Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LIAM
Briar and Liam’s Rules for Success
Don’t be alone with your boss. You might just kiss her.
Don’t allude to kissing your boss.
Don’t let Ann get you alone in the storage room. She might pinch your butt.
Text conversation with Briar
OMG did she really pinch your butt? I’ll have a talk with her.
I think the Tinder girls put her up to it. I saw one of them giving her a scratch-off ticket.
Definite payoff.
That’s sexual harassment.
I enjoyed every second. Feel free to pinch my butt anytime.
New rule: don’t encourage your boss to pinch your butt.
You’re no fun.
It’s a Thursday evening at Silver Star, and I’m singing to my pale ale.
Yes, that’s right. I’m serenading a beer.
This coming Monday is Christmas Day. That means the New Year’s Eve party is next Saturday.
If this beer is going to be ready on time, I have to carbonate on Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest.
I’m not usually a superstitious man, but I will buy rabbits’ feet by the bag and knock on every piece of wood I come across if it means this beer will be ready even a few minutes sooner.
I care about making Silver Star a success.
I need it to happen for myself, because it feels good to make my own beer.
I also need it for Briar, who’s been working her cute butt off all week.
Once we have a few of our new beers out, she’ll be able to start booking high-dollar guests in that cozy little room we decked out.
She’s got other ideas too, so many ideas my head is swimming with them.
I see her enthusiasm infecting everyone else on staff too.
Even the old-timers seem reluctant to accept that their employment is only temporary.
I’ve caught Ann talking about what we should do for Valentine’s Day—as if anyone with sense wants to do anything on Valentine’s Day other than wait for it to be over.
But the atmosphere all of Briar’s big ideas has created is intoxicating.
I want to do my part. I want my beer to be ready to serve at midnight on New Year’s Eve, just like she envisioned in that shitty diner. Unfortunately, its levels still aren’t where they need to be.
I told my father as much on FaceTime last night, and he said, “Remember when we sang to that lager when you were a boy? Sing to it. The yeast is alive. You need its goodwill if you’re going to make a beer worth drinking.”
That got a smile out of me.
My old man taught me to brew when I was a kid. After our mother left, my grandmother encouraged him to share what he loved with us, and he took it literally.
I was too young to drink the beer, or so he said, but he was all too happy to take care of our “stock.” He used to get trashed in the basement on weekends, watching old episodes of M*A*S*H.
Sometimes that meant Hannah and I had to make mac and cheese for our brother Connor, or help him with his homework.
Still, we all love our dad. He’s the kind of person you can’t help but love—if you’re not my mother, obviously. But she was cold and hard to love. Kind of like me.
Which is why I need to stop gravitating toward Briar like one of those dumbass moths who keeps swooping in for another go at a lightbulb, thinking this time might be different.
I frown as I press my palm against the vat and then sing the next verse of—
“Are you singing ‘Champagne Supernova’ to our beer?” Briar asks, walking into view with twinkling eyes.
“You told me what Dottie said about it being the champagne of beers, and I’m a desperate man.”
I soak in the sight of her standing in front of me, so touchable, and become achingly aware of the fact that we are, however briefly, alone together.
We’ve avoided that this past week. It hasn’t been hard, because the brewery’s been busy.
Hannah and Sophie have been posting flyers about the New Year’s party all around town, plus Travis and the guys have been doing publicity for the event.
As a result, we’ve had curious people peeking in through the glass windows ever since we took down the cardboard CLOSED sign and flipped the official sign around to OPEN this past Monday.
It didn’t take long for the customers to start flowing in.
Doesn’t hurt that it’s gotten around that the new owner is the most beautiful woman alive and that we have a bunch of twenty-something women serving our beer.
Someone caught wind that Otis met them all on an online dating site, and a local blog posted about it.
The words “scrappy” and “innovative” were used, and it puffed Otis up something good.
No doubt it’s also boosted his confidence that a couple of the bartenders seem interested in him.
A few of them have approached me, too, but I made it clear I wasn’t interested. They’re too young, for one thing. For another…
I glance at Briar.
“The beer’s not going to be ready?” she asks, her voice resigned.
“I’m singing to it,” I say, my palm still pressed to the vat. “Women can’t resist a good serenading. I bet it’ll be popping off by morning.”
She gives me a tired, shut up, Liam look, and I add, “My dad used to do it. He’s the one who taught me how to brew.”
