5. No Way in Hell
5
NO WAY IN HELL
KEATON
A few weeks into this marketing gig with Sophie and I’d become hooked. Not only was I kicking myself for not hiring a marketing person long before now, given how much Sophie’s ideas touched almost every facet of my business—and made it better—but I’d gotten used to having the city girl in my office. From the way her scent permeated the room first thing in the morning, to the way her skirts softly swished as she sashayed in and out of it.
But today, Sophie wasn’t here.
No soft knock on the front door ten minutes before we opened. No humming while she worked, or laptop cords snaking into my territory. Just silence, an empty chair, and the faint ghost of floral perfume lingering in the air. Things weren’t the same.
“Uh-oh. You’ve got that look,” Jessa said as she came through the swinging doors from the storage room, clipboard in one hand and a lollipop between her right cheek and teeth. “Like a man who just realized his morning coffee tastes better when delivered by a pretty brunette.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sophie’s not my coffee delivery girl. She’s a marketing consultant.”
“Sure. If you say so,” she drawled, perching her curvy frame against the edge of the bar and flipping her blonde hair behind her. “Come on, Keaton. Just admit it. You’ve got a little crush.”
I snorted. “On Sophie? No. It’s a working relationship. She’s here to help with the brand relaunch, not... whatever this is you’re conjuring up.”
Jessa gave me an infuriatingly perceptive look. With her blonde waves pulled up in a messy bun, sunglasses perched on top like a crown, she was part small-town sass, part bartender babe, and all heart—though she kept that part locked tight, with good reason. I doubted anyone knew her in town as well as I’d come to know her over the years working together here at Hops.
“Don’t lie to me, Kingston. I’ve seen the way you look at her. All smolder and side glances.”
“You’re wrong. I smolder at every woman who walks into this place,” I muttered. “Especially the cute ones.”
She snorted. “And I appreciate the extra tips that go into our tip jar because you do. But there’s something extra about Sophie. You change when she’s around.”
I shook my head, grabbing the inventory sheets from behind the bar. “Shouldn’t you be helping me restock before the Fourth of July rush hits?”
“Trying to distract me with work? You don’t play fair, boss man.”
We got into the rhythm of it quickly, checking off bottles, pulling cases from the stockroom or cooler, and reorganizing shelves. Jessa scribbled notes, cracked jokes, and occasionally rapped her knuckles on the bar when I zoned out.
“You’re still thinking about Sophie, aren’t you?” she asked, double checking through the sheets before calling the job done.
“Nope. There’s nothing to think about.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” She rolled her eyes. “Should I be worried she’s about to take my place as your work wife?”
I chuckled despite myself. “You know you’re irreplaceable.”
“Damn right.” She grinned. “But if I was being replaced as your work wife, I’d want ample advance notice, please. It’s a small town and it’s hard to find a decent job.”
Jessa hadn’t always had it easy. She’d stayed in town after high school to help raise her younger siblings when her mom got sick, their father long gone years prior. Never complained. She showed up on time, stayed late, and ran this place like it was her own. I’d wondered once if maybe there could’ve been something between us.
She made it clear, though—after one slightly tipsy night when we almost kissed—that I was not her type. I agreed she was too valuable of an employee to ruin with anything else.
By the time we finished checking inventory, the morning sun could cook an egg on my truck hood. Each July started as basically a slow burn into craziness in our hometown. The Fourth of July festival would kick things off, and then the town would tumble into its second biggest month of the year: Christmas in July.
Tourists from all over came to Holly Creek for the holiday decorations and music, parades and fake snow all down Main Street. The holiday movies played nonstop at the old theater, the indoor ice rink operated again, and ice sculpture contests, along with Christmas Tree Lane, happened in the school gym. Between Flora and Vivian, there were enough pies and confectionaries to enter a sugar coma until Labor Day. The locals all exuded real cheer, in part because of the tourists and their money rolling in, although some grumbled about the traffic.
I loved it, and typically brought out my limited edition brew, Hoppy Jolly Christmas, and thrived with the brisk business pace all month. The money from this each summer helped fund all the expenses I’d face through the fall and holidays, and get us through the winter when snow blanketed the town and the crowds reduced until spring.
