Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
brADEN
I moved my phone closer to my face, Tessa’s voice warm in my ear as I paced my cottage.
Through the window, evening light painted the quiet residential street in amber and gold, but I barely registered it.
My mind replayed the awkward encounter at her townhouse two hours earlier when her parents had first arrived.
“They were polite,” I said.
“Too polite.” Tessa sighed. “I’m sorry about that. I know my mother’s smile gets tighter when she’s uncomfortable.”
“And your father checks his watch when he’s looking for an exit.” I dropped onto the sofa and rubbed the back of my neck. Richard Donovan’s firm handshake and assessing gaze had left me feeling like I’d shown up to a job interview in a torn T-shirt.
“Braden, listen.” Her voice shifted, taking on that careful quality she used when she was trying to manage a difficult situation. “I’m rethinking a get-together. I can meet you for coffee or lunch while they’re here, and you can avoid the whole parent dynamic. It might be easier for everyone.”
I sat forward, elbows on my knees. “Easier, maybe. But why should we hide?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve been second-guessing that conversation we had at the Driftwood Beach event too. But I know what they’re like. I know how they can be.”
“So do I. I’ve had twelve years to imagine every version of this conversation.” I stood, too restless to sit. “Here’s what I’m thinking. Dinner tomorrow night at Tidal Hops. Let me show them my world. On my terms.”
“Braden, are you sure?”
“I own a successful business. I’ve built something real.
” My words were fueled by the determination that had been building since the grant rejection.
That moment when we’d decided we were in this together had shifted something fundamental.
“I’m not some kid scrambling to outrun the family reputation.
If we’re doing this, we do it as partners. United front, right?”
Her exhale was soft. “They have good intentions—they’re just blind where I’m concerned.”
“Are you afraid to be seen with me?” I regretted the question immediately, the old wound making me sharper than I meant to be.
“God, no.” Her response was instant, fierce. “I’m afraid for you. They have a way of making people feel small without ever raising their voices or saying anything cruel. It’s death by a thousand paper cuts, and I don’t want you to—”
“Then be there with me. Have my back, and I’ll have yours.” I moved to the window, looking out at the darkening street. “Tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Tidal Hops.”
The pause stretched long enough that I started preparing my counter-argument. Then she said, “Okay. Seven o’clock.”
Relief flooded through me, followed immediately by nerves I refused to acknowledge.
“Braden?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not backing down.”
After we hung up, I stood in the gathering dusk of my living room, my reflection a dim ghost in the window glass.
I thought about the awards on my office wall at the brewpub, the distribution deals I’d negotiated, the community fundraisers I’d organized.
I’d spent twelve years building a life I was proud of, brick by brick.
Tomorrow night, I’d make damn sure Richard and Lucinda Donovan saw every inch of it.
The Friday evening crowd at Tidal Hops hummed with energy as I moved through the dining room, checking tables and exchanging greetings with regulars.
Warm Edison bulbs cast golden light over the polished wood tables in the outdoor area, and the gleaming fermentation tanks were visible through the glass partition.
I’d chosen a corner table that offered both privacy and visibility. Quiet enough for conversation, but positioned where anyone walking in would see the full scope of the brewpub—the modern beach aesthetic, the packed house, the obvious success of the operation.
When Tessa arrived with her parents, I was ready. I’d traded my usual Tidal Hops staff shirt for a crisp button-down, dark jeans, and my good leather shoes. Professional but still authentically me.
Tessa caught my eye first, offering a small, encouraging smile.
She wore a simple navy dress that brought out the red in her hair, falling in soft waves around her shoulders.
Behind her, Richard and Lucinda Donovan looked like they’d stepped out of a Malibu travel brochure.
Him in expensive khakis and a polo shirt with a discreet designer logo, her in linen pants and a silk blouse that probably cost more than my monthly utilities.
“Braden.” Richard extended his hand, his grip firm and assessing. “Thank you for having us.”
“My pleasure.” I shook his hand, then turned to Lucinda. “Mrs. Donovan. Good to see you again.”
“Please, it’s Lucinda.” Her gaze flicked from me to Tessa, then settled on the way I had moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her daughter. A tight, polite smile fixed on her face. “Tessa mentioned on the drive over that you two have… reconnected.”
