Chapter 9
NINE
MEREDITH
The taproom is full, and the night is bustling. I was about to leave for the day and enjoy a night off, when a party of ten arrived for an after-work gathering. My stomach reminds me I skipped dinner as I prepare a sampler flight with an IPA, a sour, an ale, and a stout.
Heat prickles along my back. Calder spent much of the afternoon in the office.
I didn’t venture up there, but Molly said he entered with a laptop bag.
Was he upgrading everything? Moving our software to his computer and hauling it out of the office after uploading it to his password protected cloud? I wouldn’t put it past him.
His little tantrum at the funeral home should be unforgivable, but I glimpsed that hurt young man who argued with his dad before being told he wasn’t as important as the new wife and her sister.
His expression has haunted me all day, and I hate to admit he had a point.
Had Ransom betrayed Holly and then paraded some woman all over, setting up his eternal rest right next to her, I’d be in a corner rocking and sobbing.
James was right. Ransom and Holly left us a mess and a fair amount of pain.
I dreamed of the love they shared, but if I listen to all the small-town gossip from when I was younger, their relationship was nothing compared to Ransom and Julia.
A cowboy fairy tale that eventually led to a scandal. Perfect, considering the setting.
My curiosity takes over, with Calder at the center.
What did he find in the books? Ransom brushed off my queries.
Repeatedly. Bea once confided in me that the company supplying our malt warned us if there was one more late payment, they wouldn’t renew the contract with us.
But when I asked Ransom, he muttered something about bank issues, and now we get malt from a place four hours away instead of forty minutes.
I bring the flight to the couple in the corner. “Here ya go, Ben. Hoppy Creek, Razzy Creek, Honey Creek, and Angus Creek.”
Declan snatches the stout, frowns at it, and takes a delicate sip. “Ugh. I can almost chew it.”
I grin. He samples our stout option every time they visit and laments that we don’t have a wine bar. “One day, Dec, you’ll realize you love it,” I tease. I know my stouts and their flavor profiles, but I would never choose to drink one.
He shudders as he watches Ben polish off the last few ounces. “Your threats are unconscionable.”
“I was like that with IPAs,” I assure him. “Just wait.”
“He will wait,” Ben says, smacking his lips. “Waitin’ for you to plant those vines.”
“Ha! I lost the grape battle to the birds.”
Ben leans over the table, so close I can smell his crisp cologne. “Is that really Calder Cross sitting with Miss Bea?”
I’ve been aware of that damn man since he and Bea took a seat. “The one and only.”
Declan’s brows lift. “Not a fan?”
I smile tightly. “It’s mutual.”
My dreams, however, are very much a part of the Calder Cross fan club. I woke up this morning twisting in my sheets at the thought of muscled forearms with thick veins and long, talented fingers.
God, I need to get laid.
“He’s… intense,” Ben says. “But then he always was.”
Ben is a few years older than Calder and had moved away by the time I arrived in town.
Declan is my age, but he’s not from Scandal.
They both live in Williston now, and while I no longer do after the breakup, it’s only twenty minutes away.
Their date nights are often held at the brewery.
I met them through my ex, and I’m grateful I kept them when we split.
“‘Intense’ is a polite way of describing it.”
The door swings open and fading light pierces several feet into the taproom.
A group of five burly men in worn work jeans and dirty shirts swagger in.
Two of them are still wearing orange road vests.
Williston may be a major hub of the oil boom, but related industries are planted all over the northwest part of the state, and they require infrastructure.
Many of the workers keep businesses like ours alive.
“Oh!” Ben waves his hand. “Calvin’s here with the crew.”
The one who must be Calvin spots Ben and lifts his chin. He nudges the guy next to him, and the entire group weaves through the tables toward us.
I help them gather more chairs and facilitate a round of introductions. They’re all part of a road crew for the county DOT office where Ben works. Once they’re settled, I take their orders.
“Sorry about your pop,” Calvin says. “He was good guy.”
“Thank you.” My heart twists. “But Ransom was my brother-in-law.”
“That’s right. Dang, I’m sorry about your sister too.” His smile is sympathetic. “They ever figure out what happened?”
I shake my head, grateful someone else opened that door an inch. “No. It’s weird, though, isn’t it? How it happened.”
“It’s a damn shame.”
