Page 55 of Best Kind of Trouble
So Liam. Short and to the point. Like it or you don’t. Spit it out or swallow, he wouldn’t care.
My mind abruptly goes to a very different place, and my cheeks burn as I lift the little glass for a sip. I feel Liam’s eyes burrowing into me. He’s waiting. But I don’t let myself think he cares about my opinion.
The flavor is mild at first, but the herb hits on the back end. It’s mellow but distinct.
“I love it,” I gush.
He nods once, still standing by the door, as if he’d like to be as close as possible to an exit at all times.
The beer seems to sour in my mouth at the thought of him ducking out and leaving.
“You haven’t tried it,” I point out.
His smile is faint. “I remember what it tastes like.”
“Sorry, man,” Otis says, hacking, and I tear my gaze away from Liam to look at him. “Nope. Can’t do it. It tastes like mygrandmother’s garden smells. This is an old-people beer.” He darts a regretful glance at Dottie. “Sorry, Dottie.”
“Why would you be sorry?” she asks, giving him her full attention.
I suspect she’s teasing him, but from the panic in his eyes, he has no idea. “Because you’re…I’m sorry, that’s all.”
“Well, I think it’sdelightful,” she says. “It tastes like?—”
“A garden,” Otis mutters.
“Exactly.”
Nora takes another sip of hers, then says, “It’s good. Not for January, though.”
“No,” Liam agrees.
“It’s a spring beer.”
He gives her a knowing smile, as if they’re sharing professional respect.
That must be why I feel my stomach tighten with something like jealousy.
“Let’s keep going,” I insist.
The next is an amber beer. Then a plum IPA, which Otis likes well enough to claim the bottle.
Then a fig spiced ale.
“This is it,” I say, seeking out Liam’s gaze again. “The next one we should make.”
“You haven’t tried them all,” he says, but he gives me a slow, lazy smile that says more than words could: this is the beer he hoped I’d choose. If Nora’s approval felt like a high five, his feels like a hug.
“When you know, you know.”
“It’ll take five weeks.”
“We should still do it,” I say with a nod, wishing it would take less time but knowing it’s worth it. “We can make a faster beer for our third choice.”
“Your wish is my command. You’re the boss.”
The tension between us feels like an unplucked guitar string, until Dottie cuts it, turning another bottle over in her hands and saying, “Oh goody. I was hoping you’d bring a lager. Can we try this one next?”
The moment has passed but not the feelings it stirred.
