Page 50 of Best Kind of Trouble
I tuck my phone back into my pocket after sending that last text, feeling like a bit of an ass. Because I’m not sure I meant what I said.
I like Cormac. He’s good people—interesting, which most folks aren’t—but I don’t want to encourage him to think of me as a friend. I’ve got too much going on, and I’m no good at connecting with people.
I sigh as I move another bag of grain in the storeroom, verifying that this label bears bad news too, which is when someone starts knocking on the front door of the brewery loud enough to wake the dead. I ignore it at first, figuring it’s someone else who can only selectively read and has chosen to ignore the CLOSED sign.
I’m dealing with a serious situation.
I know Bubba, the former brewer at Silver Star, from a few homebrewer competitions around town. Guy’s an idiot who doesn’t know how to run a tap room, let alone a brewery, so it came as no surprise that the supply room was disorganized. After digging in deeper today, I have confirmation of a suspicion I formed that first day, when I noticed the labeling on the supplies we used for the pale ale. There’s something else in this brewery Bubba screwed up good.
Briar isn’t going to like it, but it’s my job to pass on the bad news, like a doctor telling a patient the lump they’ve been worrying about really is cancer.
Shit, she’s going to give me that same unimpressed look she gave me this morning after accusing me of having a sense of humor.
Hell of a thing. Women have always liked when I make them laugh, until they don’t. Of course, I know what the real issue is. I said something shitty to Briar the other night, and she’s still pissed about it.
Maybe she doesn’t understand why I felt theneed to define the line between us. Just because I feel a tug toward her doesn’t mean it goes both ways. That asshole Jonah is a pretty boy who wears fancy suits and probably gets weekly manicures. He practically pissed himself when I told him I’d kill him if he got within five feet of my sister again. I enjoyed it then, and I enjoy the memory even more now. But ifthatis what Briar likes in a man, there’s no way she’d ever be interested in me.
Sure, there was a definite moment between us the first night, but she was probably still tipsy. High on her plans for this place and on what is basically high-stakes gambling. Win big or lose it all.
The knock lands again, and I wipe my hands on my jeans and make my way to the tasting room, grumbling about whoever’s dumb enough to interrupt me at a moment like this.
When I reach the front door, the kid from the other day—Sophie’s cousin—waves at me through the glass with a goofy grin on his face and a couple of bulging boxes in his arms. He’s wearing a red knit hat.
Will he keep grinning like that if I leave him out in the cold?
I point to my makeshift CLOSED sign, and he laughs as if he thinks I’m joking. I’m not. However, Briar is already pissed at me, and I know this kid is supposed to work in the tasting room. I have no real reason to keep him out.
Sighing, I unlock the door, and the kid trips on his way in, dropping the top box. It explodes open, silk flower garlands spilling out like it’s a magician’s snake trick.
“What’s that?” I ask darkly.
The tasting room is already decked out with holiday garlands, twinkle lights, and that tinsel tree in the corner. We don’t need it to look like a preteen girl’s bedroom.
“It’s a surprise for Briar,” he says as he tries to stuff the garlands back into the exploded box.
“Looks like an underwhelming surprise.”
He gets to his feet, leaving the destroyed box behind. “She picked out all this stuff with Sophie. They both have great taste.”
I grunt.
“Briar asked Sophie to help her decorate the barrel room. She has this idea to host pop-up dinner experiences in there. Didn’t she mention any?—”
“No,” I grumble, annoyed with myself more than Briar. I’ve effectively shut down our channels of communication, so no wonder she didn’t tell me she was moving on her idea.
“Well, she picked out this stuff, and since she’s so busy, Sophie and I figured it would be nice if I could get everything set up while they’re out to lunch.”
“What about furniture?” I ask. “She get a table and chairs for this dinner experience, or are the rich people going to spend hundreds of dollars to eat on barrels?”
Right now, the barrel room has nothing inside but barrels of aging beer, both on racks and on the ground. No windows. Sounds like a miserable place to have dinner, but I’m curious to see where Briar is going with this. Balls to the wall, again. She’s good at that.
The past couple of days, I’ve watched her go about her business, making phone calls, taking meetings. Muttering to herself and playing with that long, silky golden hair.
I’ve been snapping that hair band on my wrist plenty. Taking in its smell of flowers until it stopped smelling like anything but me. I tried not to be disappointed about that.
“The furniture’s out in the car,” Otis says, practically chewing on his cheek. “I was wondering if you would maybe…”
“Lead the way, Oats.”
