Sweet Bitter Honey

by Liz Crowe

  “You’re late,” she said, snapping her laptop closed. “I’m leaving.”

  “Wait, I’m…sorry.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been partying or something given the state of his face, all night.

  Lynette sighed, tucked her computer into its case and stood. She would not be played, not even by the first guy in nearly a decade that made her wake up in a cold sweat, wondering why she had gone so long without even trying to get laid. She jumped when his hand landed on her shoulder and shrugged away from him on reflex. Her skin was crawling, her brain burning, and she had no reference for how much she wanted him to keep touching her.

  “Lynette, listen, I’m…”

  She turned, hearing something in his voice that made her hesitate before speaking.

  “Are you okay? I mean…your face.”

  He looked down then walked away from her. “Let’s get on with this.”

  She sighed. He’s gay, Lynette, get a fucking grip.

  “Sure, okay, so, what’s first?”

  The next two hours were a total blur. She heaved giant malt bags, tested water pH, calculated something called ‘plato’ and ‘original gravity’, stirred heavy malt beds, nearly singed her eyebrows off checking the temperature of the wort, measured and weighed hops and let herself get utterly immersed and enthralled by the process. Not the mention the man teaching it to her.

  At one point, she looked over at him. He was staring into the dark, one-hundred-twenty-degree sugar water swirling around in the huge vessel. His eyes were haunted and his hands shook as he dipped the long thermometer into the liquid. Something was seriously not right with him. She let him boss her around, watched while he ran the almost-beer through the heat exchanger, supercooling it to less than fifty degrees in a matter of minutes. He showed her how to add the yeast at the bottom of the vessel, frowning when she screwed up and the stuff spewed all over her shirt. “Sorry,” she muttered. He cursed and went into the cooler for more yeast in solution.

  “Here, damn it, move, let me do it.”

  She stood, wiping the sweat from her forehead, pissed but unwilling to let on how much. His shoulders flexed and she bit her lip, watching him hook everything up, shift hoses, clamps and other random shit she was only just understanding until the yeast was ‘pitched’.

  He adjusted the temperature gauges and propped both hands on the vessel. It took her a half a minute to figure out his shoulders were heaving. She put her palm on one, loving the play of musculature under his shirt. To her surprise, he turned to face her, agony etched in every line of his handsome face.

  He grabbed her, yanked her to him and buried his face in her neck. She patted his back, nervous and unsure, then took a chance and touched his hair. He felt so flawless in her arms it made her nearly choke.

  “Sorry,” he muttered but kept holding her close, too close, making her react in a scary, and super-inappropriate, way. She gasped when he tightened his grip, molding her into his tall, strong frame. Oh, yeah, this is totally bad. But she closed her eyes, threaded her fingers in his thick hair and let herself have the moment.

  He pulled away and stared into her eyes but kept his amazing arms around her. She felt herself sink into him, until his next words. “I think I’m in love,” he muttered. “And he, uh, well, he tried to kill himself last night so I’m kinda doubting my existence. And you…you’re here and I, I’m…shit. Sorry.”

  “Oh, well, um…” Lynette spluttered, unable to respond in any coherent way, so she opted for shutting her mouth, disentangling herself and allowing herself time to stare at his wide shoulders, strong arms, large hands at the moment resting on his hips. He was at least six foot three or maybe four, she’d guess, and didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on him anywhere.

  And. He. Is. Gay, Lynette, snap out of it. He just told you he was in love, for Christ’s sake.

  “So, now we clean,” he said, startling her out of the fantasy loop in her head—one starring this amazing man and herself. She shook her head and took the metal, shovel-looking thing he held out. “Let’s go. This is the really hard part.”

  Ryan dropped onto a ratty barstool and watched Lynette struggle with the trowel and wet, heavy spent mash they’d created when they drained the sugar water off the malt. He raised an eyebrow when she dumped an entire shovel full of the sticky stuff down her front, but stayed put, let her learn. That was the point of this—well, that and he had planned to seduce her. He groaned and put his head in his hands. When his phone buzzed on the worktable, he nearly fell off the chair.

