“Don’t you know the rules, Reid? No interrogating new employees during a work party.”
Phew. Saved by the boss.
Then he turns to me.
“And, Callie. It’d be good for you to learn the hop index of all our brews.”
Reid smirks. Jerk.
Tom continues. “Reid, I’d like you to make sure Callie knows our brews inside and out by the time her ninety-day review comes around.”
We both look at him, ready to protest.
“Sandy’s a pro with our beer list.”
“Yeah.” Oh my God. Am I agreeing with Reid? But it’s for our mutual benefit, so I see this as a one-time ordeal.
Tom lifts a hand, silencing us. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Reid’s my best guy, and, Callie, I know you’ll soon be my go-to girl. Have a nice night, you two.” And with that, he walks off to visit with some lingering co-workers.
“You thought life was hell this past week? Just wait until tomorrow,” Reid mumbles as I move past him and head toward the hallway leading to the restrooms. I’m allowing him the last word because I have more important things to do.
Like ridding my mouth of that god-awful taste of was-it-or-wasn’t-it hops.
5
Reid
She thinks she’s going to get off that easily?
I watch with narrowed eyes as Callie heads toward the restrooms. Sure, I got the last word, but it’s not satisfying when I know she’s allowing it, merely to run off and make her escape. The only thing that soothes my irritation at our verbal sparring getting cut short is the knowledge that she’s probably heading to rinse her mouth out.
My lips curl into a menacing grin as I set my glass down on the table and stride in the direction she took. I bet she’s in there right now, standing over the porcelain sink, gargling and spitting like the snooty princess she is.
I’m barely two steps away from the door to the ladies’ room when it’s tugged open, and Callie steps out. I can’t help but notice that her lip gloss is gone, her lips now a duller hue of pink.
When I take a large step forward, her head jerks up, and her eyes go wide at finding me here. I stalk toward her, crowding her into the darkened end of the hallway. When her back meets the wall, I splay one palm flat against the surface to one side of her head and lean in, attempting to take up all the surrounding space. Her lips part, and I catch the hint of something minty, realizing she probably popped a breath mint in her mouth.
“You need to concede.” I dip my head lower, ensuring that she has no choice but to meet my gaze. “You don’t belong here. You can’t hack this job.”
“I can.” Her response comes out sounding a bit breathless. “And I will.” Her attempt at bravado is commendable, but she and I both know that’s all it is. Boasting, pure and simple.
She swallows hard, the action drawing my gaze to her throat and her rapidly beating pulse. There’s something about her—something that makes it impossible to look away whenever she’s around. Her damn lips have been my focus along with the freckle sitting high on her cheekbone. It’s made me wonder if there are any more on her body. Or what else is beneath the prim and proper pencil skirts she wears to work.
My gaze travels to the nape of her neck. Another freckle dots right above the collar of her shirt, a straight line from the one on her cheek. Like a connect the dots picture. And fuck it all, I want to find the next connection. Her smooth skin is so enticing, and without thinking, I lower my head and dust my lips against the silky skin at the base of her throat. The moment I do, it’s as though something snaps in both of us.
Her hands grip the short strands of my hair, tugging me up, and our mouths meet in a feverish kiss. Our tongues meet, twining and tangling with one another in a passionate dance. I press closer, and her legs spread to allow me between them. The moment she feels the evidence of my hardening cock, she releases a tiny moan in the back of her throat.
I skim my hand up her side to cup her breast, and she arches into my touch. My thumb grazes over the top of her hardened nipple, causing it to pucker further. Dragging my mouth from hers, I trail a smattering of wet kisses along the column of her throat with every intention of making my way to her breasts—more importantly, to her nipples. Jesus. Just thinking about sucking on them and causing her fingers to tighten their grasp on my hair as she arches against me makes me even harder.
I reach for the hem of her shirt, intent on lifting it up, eagerly awaiting the sight of what’s beneath, but she stops me.
“Reid?”
It’s something in the way she says my name that draws my attention. And when I raise my eyes to meet hers, I freeze. It’s as if a fog lifts, and I give the slightest shake of my head to rid myself of the lingering effects.
She’s staring back at me with wide eyes laced with uncertainty and something else I can’t decipher. Her gaze flicks down to where my hand is fisting the side of her shirt.
“What are you doing?”
Abruptly shoving away from her, I run my hands over my head. Because fuck.
I’d just imagined that whole scenario. And I’d been close to following through on it. Hell, if she hadn’t said anything, I would have taken her in this hallway. Didn’t give a shit if anyone saw.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“I’m...” I raise my gaze to tentatively meet hers. “Sorry. I just…” I drag a hand down my face, shaking my head in dismay at a loss for words. “I’m just...shit.”
She’s fallen so quiet that I can’t resist glancing at her, only to find her studying me curiously. Then her features brighten ever so slightly and the corners of her mouth tilt upward, hinting at the smile begging to be released.
“So you admit that you’re shit?” She nods, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Glad to know we agree on something.” A small smile breaks through now. Her hands smooth down her shirt, but I can still detect the tiny wrinkles from where I’d had the material bunched in my fist.
