Page 30 of Best Kind of Trouble
“I do,” I agree. “And the first step is making sure we have the equipment and supplies I need. Your organic-only rule is going to make that harder.”
She idly taps her lips with her fingers but then sits up straighter, not even wobbling much anymore. “It’s staying organic.”
“Whatever the boss wants, the boss gets,” I say. If my gaze follows her fingers as they tap her lips again, at least she’s too tipsy to notice. “But we’ll need to work quickly. If everything’s in order, I’d like to get that beer fermenting today.”
“Today?”
“Today. Yesterday would have been preferable. Last week would have been even better.”
“I have plenty of barley and hops, but I don’t have a time machine.”
I grin at her. “More’s the pity. As for the other brews…we can do a taste test of some of my small batches. Maybe tomorrow afternoon.” Then I remember the whole Cormac-slash-Mick audition and swear under my breath. It’s further proof I’ve got no business trying to be in a real band. “Make that Wednesday. We’ll see what else we can get started.”
“Oh no, Liam,” she gasps, her eyes going wide. “I forgot about your job. You need to quit. Do you think they’ll make you put in a two-week notice?”
She starts pulling on the straw-wrapper creation, which resembles a Chinese finger trap.
“It’s your lucky day,” I say. “I’ve already got that taken care of. I got fired this morning.”
She gapes at me, then glances around, making her recon attempt so obvious she would have gotten us iced if we were spies.
“What did you do?” she whispers.
“I hit on my boss.”
She leans forward a little. “Youdid?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He told me we could only be together if I wasn’t working for him anymore, so I said to hell with it. Fire me so we can be together.”
“Really?”
“No,” I say with a snort. “If I were gay, he’s the last man I’d go for. I walked out on him in the middle of a meeting so I could come here.”
She surprises me by reaching for my hand again, squeezing it, her eyes on mine. “You’re like Hannah. You use humor as a coping mechanism.”
“Did you learn that term in therapy?” I don’t move my hand, because I honestly don’t feel like it.
“Yes, but I didn’t like my therapist, and I don’t think she liked me either. Have you ever thought about that? How therapists must only pretend to like some of their patients?”
“Can’t say I’ve given it any thought, no.”
“I guess you wouldn’t care if your therapist didn’t like you,” she says dreamily, her fingers moving softly over mine as if I’m an animal she’s petting. “Because you don’t care what anyone thinks.”
“Wouldn’t go to a therapist,” I say. “Why talk when you can punch something instead?”
She gives me a slow smile that grows to encompass her whole face. “You think you’re such a tough guy,tough guy.”
“You still sound drunk, you know.”
“I know,” she agrees, her hand not budging from mine. “I want to go to that gym again. I really liked it when you helped me punch that bag.”
I should tell her no.
I should tell her it’s a bad idea for us to spend any time together outside of professional situations, but I saw what punching that bag did for her. Even though she’s drunk, it’s still doing something for her now. She worked up the confidence to fill that book with notes. That’s something. It’s more than what she had last night.
I’ll figure out another way to keep my distance.
“All right. We’ll go again sometime,” I say noncommittally, finally pulling my hand away.
