Chapter 13 #2
Christine shrugged, already stepping toward the door. “You offered.”
* * *
Washington Street at lunchtime was business-casual chaos. A sea of sleek suits, overpriced sneakers, and oat milk lattes flowed between the latest hyper-organic cafés, all while corporate wellness bots subtly pushed protein bars to the masses.
Christine used to open Birkenbrew during the lunch rush—but the kind of people dropping 25 credits on a protein-infused quinoa bowl wasn’t her prime stout-drinking demographic, so she adjusted the hours.
“What are you in the mood for?” Oakland asked, dodging a self-driving delivery drone as it buzzed overhead.
Christine smirked, nodding toward Gruit, who was sniffing the air like it held the universe’s secrets. “Considering His Majesty here, we need a dog-friendly option.”
Oakland hummed in thought.
Christine snapped her fingers. “There’s a grilled cheese truck a few blocks down. We can grab food and head back to the brewery. We’ll have the whole place to ourselves.”
Oakland raised an eyebrow. “Just us?”
Christine’s smile curled. “Unless you’d prefer an audience.”
She stepped in, close enough for her gaze to briefly drop to Oakland’s lips.
“I don’t mind putting on a show if you don’t.”
Oakland blinked, heat flaring across her cheeks. “Are you—are you seriously trying to make me blush right now?”
Christine grinned. “Only if it’s working.”
Oakland sighed, defeated. “Fine. Lead the way, patron saint of poor dietary choices.”
“I accept this title.”
As they approached the food truck, Mari, the perpetually amused owner, scoffed at Christine. “Jesus—what happened to your face?”
Christine blinked. Oh. Right.
“I, uh…” She rubbed her chin. “Lost a fight with a paper towel dispenser.”
Oakland stifled a laugh before throwing an arm over Christine’s shoulders. “Come on, it wasn’t your fault,” she teased. Then, lower, just enough to make Christine’s brain short-circuit, “Besides… you still look good.”
Christine’s internal monologue was static noise.
Mari, enjoying the show, smirked suggestively. “Oh, she definitely does.”
Christine cleared her throat. “So. Food?”
The truck’s specialty was the creation of grilled cheese abominations, each more unhinged than the last. They both ordered. Oakland stuck with a classic because she had standards, while Christine, with zero shame, ordered one slathered in grape jam.
“I’m calling the police.” Oakland eyed the sandwich like it was evidence in a crime scene.
* * *
The brewery felt too big without the usual crowd, its towering fermenters humming quietly.
Oakland perched on a barstool, watching Christine with amused suspicion as she set two glasses of water down alongside a small shot of something dark.
Oakland arched a brow. “That’s not water.”
Christine grinned. “I know you’ve got to get back to work, but I thought you might want to try one of my favorites.”
Oakland froze, her posture stiffening slightly. “Oh, I, uh… I don’t drink.”
Christine blinked, then smiled like it was no big deal at all. “Oh! No worries. Should’ve asked.”
Without hesitation, she knocked the sample back herself, setting the glass down with a casual shrug. “More for me.”
Oakland exhaled, a little laugh slipping out. “Sorry, that was awkward.”
Christine waved her off. “You’re fine. I once accidentally butt-dialed my ex while reading her breakup text out loud to my dog.”
Oakland blinked. “Wait, what?”
Christine nodded solemnly. “Full dramatic reading. Voices. Commentary. I even paused for effect.”
Oakland covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Please tell me Gruit gave you notes.”
“He sneezed when I said, ‘We can still be friends.’ I took it as agreement.”
Oakland snorted. “Did your ex say anything?”
“Oh, yeah. She texted back, ‘glad to know I was just content for your one-woman show.’”
Oakland was full-on laughing now. “Honestly? I’d pay to see that.”
Christine grinned. “You’re in luck. I’m doing a limited run this weekend. BYO trauma.”
The tension should have faded, but the air between them still felt charged, something unspoken lingering in the space where their fingers touched.
Oakland needed to break it. She moved her gaze toward Christine’s sandwich, eyeing the jam glistening at the edges.
“Alright,” she sighed. “Give me a bite of that monstrosity.”
Christine’s head snapped up. “Really?” Her grin was immediate and delighted.
Oakland held out her hand. “Give it.”
Christine handed over the sandwich, barely containing her glee.
Oakland hesitated—then took a small, cautious bite. She chewed, fully prepared for regret.
But instead… huh.
It was weird. But good? The jam was sweet, the cheese salty, the whole thing unexpectedly creamy.
Christine watched her like a kid waiting for a Christmas present.
Oakland swallowed, then gave a slow nod. “…It’s not awful.”
Christine threw her hands up like she had won something. “It’s delicious! It’s art!”
Gruit, clearly feeling left out, barked at full volume.
Christine tore off a piece of crust and tossed it his way. He leaped into the air, caught it mid-flight, and landed with an unnecessarily dramatic flourish.
After that, time began to move faster.
Christine talked with her whole body. She leaned in, her elbows braced on the table, her hands moving wildly as she described the delicate balance of hops and malt, her voice animated and alive.
Oakland listened, not necessarily to the brewing lesson, but to her.
She marveled at the way her eyes sparkled as she explained the science behind fermentation, as if she were sharing some closely guarded secret of the universe.
Then, Oakland’s eyes unconsciously moved to Christine’s lips.
Oakland didn’t intend to stare, but Christine had this thing, this habit of pressing her tongue to the inside of her cheek when she was thinking, of licking her lips slightly before she spoke, of biting the corner of her mouth when she got particularly focused.
It was maddening. Distracting. Like a gravitational pull that Oakland couldn’t fight.
She must have been too obvious because Christine caught her.
Her words trailed off mid-sentence, hands frozen in the air like she’d been interrupted, but Oakland hadn’t said a word. Christine’s gaze moved to Oakland’s lips, then back up to her eyes, something dangerous flickering there.
Oakland’s breath hitched. The already small space between them seemed to shrink, the air charged and humming with something inevitable.
And then, heat. A memory. Her own fingers, slick, Christine’s name barely stifled against her pillow.
Her stomach tightened.
No. Not now. Not here.