  “Hey,” he said, dreading what Quinn was going to tell him.

  “Nice disappearing act. What the fuck was that about?”

  Ryan sighed.

  “What are you, a teenager? Seriously, man, why did you just walk out?”

  He could hear hospital noises, and the guilt nearly bowled him over. “Sorry. I, uh, well…”

  “You’re a lame fucker, is what you are.”

  “How is he?”

  “What do you care? Audrey was ready to come after you and beat you to death. And I wasn’t inclined to stop her.”

  “Quinn, listen…”

  “No, you listen. This guy is damaged. We all know it. And you seducing him then bolting when things get messy is—”

  “I didn’t do that, Quinn. Jesus. He…I…” He put his head down on the desk and let his brother berate him a few more minutes. “Can I see him?”

  Suddenly, he wanted that more than he wanted to get the hell away from the whole scene a few hours before. He was running on exactly zero sleep and his nose and jaw were killing him. His whole world was upside down. He wanted Cole, so badly, wanted to help, but something about that moment when Audrey had looked up at him, wild fury in her eyes while she’d knelt over Cole’s lifeless form had triggered the sort of flight response he’d not experienced in years. He was not that guy anymore. He couldn’t be. He was a father, a responsible adult.

  “Ow! Um…help?” He looked up to find Lynette hanging on to the opening at the back of the mash vessel, nearly doing the splits. She had one leg on the pallet holding the garbage bins and it must have slid in all the mess she’d made trying to empty the thing.

  “I’ll be by later if you think it’s okay. He’s okay, right?” He kept talking while he walked over to the woman now completely covered in spent malt and grabbed her around the waist with one arm and set her on the concrete. She glared at him and tried to brush some of the grains off her. But he knew from direct experience that was a lost cause.

  “Yeah, he’s gonna be fine. But I can’t promise you that Audrey will let you anywhere near him.”

  “Fine. I’ll be there, I’ll deal with her myself.” He tucked the phone in his jeans pocket and stared at Lynette. Reaching out, he brushed the trickle of grains off a strand of her deep red hair that had escaped from the hat now sitting cock-eyed on her head. She smacked his hand away and turned around to finish.

  He spent a half second admiring her jeans-clad ass, recalling his original goal for today. His body tingled, but his brain was on serious shutdown when the phone buzzed again. He looked at the screen and groaned. Jamie had stayed over with Quinn’s nanny and his cousins. And the call was coming from Quinn’s house phone.

  Quinn’s sons were slowly getting detoxed from their spoiled ways now that their father had them more often. Since their mother was gallivanting around with her NFL-trainer boyfriend, never home for more than a few days at a time, Quinn was pushing for full custody. Audrey had eased into her future role as stepmother nicely and, after some initial drama, the boys had settled into their new reality.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s up, sport?”

  “Daddy.” The little boy’s voice was quivery. “Where are you?”

  He glanced at the phone screen and saw it was nearly eleven. Jamie was a stickler for timing and when any plan went awry, he lost it. “Put Tracey on the phone, please.”

  “No!” He heard running footsteps.

  “James
Shannon, put Tracey on the phone right now!”

  “Here! Want pancakes!” The boy’s voice faded.

  “Hi, Mr. Shannon.” Tracey’s voice was chipper. “Sorry about that. He grabbed and dialed before I knew what he was doing.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m late.”

  “Yeah, well, I would be okay with it, but the other boys need me to take them to soccer since your brother is…”

  “I know.” He ran a hand through his hair, noted how fucking messy everything still was in his brewery and tried not to sigh too loudly. He looked up and saw Lynette staring at him then turned away, face flushed with anxiety. He needed to see Cole. He had to pick up his son, and his brewery was a pigsty.

  He hung up and calmed his breathing, trying to compile a mental plan of action. He jumped again when she put a hand on his arm. “Hey, can I help?”

  “No.” He grabbed the hose and started spraying everything down. “Just move out of the way.”

