Page 39 of Grumpy Ex-Military Brewmaster’s Secret

"You absolutely do," Eli confirms, unhelpfully. "Dad used to say you get it when you're doing math in your head."

The mention doesn't sting the way it used to, an old name carrying less weight now than it once did, and I let it pass without flinching, because some fights really can wait for another day. "Maybe I am doing math."

"Is it hard math?"

"The hardest kind." I check the mirror once more, both of them singing again by the next line, already moved on, and something in my chest twists, happy and nervous all at once, the strange, new feeling of carrying a secret that's good instead of bad. "Buckle up. We're almost home."

They sing the rest of the way, off-key and entirely unbothered by it, and I drive with both hands steady on the wheel and my heart caught somewhere I don't have a word for yet, dangerously close to hope.

18

RAFE

Low key was the plan. Jenna and I agreed on it in the loft the morning after, both of us practical about it in a way that felt like good sense at the time. No announcements, no hand holding in front of the twins until we're sure, nothing for this town to grab onto and run with before we've even figured out what we're running toward ourselves.

The plan survives exactly one day.

"You're different," Gunny says, setting a crate of empty growlers down on the bar with more attention than the task requires, studying me the way he studies a fermentation tank that's running a little warm.

"Different how?"

"Lighter. You hummed something at the kegs this morning. I've worked here six years and never once heard you hum." He crosses his arms, settling in like a man who's got all day and intends to use it. "Something happen?"

"Nothing happened."

"Sure." He says it the way he always says it, easy and completely unconvinced, and goes back to the growlers with the specific satisfaction of a man who already knows the answer and is only asking to watch me squirm.

"For the record," he adds, halfway to the door, "I'm not upset about it. Took you long enough."

"Took me long enough for what?"

"To let something good happen to you without finding a way to sabotage it first." He says it lightly, but there's nothing light underneath it, and he's gone before I can figure out how to respond to that, boots echoing down toward the taproom like he didn't just land something that's going to sit with me for the rest of the day.

I don't hum again for the rest of the morning, which does nothing to fix the actual problem, because apparently the damage announced itself the second I walked in. I check the brew schedule twice, more out of habit than necessity, and catch myself smiling at nothing in particular somewhere around the second read-through. Gunny doesn't say another word about it. He doesn't have to. His whole face is doing the talking for him every time I glance up and find him watching me with the barely restrained satisfaction of a man who called this months ago and is finally getting to collect.

By midmorning I need to run into town for a part the compressor guy special ordered, and Jenna offers to walk over with me on her break, which is exactly the kind of small, ordinary thing two people who are trying to be careful shouldn't do in a town this size. I know it. I do it anyway.

The Busy Bean's got its usual midweek crowd when we walk in, half the counter stools full, steam fogging the front windows the way it always does this time of year. Maggie's behind the register, and she gives me a look over Jenna's shoulder that says she's already filed this moment away for later commentary. I order two coffees, black for me, cream and no sugar for Jenna, and I don't think anything of it until I turn around and find Dot Higgins three feet away, blow dryer still faintly audible from wherever she left the salon unattended, staring at the two cups in my hands like they're physical evidence in a case she's been building for weeks.

"Two coffees," Dot says, in the tone of a woman delivering a verdict.

"It's cold out."

"Two coffees, ordered together, by two people who walked in together." She's already got her phone half out of her purse, thumb hovering with the readiness of someone who's done this before. "I'm just saying, the corner booth at the diner seats forty for a reception, and Pastor Dan's calendar opens up fast if you ask nice."

"Nobody's getting married, Dot."

"Nobody's saying they are." She tucks the phone away, entirely unconvinced, already composing something behind her eyes that I can practically see forming. "I give it until spring. I'm very rarely wrong about these things."

"You were wrong about the Petersons."

"The Petersons don't count. That was a special circumstance." She sniffs, unbothered by the correction, the confidence of a woman who trusts her overall track record more than any one miss. She waves a hand like the exception disproves nothing, takes her own coffee from Maggie with a satisfied nod, and heads for the door still glancing back at us twice before it swings shut behind her.

Jenna's laughing before Dot's even off the sidewalk, the kind of unguarded laugh that catches in her whole body. "We are so bad at this."

"We really are."

"How does she work that fast? We've been dating for a month."