Page 41 of Best Kind of Trouble
She looks up at me, hugging her arms across her chest as an icy wind whips her hair. “No scaring off customers. That’s going onourrecipe for success, Liam.”
For a second I’mfloored.
Ourrecipe.
Ten percent.
I smile at her. “I hope you don’t intend to uphold the family tradition of engraving your recipes in wood, Princess.”
“It’ll be written on a piece of paper.” She edges the slightest bit closer. “So it can be updated and changed. I think we should start our recipe today. Actually…I envision it as more of a list.” She gives me a sidelong look, a gush of icy wind rustling her hair. “Don’t puke in front of your employeesis going to be number one, just so you know.”
“Surely that belongs farther down.”
I want to tuck her hair behind her ear, but my hands can’t go anywhere near her. If I let them, they’ll end up liking the feel of her. Yearning for it.
“Oh, no, it’s definitely number one,” she argues. “You’re the one who told me I should learn from my mistakes.”
I grin. “Do we both get to make additions to this list?”
“Yes,” she says. “But you can only write in pencil. That’s an important rule.”
“Will I get a company-issued pencil?”
“That can be arranged,” she says with a small smile.
“And where will we keep our master list?”
“I thought we could tuck it behind that photo of my father that he propped up behind the register.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to take that down?” I ask, amused by her dry humor.
“No. We’re giving him a front-row seat so he can watch us turn this place around.”
“Well, all right,” I say, extending my hand to her for a shake. Her fingers are icy as they grip mine, and for a second I’m nothing but pissed at myself for not realizing she was getting cold again. Then she gives my hand a firm shake, and a smile spreads across myface.
Here it is again—proof that this woman is tougher than she knows. Tougher than she has any right to be.
“It’s going to be a pleasure doing business with you, boss,” I say.
And the way she smiles at me, her whole face getting in on the action, makes me wonder if I’m launching straight into my next big mistake.
The New Year’sbeer is fermenting.
Briar helped from start to finish, even though she probably wanted to go home and sleep it off. Sophie and the kid left after an hour or so. Dottie headed out, too, only to return with a couple of other old ladies—one a Black woman with oversized rainbow glasses, and the other a pale as milk white lady with a wonky orange and red handmade scarf. Rainbow Glasses is Ann, and the lady with the ugly scarf is Constance. The three of them took out a big bundle of sage that looked like a joint and lit it, waving it around the whole brewery as it belched out scented smoke in eye-watering bursts that at least smelled better than the rotten fish.
They chanted under their breath too.
It was a bunch of hocus-pocus bullshit, if you ask me, but they all seemed very pleased with themselves, and when they finished, Dottie pronounced the energy in the place “clean.”
I was informed that all three of them would be working in the front of house until Briar hires permanent staff, which isn’t a half-bad idea. Those little old ladies sure love to talk, and they’ll keep guests here long enough to have several rounds of Bubba’s mediocre beer.
When Briar and I finally finish cleaning up, we order pizza to celebrate.
Dinner is surprisingly enjoyable, probably because I don’t have to say more than a few syllables in response to the steady flow of conversation. My attention keeps bobbing in and out, my thoughts wandering to which beers I’m going to have Briar taste. I like imagining how she’ll react to each of them.
While we’re cleaning up after dinner, Dottie wraps Briar into a hug and whispers something to her. Seconds later, Dottie’s pulling me into a damn hug too. “We’ll leave you to lock up, my dears. I’m so honored to be part of your journey.”
Briar and I watch them shuffle out of the door, and I can’t help but laugh.