But this year? Something made me antsy. My legs were restless. I blamed it on Richard’s drive to help me gain nationwide distribution. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the recent addition of a certain female taking over my office.
When I finally dropped into my desk chair, I glanced across the room at Sophie’s side. Her laptop wasn’t there. Her chair was empty. And dammit, it threw me off more than it should have today.
I reached for my phone and texted to find out if she was coming in, but stopped short of hitting send. I scoffed. That’d be something a worried boyfriend might do, not a colleague.
I wasn’t used to sharing my space. I’d built this brewery from scratch. Every brick, all the mortar, all the finishing touches—I picked them. Sweated for them. And now there was this woman with a sharp wit and tight skirts who strolled in, kicked her heels off, and made herself at home.
I liked the sight of her. That was the problem. I needed to refocus. Remember who I was. What this business meant to me, and what I wanted in life.
My brews selling nationwide—that was the plan. Sophie was only here to help me facilitate that. After, when the goal was achieved, we’d both go on our merry little ways.
I swallowed hard at that thought, when my phone buzzed.
“Starla?” I glared at her name on the text screen for a second, then sighed. I hadn’t talked to her in some time, intentionally.
Starla: Did you get the invite in the mail?
I frowned, and rummaged through the stack of envelopes Jessa left on my desk earlier. Junk, junk, invoice, flyer for a car wash fundraiser hosted by the Holly Creek High cheerleaders, and?—
Ah. This must be it. A heavy envelope with my name in fancy calligraphy that smelled like expensive perfume.
I opened and blinked a few times, shocked to find not only a complete weekend itinerary in Las Vegas, but a wedding invitation, sent by the producers of Brewed for Love.
You are cordially invited to celebrate the wedding of Vanessa & Ben.
“In Vegas in August?” I muttered. “Who the hell gets married in a literal oven in summer?”
An entire reunion weekend for the cast of the show was was laid out inside, all centered around this wedding. Welcome party poolside with cocktails, reunion filming with cast members, a beach party themed rehearsal dinner, and of course, the ceremony itself. Plus some post-wedding brunch bullshit I already wanted to skip.
Before I could finish reading, my phone buzzed again.
Starla: Check your email. Producer wants all couples there. Non-negotiable.
I opened my inbox. Sure enough, there it was. A little email from the Brewed for Love production team, reminding me of the contract everyone signed—the one that said they could drag me back into this circus up to three times per year after my season of Brewed for Love aired.
Surprise. This was one of them.
Starla: I assume I’ll be your plus one. We’ll make a splash. One more go-around for the fans.
I set my phone down and stared at Sophie’s empty chair.
I didn’t hate the show. Not really. It had given me a shot in the arm for my business. Introduced me to some great people, many of whom remained good friends. And at first, there was something exciting about it—cameras, confessionals, group challenges with kegs and blindfolds. The actor in me loved it.
But Starla?
She had been a game player from day one. Gorgeous, and we were attracted to one another at first and paired up. But Melanie, the head of production, loved her and all the drama she stirred. The longer we stayed on the show, the more it became obvious that Starla wasn’t there to fall in love.
She was there to win. At any cost.
I’d fooled myself at first, believing something different. Maybe I’d hoped we’d actually click and find something real among all the fakery around us on set.
But when the show ended, so did whatever illusion we’d managed to create.
Now she wanted to play the reunion game. Probably parade me around like we were something we never really were. For the cameras. For her own greedy need to claw her way back into the hearts of the fans.
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed a hand over my face.
What the hell was I doing?
I wanted love. Real love. The kind that wasn’t edited for reality TV.
I was ready for the type of relationship where you slept in together too long, making love to your wife, then you both rushed around all morning to get the kids ready for school. And evenings where we barbecued while the kids ran around in the yard. Nights where you held her close, watching the sunsets.
Brewed for Love was definitely not the place to find love. I found out only too late how the women there were after fame and fortune, using the show to get noticed. Or using any guy with a recognizable name and profile and money to get ahead.
