Chapter 6 #2
“You really have built something. You should be proud.” I inhaled the delicious scents permeating the air, needing to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere. “Please tell me you have food that matches the quality of the beer.”
His grin was answer enough. “I might be able to come up with something. Hold that thought.” He disappeared through a set of double doors and returned a few minutes later with two plates that smelled heavenly. “Fish tacos courtesy of Chef Braden. Dig in.”
We settled at a high-top table near the windows. The food was as good as the beer—fresh dorado with a cilantro-lime crema that tasted like sunshine, wrapped in tortillas clearly made from scratch.
“So tell me about the Scripps project,” he said between bites. “What exactly are you hoping to accomplish here?”
I launched into an explanation of the research, the bleaching patterns we’d observed, and the early intervention strategies we were testing. As I talked, his face registered strong interest. His follow-up questions showed he was clearly understanding the scientific implications.
“The water temperature data you’re collecting correlates with the brewing industry in a way.” He took a quick sip of beer. “I mean, we’re both dealing with temperature-sensitive biological processes.”
An easy smile lifted my lips. “You’re right. There are similarities. Coral polyps are incredibly sensitive to temperature fluctuations, just like yeast. A degree or two can mean the difference between healthy growth and catastrophic failure.”
“Exactly.” He leaned forward, animated. “In brewing, we call it the danger zone—temperatures where wild bacteria can outcompete your yeast and ruin the entire batch. Coral has its own version.”
We fell into an easy rhythm of conversation, trading stories about temperature monitoring and quality control, about the challenges of working with living systems that could be derailed by the smallest variables.
It was the kind of shop talk that would have bored most people to tears.
But for us, it was a bridge—a way to connect our very different worlds through a shared understanding of precision and passion.
The afternoon light shifted, casting longer shadows through the windows, and I realized we’d been talking for nearly two hours.
The flow of conversation, the way he listened and responded, and the complete absence of the awkwardness I’d expected all felt dangerously like coming home.
The brewpub crowd had thinned noticeably, and a Hispanic woman behind the bar in a Tidal Hops staff shirt watched us curiously.
“I should probably get back,” I said reluctantly as I stacked the empty plates. “Kaia and Zane will be wondering what happened to me.”
“Right. Of course.” Braden stood as well but made no move toward the door. “Tessa, I’m glad we did this. The dive this morning, then lunch. It’s been...” He trailed off, searching for words.
“Surprising,” I finished. “I spent the last three days bracing for impact. I didn’t expect this part to be so easy. I’m glad it has.”
We walked toward the entrance, the easy camaraderie of the afternoon settling into something more charged as we approached the inevitable goodbye.
At the door, he paused, his hand on the handle. “The research you’re doing matters. What you found today at Marker 22—if that early warning system works, it could save the entire reef.”
“That’s the idea. Thank you. For helping on the dive, for this, for...” I gestured vaguely, encompassing everything that had shifted between us in the space of a few hours.
He opened the door, and the humid afternoon air rushed in, carrying with it the salt tang of the ocean and the reality of the world beyond this perfect, suspended moment.
“Tessa,” he said after I stepped past him into the sunshine.
I turned back as the door swung shut behind him. We were standing close enough that I could see the darker flecks in his blue eyes and catch the faint scent of hops and sea salt that clung to his skin.
“Yes?”
“I’m glad I came along today. Maybe we can move past all that old drama. Actually work together.”
I nodded and swallowed hard. “This is much better. I’d like it if you went out with us again.”
I expected that hurt, guarded look to return to his eyes, but it didn’t. Instead, our gazes locked together as if drawn by gravity. He looked like he was going to say something, then his gaze dropped to my lips. I leaned toward him, unable to stop myself.
Before I could think—before either of us could think—he was kissing me.
His mouth was warm and sure against mine, one hand coming up to cup my face.
I melted into him, my fingers finding the front of his shirt and closing around it.
For a moment the whole world narrowed to the taste of him and the way we kissed like we’d been wanting to for longer than either of us would admit.
We sprang apart at the same time, both of us staring at each other wide-eyed. Twelve years of history collided, and neither of us knew what to do next. My lips tingled, and I had to resist the urge to rub my fingers over them.
What just happened? What do I do now?
Panic tried to dig a hole through my stomach, and all I could think of was escape.
“See you later,” I fumbled hastily, then spun around and hurried away before he could respond.
Behind me, the door closed with a soft click, but I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. Because if I looked back and saw him behind the window watching me leave, I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength to keep going.
The walk back to my townhouse was endless and yet over in an instant. The beige walls and generic furniture were even more lifeless after the warmth and personality of Tidal Hops, after seeing what Braden had built with his own hands and imagination.
I sat at my kitchen table, staring at my laptop screen without really seeing it, replaying every moment of the afternoon.
The way he’d lit up when talking about his brewing process.
The interest he’d shown in my research. The moment at the door when the air between us had crackled with possibility. The warmth of his lips.
The memory of a kiss that was familiar and yet completely new.
Most of all, I kept thinking about what he’d said—that staying didn’t mean settling. That it was possible to build something meaningful in Dove Key, something that belonged to this place and nowhere else.
For twelve years, I’d told myself that leaving was the only option, that meaningful work required prestigious institutions and global recognition.
But what if I’d been wrong? What if the most important work—the work that actually changed things—happened in places like this, with people who understood that impact didn’t always correlate with accolades?