5. Walt
WALT
Turns out it’s fucking hard to pour a beer with a man this attractive standing so close his breath is a whisper on my neck and his fingers on the glass next to mine. It takes every ounce of my willpower to keep my hand from shaking uncontrollably or shattering it with my grip.
Jesus Christ, Walt…focus.
“You want to start at a forty-five-degree angle like this,” he instructs, tipping the glass we’re holding forward, his fingers touching the edge of mine, “then pull the tap and let the beer flow.”
Sweat beads on my forehead like there’s a goddamn furnace burning in my chest. Why am I so nervous?
“It’s not brain surgery, boss. It’s just a beer. No need to work up a sweat,” he jokes, lightening the mood, but now I’m on alert because he can sense the bundle of nerves I’m dealing with.
“Excuse me, but I was heckled by a customer the last time I did this.”
He snorts. “I’ll give you shit about something else later. For now though? Let’s pour you a beer.”
My tongue wets my lips as I pull the paddle back and let the amber liquid and foam fill the glass halfway.
“Just like that! You’re doing great,” he reassures me, his words calming the slight shake in my hand. “Now, this is a lager, so you want about an inch of head at the top.”
I swallow hard. I know he’s talking about beer. I know it. So why the hell does the warmth pooling in my gut make me wonder if he’s talking about something else?
“Now tip the glass fully upright and let back on the tap slowly and…look at that. There ya go! Perfect pour.”
My hand is partly chilled by the lager, but more by the absence of his touch as he steps away.
“Now, you do one on your own. This time the wheat beer. These need more head, maybe another inch or so—”
“Can you call it foam, please?” I squeak, interrupting him.
He bites his lip, clearly forcing back a laugh.
“Just…shit…just tell me if I’m doing it wrong, okay? I don’t need all these technical terms.”
He sucks his teeth, his eyes alight with barely concealed laughter. “Whatever you want, boss.”