Ready to lift it up and place my mouth on her skin.
“Shit,” I breathe out and drop my head, my eyes falling closed. I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. God, I need to get it together.
Inhaling a deep calming breath, I drop my hand and meet her gaze with more authority and confidence than I feel. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck that was. But I think we can both agree you don’t belong here—”
“I don’t agree with—”
“And the fact you hate beer makes this situation even worse.”
Her shoulders hitch upward a notch in indignation. “I don’t—”
I wave off her protest. “Don’t bother. I know the truth. Just understand this.” I shoot her a hard glare. “I’m not about to go easy on you just because you’re a woman or because you hate beer. I’m going to show you the ropes and teach you all about hops, but”—I stab my index finger at her—“it’s up to you to keep up and prove yourself.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” She salutes me like a smartass.
I roll my eyes and spin on my heel, desperate to get away from her and whatever freaky voodoo spell she cast over me minutes earlier. Three steps away and that much closer to rejoining the others, Callie calls out to me.
“Quick question, Reid.”
I pause but don’t turn around.
“You were tugging at my shirt because...?”
Callie is a lot of things, but dumb isn’t one of them. She knows exactly what I was planning to do, and hell will freeze over before I admit I lost control around her.
“You had lint on it. As a co-worker, we’re supposed to look out for each other.”
“Huh. Well, thanks.” She pauses before muttering under her breath, “Never knew you took lint violations so seriously.”
I head down the hallway, and every step I take, putting more distance between us, eases the strange tightness in my chest.
“Get ready to learn all about hops tomorrow, bright and early,” I toss out over my shoulder. And just as I’m turning the corne
r to exit the hallway, my lips begin to tilt up into a smile. Because I’ve managed to have the last word.
But it’s short-lived, dammit, when I hear the familiar female voice mutter in monotone, the sound of it trailing after me from within that hallway.
“Yay. Can’t wait. Just me and my very own Hops Police.”
6
Callie
Sweet, sweet air-conditioning hits my sticky skin when I open the door to our local bookstore, Once Upon a Time. That’s the way it is in Miami—move from your air-conditioned house to your air-conditioned car to the next air-conditioned building. The only thing that prevents me from keeling over between each one is my iced latte—which unsurprisingly lacks ice at the moment.
I never thought I’d end up in the DIY section of the store, but here I am. Rock, meet bottom. It ain’t pretty. But if the other night taught me anything, it’s that I want to keep my job at all costs. And to do so, I need a Hail Mary. Or at the very least, a dummies guide to beer. There must be one, right? I figure if they make them for dating, then there must be one to match its counterpart once that advice fails miserably. I’m obviously a ray of sunshine today.
Don’t get me wrong—I love the idea of love. I think I was even in love once. But then he ended up in my best friend’s bed, and here I am, being one big cliché.
I glance around before I dip into the aisle with the DIY section. Not another person in sight, which is probably for the best. My best friend, Melissa, told me I should just do online research, but I’m more of the paper and pencil type. Everything I research online tends to have a twenty-four-hour expiration date in my head. So I’ve made a plan for today: find a book, buy it, and then practice flashcards until my eyes bleed. Basically, it’s like I’m back in college. Except now, I have rent and food to consider. Also add self-pride to that list because there’s no way I’m going to let Reid best me.
Even a day later, I can still feel the heat of his palm from where he slid his fingers under my shirt. I shiver and set my coffee on a shelf.
It’s just the A/C. That’s why I’m shivering. Yep. That’s what I’m sticking with until this ache between my thighs goes away. Because I refuse to believe I have the hots for my dickish co-worker. Especially not one who would love nothing more than for me to be fired.
“Ah-ha. Got you.” I snag the copy of Beer for Complete Idiots off the shelf and flip through the pages. Yep, exactly what I need. A book that can talk to me about beer products and terminology like I’m five.
“Callie, is that you?”
I levitate in my spot, banging my knee on one of the bookshelves. Shit. I shove the book back on the shelf and turn around to find my boss.
“Tom, what a coincidence. What are you doing here?”
His brow furrows and understandably since I just asked him why he was in a public place like a complete moron. The urge to face-palm is strong. I’m not usually a jumpy person. I even pride myself on the fact that I can sit through most horror flicks without budging an inch, but this tiny lie has snowballed and is turning me into a neurotic person.
“Going to get my daughter a book for her birthday. How about you?” he says.
“Just brushing up on some reading.” I pick a random book out and hold it up.
Tom frowns as though confused. “I didn’t know you were a clown.”
I stare down at the cover. Idiot’s Guide to Clown Performance.
Oh, holy shit.
“An amateur, really,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh. And by an amateur, I mean the closest I’ve come to being a clown was when I forgot to put sunscreen on my nose and it turned redder than the balls in the Target parking lot. “I dabble from time to time.” Someone should really hit me in the back of the head with something hard to put me out of my misery. It’d be a service to all mankind.
