code V and I are well acquainted. Drawback of the trade. When you make beer, you get used to watching people get wasted off it.
So I wasn’t fazed by seeing Briar puke. Or by pulling a half-rotted fish that looked like a zombie Billy the Bass out of the radiator.
If anything, it was an upswing from sitting in front of my old boss while he twirled that fake ring around on his manicured finger—thinking he was looking impressive when he was really just advertising how much of a fool he’d been.
But when Briar walks back into Silver Star an hour later with my sister and Dottie, it’s obvious she cares about being sabotaged.
She’s quiet and subdued. I don’t even get a laugh when I tell them about the zombie bass.
Maybe it’s partly the smell—I propped the door open, but the brewery still smells like a Southern boil three days after the fact.
“Did they sabotage anything else?” she asks quietly, and something about the way she asks it, arms crossed defensively over her chest, makes me think of last night at the boxing gym.
Someone hurt her.
They fucked her over good, and she carries it with her.
The thought makes me curl my own hand into a fist.
But my sister’s watching me, and I know better than to ask questions that will lead to more questions.
So I just shake my head. “No sign of that, but I should do testing on all of the in-progress beers tomorrow to make sure everything’s as it should be.
There’s empty space for the pale ale, and the amber looks like it’s ready to be racked.
That’ll make space for another new beer, but right now, most of the equipment is in use. ”
“Maybe we need more equipment,” Briar says, tugging on a lock of her hair. That simple act is enough for me to remember what it felt like in my fist, the heavy, silky mass of it woven through my fingers.
Nope. Not thinking about that. Especially not while my sister’s studying me, her hand propped on her hip.
“What we need is for the beer to ferment faster,” I say. “But the monks couldn’t figure out how to hurry that shit up, and we’re not much further along all these years later.”
“Well…at least there’s space for the New Year’s beer and another new one,” Briar says quietly.
“I found everything I need in the storeroom.”
“So let’s do it.” She nods to her friends. “Sophie and Otis have to leave soon, but the rest of us will help.”
“Hannah can’t have anything to do with it,” I insist.
My sister pins me with a scathing look. She’s preparing a devastating rebuttal, I have no doubt. I glance out the window, temporarily distracted by a cluster of folks in heavy down coats heading down the sidewalk.
“You can’t,” I repeat, shifting my attention back to Hannah. “Frodo may have the brains of an inbred sheep, but even he’s gonna figure out something’s up if you’re seen over here.”
“Oh please, no one’s paying attention,” she scoffs.
As if her words invited them, the group that was strolling down the sidewalk literally walks into the unlocked brewery, ignoring the oversized CLOSED sign in the front window.
One of the new arrivals, a man with bushy brown hair and a pair of clunky, oversized glasses, says, “Ooh, is that fish and chips I smell? Is anyone else hungry?”
Otis grips his stomach and rushes toward the bathroom, but I’m not about to hold his hair.
“We’re closed,” I say.
“The door was wide open,” Glasses Guy says, like he can argue us into serving him and his friends. One of his pals grabs his arm to pull him back, but he doesn’t budge.
He might have a shitty sense of smell, but he’s brave. I’ll grant him that.
“Sorry, but the brewery’s not actually open. And we don’t serve food, unfortunately,” Briar adds. “Just beer and packaged snacks.”
“You might want to get on that,” a woman says.
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to add it to my list,” Briar says dryly. “Buchanan Brewery is a short walk from here.”
Then, no shit, she gives them directions. Detailed directions.
Hannah leaves the brewery while they’re tied up, either because she realized I have a point or because it’s excruciating to listen. Glasses Guy doesn’t seem to know his right from his left, and Briar’s had to repeat herself at least five times.
A few minutes later, she follows them out, waving, and I trail out after her. I can’t help but ask, “Why didn’t you just kick them to the curb? They were rude. I could have scared them off.”
She looks up at me, hugging her arms across her chest as an icy wind whips her hair. “No scaring off customers. That’s going on our recipe for success, Liam.”
For a second I’m floored.
Our recipe.
Ten percent.
I smile at her. “I hope you don’t intend to uphold the family tradition of engraving your recipes in wood, Princess.”
“It’ll be written on a piece of paper.” She edges the slightest bit closer.
“So it can be updated and changed. I think we should start our recipe today. Actually…I envision it as more of a list.” She gives me a sidelong look, a gush of icy wind rustling her hair.
