1
The Ursine Adventures beer tasting took place in the Constellation Lounge on Deck 7. Tables scattered throughout held mats and small glasses in neat rows, while a banner proclaimed: Craft Brews he’d provided pro bono counsel when the shelter faced challenges from a neighboring church. After four months of hard-fought legal battles, the shelter had won.
“How many?“
the volunteer asked.
Dennis bought two. Aaron pulled out a twenty, got four tickets in return, and forgot about it.
Until the email arrived in December: Congratulations! You’ve won a week-long cruise with Ursine Adventures!
He’d stared at his phone, dumbfounded.
“Holy shit, you won?“
Dennis had laughed. “You’re going, right? Please tell me you’re going.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a trial in March—”
“Aaron. When’s the last time you took a vacation?”
He couldn’t remember.
“Exactly. Go. Drink fruity cocktails. Sit on a beach. Do anything that doesn’t involve a courtroom. You deserve it.”
And here he was, a pocket bear amongst giants, pretending to know the difference between a pale ale and a pilsner.
Not true. He had some knowledge—not homebrew-level, but he’d gained a taste over the years. Mikey, who sang at David’s restaurant in Dupont Circle, had sparked his interest in craft brewing. Between Mikey and his husband George’s curated beer list, Aaron had learned to distinguish between decent and great IPAs.
The lights dimmed. Maria stepped up to the microphone. “Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome on behalf of RNJ Cruise Lines and our partners at Ursine Adventures. We’re excited to host six incredible brewers today, each representing a different region. You’ll find their beers numbered on your tasting mats, and our brewers will circulate to answer questions.”
She introduced them one by one, and Aaron noted the names—his attention focused on the men as they stepped forward, waved, and smiled. They were a mixed bunch: an older man from Oregon, a young hipster from Vermont, a couple from New Mexico…
And then came number three.
“Nash Coleman from Coleman Craft Brewing in Spoon, Georgia!”
Aaron looked up.
The man who stepped forward was big—not tall-and-lanky big, but big. Broad shoulders, thick arms, a chest straining against his henley. Salt-and-pepper beard, hair that had probably looked neat earlier but had since given up. He had a natural build that came from hard work, not just a gym—lifting kegs, hauling equipment.
He smiled sheepishly at the applause, and Aaron sensed a shift—a slight twitch from deep within himself.
Uh-oh.
Nash Coleman from Spoon, Georgia, was the type of man Aaron had always wanted but never believed he could have—strong, not just in size, but in presence.
Stop it. You’re here to drink beer and maybe remember what it’s like to have a conversation that doesn’t involve billable hours.
Maria finished her introduction. “Alright, everyone, let’s get started! Begin with glass number one, and our brewers will be around to chat. Enjoy!”
Aaron reached for the first glass—a pale ale from Oregon—and tried very hard not to look at the man representing number three.
The pale ale was fine—citrusy, a bit too hoppy for Aaron’s taste. The Vermont IPA was better, though the brewer’s explanation of dry-hopping techniques went over Aaron’s head within seconds. He nodded and moved on to number three.
Coleman Craft Brewing. Spoon, GA.
This beer was darker than the first two—amber-hued and cloudy. Aaron lifted the glass, inhaled. Caramel, a hint of toffee, something earthy underlying that he couldn’t quite name.
He sipped.
Oh.
It was good. Really good. Malty without being heavy, balanced in a way the others hadn’t been. There was a complexity to it that made him want to take another sip just to identify the flavors.
“It’s a Scottish ale.”
Aaron looked up.
Nash Coleman stood beside the table, hands in his pockets, with that same sheepish smile from earlier. Up close, he was even bigger—six-three or four, and well over two-forty. His henley was dark green and faded; his jeans were well worn.
“It’s good,“
Aaron said, the words feeling inadequate.
“Thanks.“
Nash gestured to the chair across from him. “Mind if I sit? I like hearing what folks think.”
Yes. No. Maybe.
“Sure.”
Nash took a seat, the chair creaking beneath him. Aaron noticed Nash’s large hands, the kind that could palm a basketball or wrap entirely around—
Stop.
“So,“
Nash leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What do you taste?”
Aaron blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“In the beer. You looked like you were trying to figure something out.”
“Oh.“
Aaron glanced down at the glass. “Caramel. Toffee, I think. Something earthy—I’m not an expert.”
“You don’t have to be an expert to know what you like.“
Nash’s voice was deep, his southern drawl soothing. “The earthy thing you’re tasting is the peat malt. I use a blend from a malthouse in Scotland—it gives it that smokiness without being overwhelming.”
“You import malt from Scotland?”
“Small batches, yeah. Costs more, but it’s worth it for the flavor profile.”
Aaron took another sip, slower this time, trying to isolate the peat. “I can taste it now. It’s subtle.”