“You know, the entertainer just cancelled at the last minute for my daughter’s party. Do you think you could fill in?”
Not if you don’t want your child to need an extensive amount of intense therapy. “Of course.”
Dammit. Hope he has a good health care plan for his kid.
“Great!” Relief etches across his features. “They’re eight. So I don’t know what you need to change in terms of age. Party starts at three on Saturday. I’ll send you an email with my address. See you there!”
And with that, he strides over to the YA section.
What in the fresh hell did I just agree to?
I grab the damn clown book along with two on craft beers.
Two hours later, I’m back in the apartment with both my bestie, Mel, and my favorite wine. Three glasses in and I’m feeling just fine. More than fine actually.
“Tell me again how you got roped into being a clown for a birthday party?”
“You know—” I point at her. Or one of her. There are currently two, so I’m aiming for the one on the right. “I had a pretty good buzz going until you mentioned this.” I grab for my empty glass and nearly knock it off the table. I really need to invest in unbreakable drinkware.
“All I’m saying is you could have just said it was a mistake, and you meant to pick up a how-to book about clamming or something.”
“Well, I could have used you while I was breaking out in back sweat in the middle of the bookstore. I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. I was caught off guard.” Usually, I think better on my feet, which was why I went for my business degree in the first place. I’ve always prided myself on having common sense. Give me a disgruntled customer, an angry employee, or a problem with marketing—those were things I could handle. Not the taste of beer. And definitely not dressing up as a clown for my boss’s kid.
Seems like everything about this job has thrown my whole life out of whack. I throw my hands into the air. “I blame it on Reid.” I can picture his damn cocky grin and wish I was currently within reach to slap it off his face.
She nods, flipping through the balloon animal book. “Yeah, screw Reid.” Her gaze lands on something in the book, and she throws her head back and cackles. “This one is of the phallic variety.”
I lean forward and find an overly happy clown holding a balloon in the shape of a hot dog. He’s pretending to eat the hot dog. At least that is the PG version of what it looks like he’s about to do to the hot dog.
“You should totally make that for the kids,” Mel says.
“Um, yeah, no. I’m not making something that a clown is about to deep throat.” I put my head in my hands and groan. “I am so screwed. Stupid Reid.”
“Amen, sister.” Mel lifts her glass and salutes me. “Don’t worry. He’ll get what’s coming to him. Karma always has a way of kicking people like that in the ’nads.” She takes another sip of wine.
“I should tell him exactly how I feel.”
Mel sets her glass down on the coffee table with a bit too much force, and some of the liquid sloshes over, splashing on the wood. “That’s a terrible idea. I’m drunk, but even I realize how horrible this is.”
Psh. I’m not that bad. And Reid totally deserves an earful, especially after he cornered me in the hallway the other night. What was up with that, anyway? And why did he have to smell so damn good? “Oh, it’s happening.”
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I hit Satan.
Oh, yes. Reid will soon know exactly who he’s messing with.
7
Reid
How u like me now, Keg Boy?
The text buzzes through on my phone at a little after eleven. I’m just getting in the door from having a drink with Grayson at Ace of Spades, a bar downtown. I’m caught off guard because this number isn’t saved in my contacts. But I sure as hell know who it is. I gave my number to Callie in case of a work emergency. Looks like I’m on the receiving end of late-night drunk texts instead.
I debate texting her back. But I just don’t have any damn self-control when it comes to Callie.
Me: Keg Boy? Sounds like a lame superhero name.
I throw my
keys on the counter and make my way to the couch. I spent half my night cursing Callie’s existence over a pint with Grayson. But now that she’s begun texting me, my pulse starts working double. By the time I sit down, another text comes in.
Callie: Your powers would be to make people cry into their plastic Solo cups.
Me: Is that what I do to you?
Callie: You’re killing my buzz. I don’t cry over men. And I’m here to show you just how excellent my beer vocabulary can be. Does that make you hop-py?
Me: Wish u were beer.
Callie: If u were a keg, I’d tap that.
Me: Why r you so brewtiful?
Callie: Aw, your compliments make me ale. See? I’m punny.
Callie: Also, IPA lot when I drink wine.
Me: Are you drinking right now?
Callie: Yes, a nice red that you’ve probably never heard of.
Callie: But sersly, I can’t stop thinking about your lips.
Callie: If u weren’t such a dick, I might kiss u.
Me: If ur lucky, I might start with ur lips.
The voice of reason in my head tells me to put a fucking stop to the nonsense. That I’ve taken it too far and she’d take it to Tom. But then another message notification comes in.
Callie: Start with other things. Cause u in ur pants, mmm...
This makes me sit up and take notice. Callie thinks about how I look in pants? Interesting. The thought causes the corners of my mouth to tip up. A couple of more texts come in.
Callie: This is my favorite wine right now.
Callie: It tastes kinda orgy.
Callie: I mean orngy
Callie: Orangy.
A crooked selfie of her sitting and holding up a wine glass inscribed with “Sips about to go down!” comes in next.
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