“Don’t puke in front of your employees is going to be number one, just so you know. ”
“Surely that belongs farther down.”
I want to tuck her hair behind her ear, but my hands can’t go anywhere near her. If I let them, they’ll end up liking the feel of her. Yearning for it.
“Oh, no, it’s definitely number one,” she argues. “You’re the one who told me I should learn from my mistakes.”
I grin. “Do we both get to make additions to this list?”
“Yes,” she says. “But you can only write in pencil. That’s an important rule.”
“Will I get a company-issued pencil?”
“That can be arranged,” she says with a small smile.
“And where will we keep our master list?”
“I thought we could tuck it behind that photo of my father that he propped up behind the register.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to take that down?” I ask, amused by her dry humor.
“No. We’re giving him a front-row seat so he can watch us turn this place around.”
“Well, all right,” I say, extending my hand to her for a shake. Her fingers are icy as they grip mine, and for a second I’m nothing but pissed at myself for not realizing she was getting cold again. Then she gives my hand a firm shake, and a smile spreads across my face.
Here it is again—proof that this woman is tougher than she knows. Tougher than she has any right to be.
“It’s going to be a pleasure doing business with you, boss,” I say.
And the way she smiles at me, her whole face getting in on the action, makes me wonder if I’m launching straight into my next big mistake.
The New Year’s beer is fermenting.
Briar helped from start to finish, even though she probably wanted to go home and sleep it off.
Sophie and the kid left after an hour or so.
Dottie headed out, too, only to return with a couple of other old ladies—one a Black woman with oversized rainbow glasses, and the other a pale as milk white lady with a wonky orange and red handmade scarf.
Rainbow Glasses is Ann, and the lady with the ugly scarf is Constance.
The three of them took out a big bundle of sage that looked like a joint and lit it, waving it around the whole brewery as it belched out scented smoke in eye-watering bursts that at least smelled better than the rotten fish.
They chanted under their breath too.
It was a bunch of hocus-pocus bullshit, if you ask me, but they all seemed very pleased with themselves, and when they finished, Dottie pronounced the energy in the place “clean.”
I was informed that all three of them would be working in the front of house until Briar hires permanent staff, which isn’t a half-bad idea. Those little old ladies sure love to talk, and they’ll keep guests here long enough to have several rounds of Bubba’s mediocre beer.
When Briar and I finally finish cleaning up, we order pizza to celebrate.
Dinner is surprisingly enjoyable, probably because I don’t have to say more than a few syllables in response to the steady flow of conversation.
My attention keeps bobbing in and out, my thoughts wandering to which beers I’m going to have Briar taste.
I like imagining how she’ll react to each of them.
While we’re cleaning up after dinner, Dottie wraps Briar into a hug and whispers something to her. Seconds later, Dottie’s pulling me into a damn hug too. “We’ll leave you to lock up, my dears. I’m so honored to be part of your journey.”
Briar and I watch them shuffle out of the door, and I can’t help but laugh.
“What is it?” Briar asks, and I inhale sharply as she wraps her hand around my arm.
So she’s handsy even when she’s not drunk.
I like it, which is exactly why I tug my arm away and snap the band at my wrist.
Wake up, Liam.
“Neither of us has a car here, do we?” I ask.
She laughs, her nose wrinkling. I make a point of looking away.
“No trouble,” I say. “If you don’t want to walk, we can order an Uber.”
“No,” she says, “let’s walk. Exercise always does me good.” Her gaze turns thoughtful. “But first we need to do something. Wait right here.”
“The anticipation is killing me,” I say as she disappears into the back. She returns to the tasting room a few minutes later with a pencil and a sheet of printer paper.
I can’t help smiling as she scrawls at the top of the page, in perfect handwriting:
Liam and Briar’s Recipe for Success.
“A humble list,” I tease.
“A humble beginning,” she replies.
I take the pencil from her, our fingers brushing, and sit down to write.
She leans in, her soft cheek nearly pressed to mine. Despite a long day of drinking and working, she smells good, although maybe my senses have been burned by the sage smoke.
When I finish writing, I look at her and find her face only inches away. Her lips curve upward. “I can’t read a single word you wrote. Your handwriting is god-awful.”
“Look closer.”
She leans in further, near enough that her hair brushes the side of my neck, and then starts laughing.