“That’s the idea.“
Nash grinned. “You don’t want it to punch you in the face; it should just hang out in the background and make you wonder what you’re missing.”
He’s talking about beer. Just beer.
Except the way Nash looked at him—steady and curious—felt like more than just beer.
“So what brings you on an Ursine Adventures cruise?“
Nash asked. “You a regular?”
Aaron chuckled. “No. First time. I won the trip. Raffle at a bar in DC.”
“Lucky.”
“Debatable.“
The words slipped out before he could stop them, and Nash grinned wider.
“Not a cruise guy?”
“Not a vacation guy, generally.“
Aaron set the glass down. “I’m a lawyer. Civil rights work. I don’t take a lot of time off.”
“What kind of civil rights?”
“LGBTQ+ discrimination cases. Housing, employment.”
Nash nodded. “That’s important work.”
“It is.“
Aaron hesitated, then gestured to Nash’s beer. “You don’t sound like you’re from Georgia.”
Nash chuckled. “Good ear. I’m not. Mississippi, originally. Little town called Lumberton, near the Louisiana line. I moved to Spoon a few years back.”
Aaron smiled. Lumberton. It was close enough to his own hometown that the accents bled together.
“What brought you to Georgia?”
“Fresh start.“
Something flickered in Nash’s expression—not quite pain, but close. “Bad breakup, and Mississippi has restrictive laws for brewing and selling beer. Georgia is more favorable for small craft operations. Plus, Spoon has this thing called Project Haven—an initiative led by the mayor, Titus Shepherd. They’re recruiting diversity, helping small businesses, and offering incentives to build there. Seemed like the right move at the right time.”
“That’s smart. Small towns rarely think that way.”
“Titus does. He’s good people. His son, Tucker, runs the local tavern—my first account. Now I’ve got a few spots in neighboring towns. I even have a taproom on weekends. Business is growing faster than I expected.”
“That’s good, though, right? Growth?”
“Yeah, but it’s complicated.“
Nash rubbed the back of his neck. “Georgia’s licensing laws are messy once you hit a certain production level. Project Haven has grants to help me expand, but the legal structure is confusing.”
Aaron’s brain, which had been operating at half-speed, kicked into gear. “What kind of licensing issues?”
“Something about choosing between self-distribution and having a taproom for sales. There are ways around it, but the regulations—I’ve read the statutes six times, and I still don’t get it. Also, the Haven grants require specific corporate structures that are complicated.”
Aaron tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. “There might be cooperative models you could use. Or a legal framework specific to Haven businesses that would allow you access to the grants while maintaining flexibility. You’d need to look at the state statutes to find overlapping structures that—”
He stopped. Nash was staring.
“What?“
Aaron asked.
“You just went from ‘I’m not a vacation guy’ to breaking down corporate structures in about thirty seconds.”
Warmth rushed to Aaron’s cheeks. “Sorry. Occupational hazard.”
“Don’t apologize.“
Nash leaned back, his expression warm. “That’s the kind of help I need. Half of what you said is over my head, but I got the gist. You think there’s a way to make it work?”
“I’d have to look at the statutes and grant language, but yeah. There’s almost always a solution if you know where to find it.”
Nash’s grin widened. “Are you any good?”
Aaron blinked. “At what?”
“Being a lawyer.”
There was something in the way Nash said it—a glint in his eye—that made Aaron’s pulse race.
“I’d like to think so,“
Aaron managed.
“Good to know. We should talk more if you’re interested.”
Aaron looked at Nash—this big, beautiful, bearded stranger from a town with a funny name, who brewed Scottish ale with peat malt and came from a place close enough to his childhood home that Aaron could hear it in every vowel.
You came here to relax, not work.
But this didn’t feel like work. It felt like the first genuine conversation he’d had in months that didn’t involve case strategy.
“Yeah,“
Aaron said. “I’d like that.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?“
Nash asked. “We’re docking in Nassau—beach day, I think. There’s snorkeling.”
“I hadn’t looked at the itinerary.”
“Well, if you want some company, I’ll be there. We can talk more about the legal stuff. Or not. Whatever you want.”
Aaron nodded. “Okay. Yeah. That sounds good.”
“Perfect.“
Nash stood and offered his hand. “Nash Coleman.”
Aaron took it. Nash’s hand was warm, engulfing his own.
“Aaron Mercer.”
“Nice to meet you, Aaron.“
Nash held on for a moment before letting go. “I should keep making the rounds, but I’ll find you tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
As Nash moved away, Aaron’s eyes returned to the glass of Scottish ale before him, its sweetness still lingering on his tongue.
He’d come on this cruise to escape, to remember what it was to be a person instead of just a case number.
Aaron lifted the glass and finished it, tasting the caramel and peat mingling in a way that shouldn’t work but did—simple yet layered with complexity. Distant, yet familiar.
Like hearing an accent you grew up with in a place far away.