“When you were a kid, right? Hannah told me.”
“Sure. Kept me out of trouble until it got me into trouble.”
She smiles. “I’ll bet you were a hellion.”
“Nah. I was a real stickler for the rules. I just didn’t have any. My father believed in letting us learn from our mistakes.”
“You have plenty of rules now,” she points out, reminding me of that list we’ve been updating daily. It feels like flirting, writing back-and-forth messages to each other using the same pencil, its lead worn down.
“I suppose I do.”
Brief silence descends between us, seeming to vibrate with unspoken words, before she says, “I need to know if it’s going to be ready, Liam.”
“I’m worried,” I admit. “But I haven’t given up. I’m not going to give up.”
Her smile fills her whole face as she presses her hand to the side of the vat, next to mine, and starts singing the next verse of the song. Her voice washes over me. Soft and sweet but strong, like Briar herself.
“Well, damn, if it doesn’t shape up now, it’s a lost cause,” I say, making her smile broaden as she continues to sing.
I start singing with her, edging my hand over so our fingers are touching as our voices harmonize.
I’ve never really noticed a woman’s fingers unless they’re wrapped around my cock. But right now, the slight pressure of her pinky against my index finger is the only thing that matters.
It’s a stupid thought, but I’ve been having a lot of stupid thoughts about Briar lately. I tell myself it’ll pass with time—an argument that was more convincing before she started harmonizing with me.
The door to the tasting room opens, and a few seconds later, one of the front-of-house twenty-somethings, a blond with a nose ring, steps into view from the other side of the vat.
“You guys are singing loud. Like, it can be heard in the tasting room. Someone asked if it was karaoke night. Do we do karaoke?”
“No,” I say, “and we never will. Karaoke should be recognized as a form of torture.”
Briar laughs under her breath, then presses her hand more fully against mine. “Stop it.” Turning to the girl, she says, “We’re singing to the beer, Sorcha.”
Of course she knows her name. She probably knows the name of everyone who works here, along with where they were born and what their favorite drink is.
“Old people are so weird,” Sorcha mutters, rolling her eyes, just as the door to the tasting room opens again, admitting the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Dear, I’ve told you those words aren’t allowed in this brewery,” Dottie says as she comes into view. “We’re only as old as we allow ourselves to be.”
Categorically untrue, but Sorcha blushes and says, “Sorry, Dottie,” looking like she might actually be sorry. Dottie has that effect on people.
“Now, what’s all this fuss about?” Dottie asks.
The bubble Briar and I had formed is broken, but I remind myself it’s better like this. I can’t be alone with her without wanting to break every rule on that list and burn the paper.
“They were singing to the beer,” Sorcha says as if she’s accusing us of something.
“Delightful!” Dottie grins at us. “Should I ask everyone else to join in?”
I nudge Briar’s foot with mine. “What do you think, boss? Should the whole staff sing ‘Kumbaya’ to the pale ale?”
When our gazes meet, it feels like a warm glow is transferring between us. “You know what? Yes.”
“Uh…what about the customers in the tasting room?” Sorcha asks. It’s obvious she thinks we’ve completely lost it.
“They can join in,” Briar says.
“Uh…you guys know singing to the beer isn’t going to make it ferment faster, right?”
“Well said,” Dottie replies, patting her on the back. “Singing alone won’t do the trick. I’ll need to gather some crystals from home and place them strategically around the room to create an energy field. I only wish I’d thought of it sooner.”
She hurries out of the brewing area, which is separated from the hallway by a short half wall. She’s a woman on a mission, leaving behind Sorcha, who’s gaping at us.
“Spread the message, Sorcha,” Briar says, giving me a sidelong look. “We’re all going to raise our voices.”
Sorcha hurries away, turning into the hall and leaving us alone again.
There goes the most important rule on our shared piece of paper.
“You know she’s never coming back, right?” I comment.
“She’ll be back,” Briar insists.
“If you say so, Princess. But I’m telling you right now, if the crystals and the singing actually work, it’s going to break my brain.”
“You said you weren’t giving up.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, I’m not giving up either,” she insists, eyes on mine. “I believe in you.”
My heartbeat picks up pace, but I smirk at her. “That would probably mean more if you hadn’t just told me you believe singing and crystals are going to mature this beer.”
“You’re the one who started it.”