Page 70 of Best Kind of Trouble
She’s got other ideas too, so many ideas my head is swimming with them. I see her enthusiasm infecting everyone else on staff too. Even the old-timers seem reluctant to accept that their employment is only temporary. I’ve caught Ann talking about what we should do for Valentine’s Day—as if anyone with sense wants to do anything on Valentine’s Day other than wait for it to be over. But the atmosphere all of Briar’s big ideas has created is intoxicating.
I want to do my part. I want my beer to be ready to serve at midnight on New Year’s Eve, just like she envisioned in thatshitty diner. Unfortunately, its levels still aren’t where they need to be.
I told my father as much on FaceTime last night, and he said, “Remember when we sang to that lager when you were a boy? Sing to it. The yeast is alive. You need its goodwill if you’re going to make a beer worth drinking.”
That got a smile out of me.
My old man taught me to brew when I was a kid. After our mother left, my grandmother encouraged him to share what he loved with us, and he took it literally.
I was too young to drink the beer, or so he said, but he was all too happy to take care of our “stock.” He used to get trashed in the basement on weekends, watching old episodes ofM*A*S*H. Sometimes that meant Hannah and I had to make mac and cheese for our brother Connor, or help him with his homework.
Still, we all love our dad. He’s the kind of person you can’t help but love—if you’re not my mother, obviously. But she was cold and hard to love. Kind of like me.
Which is why I need to stop gravitating toward Briar like one of those dumbass moths who keeps swooping in for another go at a lightbulb, thinking this time might be different.
I frown as I press my palm against the vat and then sing the next verse of?—
“Are you singing ‘Champagne Supernova’ to our beer?” Briar asks, walking into view with twinkling eyes.
“You told me what Dottie said about it being the champagne of beers, and I’m a desperate man.”
I soak in the sight of her standing in front of me, so touchable, and become achingly aware of the fact that we are, however briefly, alone together.
We’ve avoided that this past week. It hasn’t been hard, because the brewery’s been busy.
Hannah and Sophie have been posting flyers about the New Year’s party all around town, plus Travis and the guys have been doing publicity for the event. As a result, we’ve had curious people peeking in through the glass windows ever since we took down the cardboard CLOSED sign and flipped the official sign around to OPEN this past Monday. It didn’t take long for the customers to start flowing in.
Doesn’t hurt that it’s gotten around that the new owner is the most beautiful woman alive and that we have a bunch of twenty-something women serving our beer. Someone caught wind that Otis met them all on an online dating site, and a local blog posted about it. The words “scrappy” and “innovative” were used, and it puffed Otis up something good. No doubt it’s also boosted his confidence that a couple of the bartenders seem interested in him.
A few of them have approached me, too, but I made it clear I wasn’t interested. They’re too young, for one thing. For another…
I glance at Briar.
“The beer’s not going to be ready?” she asks, her voice resigned.
“I’m singing to it,” I say, my palm still pressed to the vat. “Women can’t resist a good serenading. I bet it’ll be popping off by morning.”
She gives me a tired,shut up, Liamlook, and I add, “My dad used to do it. He’s the one who taught me how to brew.”
“When you were a kid, right? Hannah told me.”
“Sure. Kept me out of trouble until it got me into trouble.”
She smiles. “I’ll bet you were a hellion.”
“Nah. I was a real stickler for the rules. I just didn’t have any. My father believed in letting us learn from our mistakes.”
“You have plenty of rules now,” she points out, reminding me of that list we’ve been updating daily. It feels likeflirting, writing back-and-forth messages to each other using the same pencil, its lead worn down.
“I suppose I do.”
Brief silence descends between us, seeming to vibrate with unspoken words, before she says, “I need to know if it’s going to be ready, Liam.”
“I’m worried,” I admit. “But I haven’t given up. I’m not going to give up.”
Her smile fills her whole face as she presses her hand to the side of the vat, next to mine, and starts singing the next verse of the song. Her voice washes over me. Soft and sweet but strong, like Briar herself.
“Well, damn, if it doesn’t shape up now, it’s a lost cause,” I say, making her smile broaden as she continues to sing.