She made it sound like a minor fender bender but didn’t look particularly surprised. Neither did Richard.
“We have,” I said, keeping my voice steady as I met her eyes. I rested a hand briefly on the small of Tessa's back. “We’re very happy.”
“High school sweethearts finding each other again,” Richard chimed in, his tone trying for breezy but was still sharp around the edges. “It’s a charming story.” He didn't wait for a response, turning his assessing gaze to the room. “And what a charming place you have here.”
Charming.
The word landed with the weight of condescension wrapped in politeness.
I led them to the table, held out chairs, and settled into the host role I’d perfected over years of running this place.
Maria appeared with menus and water glasses, the soul of professionalism, and I launched into my explanation of the menu highlights and the beer selection.
“The yellowtail snapper is fresh from this morning’s catch.
And if you’re interested in beer pairings, I’d recommend our Sunset Wheat Ale with the fish.
It’s brewed with local citrus that complements the fish really nicely. ”
“That sounds lovely.” Lucinda said gently. “Though I think I’ll stick with wine. Do you have a Chardonnay?”
“Of course.” I signaled Maria and gave her the wine order, ignoring the small sting of rejection. Not everyone appreciated craft beer. That was fine. Normal.
Richard ordered bourbon, neat, claiming he wasn’t much of a beer man. Tessa asked for a glass of water with her Sunset Wheat Ale, and I caught her jaw tightening at her parents’ choices.
The first few minutes of conversation were aggressively pleasant. We discussed the weather, their flight from California, and the changes they’d noticed in Dove Key since they’d last visited years ago. Surface-level observations that revealed nothing and connected no one.
I was midway through describing the origin of Tidal Hops when Maria appeared at my elbow, her expression apologetic. “Boss, sorry to interrupt. The tap for the new seasonal IPA is running foamy. A couple of customers have mentioned it. Do you want me to switch it out for the Sunset Wheat?”
I pondered the issue for a moment. “No, I want people trying that batch. Go check the CO2 line pressure first. If it’s clear, swap the coupler—it’s probably just a bad seal. If that doesn’t fix it, tap a new keg. And Maria? Comp the foamy pints for those customers immediately.”
“Got it. CO2, coupler, comp.” She nodded and hurried off.
I turned back to the table with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. The downside of live fermentation.”
Richard took a sip of his bourbon, his eyes assessing me with a new spark of appreciation. “You certainly know your operations. Very hands-on.”
“I built the system,” I said, allowing myself a moment of pride. “I have to know how to fix it.”
“Impressive,” Richard said, nodding. Then the spark in his eyes cooled, replaced by that familiar, evaluating distance.
“Though I imagine it must be exhausting being that involved. Dealing with equipment failures and managing staff in a seasonal market like this? You probably have to deal with constant turnover.”
First strike.
The comment hit like a jab disguised as a handshake.
Seasonal market. Constant turnover. He wasn't just critiquing my business model. He was auditing my stability. He was subtly pointing out that my world was small, fluctuating, and risky, while his daughter’s world was solid and expansive.
He was setting down the wedge he intended to drive between us.
“Most of my core staff have been with me for years,” I said with a bland smile. “Maria just celebrated her fifth anniversary. The Keys attract people who want to stay, not just pass through.”
“It is a beautiful island,” Lucinda said with an even more generic smile.
Maria returned and took our dinner orders. I ordered the snapper to match Tessa’s choice, a small part of me wanting to demonstrate we were aligned, a team.
“So, Braden.” Richard settled back in his chair with his bourbon. “Tessa mentioned you’ve won some awards for your brewery. That must be gratifying.”
“It is.” I straightened slightly, grateful for the opening.
“We’ve won Best New Brewery in Florida, and last year we placed in the top ten at a national craft beer competition.
The judges particularly liked our experimental series using local ingredients—sea salt, key limes, even jalapenos from Sunset Siesta’s garden. ”
“Very creative,” Lucinda said. “It must be rewarding to have a following here.”
There it was again.
That word. Here.
“I’m working on a plan to distribute throughout the state.” I heard the defensive edge creeping into my voice and hated it. “And that should lead to wider distribution later.”
“Wonderful.” Richard nodded, then smoothly pivoted. “Tessa, did you tell Braden about your mother’s friend at Scripps? The one working on the polyp regeneration study?”