I only nod. No one else is as bothered as me, but then I lost two people I’m close to. Maybe I’m looking for explanations where there are none.
The bar is filled with people, and Molly is spinning in different directions, filling mugs and clearing away empties.
As I walk by the large group of ten, I get flagged down.
More orders. I need to write them down, or I’ll forget my list. Another couple enters.
The man is an old ranching buddy of Ransom’s, and he steps over to pull me into a big hug.
“A damn shame, Meredith,” he says.
“Thanks,” I manage with my mouth smashed against his shoulder, but he smells like sunshine and fresh-cut grass. Just like Ransom. “Getting the same thing tonight?” I ask before I dissolve into a public bout of tears.
He releases me, and I stumble back. “Absolutely. Drinking one down for Ram.”
Just for Ram? Nobody ever seems to remember Holly…
I force a smile and rush to the bar. As I’m filling one of the road crew’s mugs, a wave of citrus-and-cedar heat washes over me. Warmth winds its way down my body, nestling between my thighs as my nipples wake up. Crap. I should’ve worn my padded bra today.
“What else?”
That deep rumble of his glides over my skin, and my brain quits working. My body very much reacts, and against all my good judgment, my underwear grows damp.
“What?” I ask in a mix of breathlessness and crankiness. He should’ve stayed at the table with Bea.
“What other orders are there?”
I release the tap. He’s propped one hand on the counter and is resting the other on his waist. His five-o’clock shadow is at ten o’clock, and my fingers twitch to trail over his chin. How rough is his stubble, and would it mark the most sensitive of skin?
Someday, I’ll learn to draw a line between appreciating good looks and not craving the poison that accompanies them. Tonight is not that night.
“A lot. Why?”
“I can fill some.”
He wants to work? Did I step into another dimension between Ben’s table and the bar?
“You don’t know anything about working here. Not the prices, or where everything’s at, or… or…” There has to be another reason he can’t help. I don’t have time to train someone who isn’t willing to listen to me.
“I was buried in data for hours today.” He points to each beer on tap and rattles off the prices, quotes the flight cost, and lists the various options. Looking smug, his mouth curls into a half-smile. “The rest hasn’t changed much.”
It’s changed a lot. It’s unrecognizable. It must be, because if Calder Cross can just jump in after twenty years, then what the hell am I doing with my life?
“We have credit card machines and iPads.”
“It’ll take me two minutes to figure those out. How about I get Hank and Stella’s order?”
Ram’s friends. “They want to drink to your dad.”
“Okay.”
“Not my sister.” I chew the inside of my cheek and turn away.
“What’s their order?” he asks more gently than I could’ve imagined possible for him.
“A short Razzy and a tall Angus.”
With a curt nod, he digs a cold mug out of the cooler and gets to work.
Molly spins around, casting a wide-eyed, questioning look in my direction. I can only shrug and finish the road crew’s order.
The night flies by in a flash. I keep an eye on Calder—purely for professional reasons.
I can’t have him scaring off customers just because he might be the new owner of the place.
When he delivers Hank and Stella’s drinks, he receives a hearty handshake, chats for several minutes, and then dives back into filling orders.
The guy doesn’t crack a smile, but he has patrons hanging on his every word. If he earns more than me in tips tonight, I’m going to fire myself.
When there’s a lull, I take a breather in the corner of the bar, near the sink and the mini cooler. Calder continues talking with a table seating my old algebra teacher and her two grown kids.
Molly wipes the counter, making her way toward me. She turns her back to the crowd. “Think there’s anything he sucks at?”
No. I really don’t. The unwanted arousal his presence stirred earlier is long gone.
I have sweat beading on my lower back, and my feet hurt.
Meanwhile, he’s in shoes that scream “call me Daddy,” and not one hair is out of place.
I’m tempted to sneak into the main bathroom to see if he uses product, or if he rises from slumber looking photoshoot-ready.
“People skills,” I say. “He lacks those.”
She snorts. “He has everyone wrapped around his finger, but I have to admit, he makes a girl wonder what exactly he can do with that finger.”
“Molly!” My dreams have ideas about how talented he is.
“Not me.” She snickers, rewets her dishrag, and wrings it out. “He’s not much younger than my dad. But you’re lying if you claim the thought didn’t cross your mind,” she sings as she rushes off to wipe the tables.
I’ll keep lying about it too.