  “Well, you don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

  He stopped in his tracks. “You’re right. I’m sorry. And I’m also sorry for dragging you out this morning, being late, losing my cool, all of it.”

  “It’s okay.” She rolled the last of the full bins of malt out the back door to be picked up by a local farmer who used it for his cattle.

  “And for the record…” He kept talking, blaming exhaustion for the extreme truths he was about to spill. “I had plans to brew with you but wanted more. I wanted to seduce you, if you must know. You’re hot. I was lonely. I had ulterior motives and I’m sorry for that, too.” He switched off the water and ignored her gaping stare. “So, now you know.”

  “Uh, okay.” She took her hat off and he had to force his eyes away from the tumble of hair that flowed down her back. Her shirt was wet, too, which didn’t help. “I thought you were…um…that I wasn’t your type.”

  “I’m bi. And now I have to go pick up my son. Can you just…” He waved around, feeling helpless and stupid, not even positive he’d just spilled so much of his own truths to this woman.

  “Tell you what.” She crossed her arms. “I am a certified caregiver, I mean, I worked at day cares all through college. I was an ace babysitter. And it sounds like you need to go visit…um…”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, contemplating it. “Jamie is a handful. He’s a couple of handfuls with some left over, if you must know. I’m not sure that would be fair to you.”

  “Someday, I’ll tell you about the summer I spent with twin three-year-old boys whose favorite thing to do was to smear their shit on the kitchen floor, just so I could clean it up.”

  The laugh felt good and suddenly the air was clear between them. He put a hand on her arm, felt her flinch then relax. “Okay, you win. I’ll pay you the going rate. But I’m not really sure how long I’ll be.” He texted her Quinn’s address and his. “Thanks, Lynette. That’s really great, especially considering, ah, what I told you and all.”

  She leaned back on the worktable and the look in her eyes made him shiver. “No worries. For all you know, I had the same plans for you.” She winked and, before he could blink, had whipped off her damp shirt. The black sports bra highlighted the creaminess of her skin.

  Ryan gulped and looked away. “Uh, yeah, so that’s cheating.” He tried to paste a neutral look on his face.

  She grabbed a spare brewery shirt from the swag closet and tugged it over her lush, too-tempting torso. Ryan shook his head. Cole, remember? The guy you fucked last night? Lying in a hospital bed right now? The memory of the other man’s flesh under his hands, and utter agony on his face later, made Ryan’s eyes burn. He needed to get a grip. “Thanks, Lynette.”

  “No problem, Ryan,” she tossed over her shoulder. And something about the way she said his name made him want her all over again.

  Jesus H. Christ. Shannon, you are a mess. Or perhaps merely a sex-crazed idiot.

  He hosed down the rest of the brewhouse and grabbed his keys. He had to see Cole. Get some things straight with Cole’s sister. Then he needed to sleep for two days. The fact that he was turning his only son over to a woman who for the last two months meant nothing more to him than a potential sexual conquest didn’t give him much pause. Something about her oozed confidence and he needed backup. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a terrible mistake for everyone concerned.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lynette followed her smart phone’s GPS and found Quinn’s house in the middle of a neighborhood of gargantuan brick homes. She whistled to herself when she pulled into the semicircular front drive of the biggest one on the street, glanced at the number to confirm it and got out. She tucked her sunglasses on her head, brushed off her sticky jeans and walked up to the huge oak front door. After ringing the doorbell a couple of times, she crouched down to peer in a sidelight, bracing herself for a bratty, miniature Ryan.

  A huge pair of watery green eyes met her stare. The little boy had his nose pressed to the glass and his face was fixed in an unhappy frown. She put her finger against her side of the glass. He shrieked and jumped back, giggling. Lynette saw a pair of identical dark-haired twin boys who looked an awful lot like the man who’d hired her appear behind the still laughing kid. They grabbed him and yanked him away from the door, yelling what sounded like ‘stranger danger’ and ’Tracey!’

  She stood up when the door opened. “Oh, hi, you must be Lynette,” the girl said, smiling. The little boys peered out from behind Tracey’s legs but the mini-Ryan marched around the trio and tapped her leg.