Good for Ben and Vanessa, the winners, to find something real to hold on to through all of that and to take vows. I wished them well.
I wanted someone to come home to. Laugh with. Build a future with.
I just didn’t know where the hell to find that anymore.
Sophie’s chair sat empty across the room. What might’ve been a great start between us was now mired in business.
And hadn’t she used me, too? Flirting to land this consultant job?
Dammit, why the hell did matters of the heart have to be so confusing?
My phone buzzed once more. I didn’t bother to look.
Instead, I pulled up the tap list, opened my spreadsheet, and forced myself to think about barrels and brews and bottling and seasonal offerings. Anything but Vegas or the show.
Because love? That was for someone else.
And I’d already learned the hard way not to fall for a fantasy.
Suddenly, I needed some air. “I’m going to Vivian’s. Be back soon,” I grumbled to Jessa on my way out the door.
With a deep breath of the hot air outside, I walked over to Cupcake Cottage. The town crew was out in force, adding more lights and decorations on the tall fir tree setting in the middle of the quaint square. I nodded at a few townspeople along the way.
When I entered Vivian’s, she held Isabella crying on one hip, while boxing pastries for a customer with her other hand. Her smile when she saw me appeared tired, but pleased.
I took the baby off her hands right away. “Come to Uncle Keaton, baby girl. What’s wrong? I’ve got you,” I soothed and waited for Vivian at the island in the kitchen.
She wiped her brow after bidding her customers goodbye and joined me there. “You came at the right time.”
“Where’s your help today?” I asked, knowing Richard demanded she hire enough people so she wouldn’t have to be so tied down to the shop this summer.
“One had a doctor’s appointment, and the other had to go on an early lunch break to run an errand. Of course, that’s when we get a sudden rush of customers.”
“What about Paris? I thought she was helping this summer?”
“Yes, well, that I blame on Richard. He bought a few miniature highland cows and now all she wants to do is hang out in the barn. It was bad enough she loves to be out there with her horse. Now she has even more reasons to practically live among the animals.” She shook her head.
“Mini cows?” I shook my head, too.
“Don’t ask. For a billionaire who grew up in the city, Richard seems to think our property is his personal ranching cowboy fantasy come true.” She finished as the door chimed, signaling more customers. “You got her? I’ll be back.”
“Of course I’ve got her. Uncle Keaton is a pro, right, little girl?” I turned on the baby talk and set Isabella’s rump on the butcher block while I held her upright and continued to coo at her.
“Well, isn’t this a treat?” Sophie exclaimed, entering the room and leaning against the island across from me.
“Where’d you come from?” Damn, she was a pretty sight for my eyes, like they’d been starving for her all day. The sleeveless denim dress hugged her in all the right places, and her hair up in a ponytail screamed for release and my fingers to run through.
“From Vivian’s office. Richard asked if I could help her design some new shop signs.” She chuckled at the babbling baby in my arms. “You two are so cute right now. I should take a photo. It’d probably go viral in thirty seconds on your social media account.”
“Don’t you dare. This pretty little girl’s face needs to be kept private. I’m very careful about what I post online,” I warned, my mood darkening. Once again reminded that, as typical, some women have ulterior motives.
“I was joking, Keaton. Trust me, I wholeheartedly agree. If I ever have children, there would be a strict no social media understanding with their father. Can I hold her?” She fluttered her eyelashes at me.
Maybe I was too quick to judge her. “Sure. Here.” I came around the island and shifted the baby into her arms. The way her eyes lit up, swaying while staring into the child’s adorable face, didn’t help me keep her in the business zone.
“I should head back to the Hops,” I muttered, making a quick exit before the sight of her with the baby go too real—and messed with the boundaries I was barely holding onto.
“Great. I’m almost done here. I’ll stop by after, if that’s okay? I may even bring you coffee and one of Vivian’s cookies. Something for Jessa, too,” she called after me.
I simply waved, because Sophie was getting to me. And we would soon spend a weekend together in Vegas, pretending we were something we weren’t.
What could possibly go wrong?