  “Yes, I am,” she said to the nanny. She knelt down. “And you must be…SpongeBob.”

  “No, silly. I’m Jamie.”

  “Huh, well, I’m supposed to be picking up some kid named Bob so I think I’m at the wrong house.”

  The boys laughed. Jamie cocked his head and looked so much like his father at that second Lynette blinked. He reached out and touched her hair. “What color is this?”

  “Burnt amber. I’ll show you, once I find this Bob kid.” She stood up and pretended to look around.

  By the time she had Jamie home, eating fruit she found by rooting around in Ryan’s kitchen, she had him convinced they could color his hair like hers with a crayon. He munched on carefully cut-up grapes and apples and kept pulling strands of her hair out from under her hat, rubbing them between his fingers in awe, babbling a mile a minute.

  While he ran into the family room, she checked out the pictures taped to the refrigerator’s grubby stainless surface. Running a finger across the ones that featured Ryan, noting how good the man looked in pretty much every single one of them, she smiled when she felt a hand on her leg.

  “So, are you ready to read now? Or do we need to use the burnt amber on your hair?” She picked the boy up and tossed him over her shoulder. He seemed small for a five-year-old, but that just made him easy to carry around. He giggled his way down the hall, pointing to his bedroom—a breathtaking mess of army men, matchbox cars, plastic dinosaurs, clothes and books. “Wow. Too bad we don’t have magic wands to clean this place up.”

  She tossed him on his unmade bed and tickled him a minute before standing and succumbing to her inner neat freak. “Okay, let’s play a game. I’m going to race you to see which one of us can pick up the most toys…ready…set…go!”

  The kid was full of energy, and the room was tidy in no time. He talked nonstop, and once she’d helped him spread up his Lego-land sheets, he fell over on the floor. She sat, anticipating a tantrum, but he just looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes and fell sound asleep. She gave him a few minutes then tucked him under a blanket on the bed and left the room.

  She sent a quick text to Ryan, letting him know Jamie was settled. Even while convincing herself that it was a really bad idea the entire time she was doing it, she eased into the dark room across the hall from Jamie’s. She tiptoed around the unmade bed, touched the soft sheets, noted that the father was as bad a slob as the son and ran her hand over the smooth, black surface of the dresser
.

  An amalgam of junk littered the top—dollar bills, coins, various receipts, Chapstick, an expensive-looking watch, a couple of dirty T-shirts and books about brewing. She smiled at a picture tucked into the mirror. Two small boys stood with their arms around each other’s shoulders, one dark, one light—Ryan and Quinn Shannon at age ten or eleven. Born eighteen months apart, classic Irish twins. She grabbed it and held it close to her eyes. Then when her phone buzzed with a text, she jumped and put the photo back, then exited the forbidden room, berating herself the whole time.

  “Hey,” she answered, hoping Ryan didn’t know she’d been snooping and realizing how stupid that was. She dropped into a dining room chair. “All is well.”

  “Okay. Cool. Thanks, a lot.” He was quiet. Lynette could hear people and random hospital noises in the background.

  “Is everything okay…you know…with…?” She trailed off, unsure what to say. This day had taken such a bizarre turn. His words about seducing her still rolled around in her brain.

  “His name is Cole and he is resting now. Stomach pumped, the usual shit, I guess, I mean when you try to OD on Vicodin and bourbon.”

  “Wow.” She let the unasked question hover, suddenly so nervous she had to get up and pace. Ryan’s presence permeated his house. She could smell him, sense him in every corner. She opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the brick patio.

  “Yeah, it sucks. Sorry you got dragged into this mess today. Seriously. Not my intention.”

  “Huh, well, maybe better considering your actual intention for today if that was indeed the truth.”

  He chuckled, making her shiver. “Touché, Red.”

  She sighed, pacing around his back yard. “Well, take your time. I’m good. Jamie’s fine. But I may impose some cleanliness on this nasty pit you call a house. And don’t call me Red.”