Blame it on Texas: Lightning in a Bottle (Kindle Worlds)

by Gina Ardito

  She twisted her lips into a grimace. “I don’t do honky-tonks, either.”

  “Think of it as reconnaissance. The Sugar Shack serves beer and other drinks. Tiny Lee will be your main competition—especially on weekend nights.”

  “Tiny Lee?”

  Drew nodded. “Owner of the Sugar Shack.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Don’t let the name fool you. He’s a big man. And he loves the ladies. You should meet him. Charm him.”

  “Crap. I sure as hell don’t do charm.”

  He leaned over the table and kissed her forehead. “You charmed me. In no time flat. Trust me. You’ll have no problems with Tiny. Now, be a good girl and sit over there while I take care of the mess over here.”

  She ignored the good girl comment. Not because it didn’t bother her. Mainly because, in her current list of concerns, the comment ranked just above crabgrass in her front yard and that weird hum her refrigerator made sometimes.

  “Couldn’t we just stay here and watch television?” she suggested. “Maybe fool around some more? That would totally relax me.”

  He widened his eyes and clutched his chest in mock shock. “Belinda McKenzie! Are you trying to use sex to get out of going to the Sugar Shack, the premiere entertainment center of the canyon?”

  “It’s not going to the Sugar Shack that worries me. It’s the people.” The words, difficult to admit aloud, came out a harsh whisper. “I haven’t really been good around people I don’t know…” Not since Rob’s crimes went public, but she let the statement trail off.

  He placed a hand on her forearm. “Bo, you’re a competent businesswoman in a new town. And while I caution you not to fish out of Tiny’s pond tonight, getting your face out there so the locals can get to know you is crucial to the brewery’s success. You know that.”

  Yes, she did, which was why she always relied on Mitch. For example, for the first night of the soft opening, he’d been prepping her with photos and details about the VIPs and writing down chitchat topics she could refer to in case of emergency. If someone had a new grandkid or recently received some award or promotion, if someone had a favorite hobby or artist, Mitch would make sure she knew about it. It was his job to help her find a way to make each guest feel special, as if they had a personal relationship with her. He was her PR man, her rock, her most loyal and constant friend. And she needed him right now.

  “Tell you what.” Drew broke into her fears. “One drink at the Shack. One drink, one dance—a slow one—and I’ll lead so you don’t have to worry about looking foolish to anyone but me. You meet Tiny, smile, and engage in some light conversation. Thirty minutes, tops, and then we can come back here for television and fooling around as a reward. Deal?”

  One drink, one dance, one conversation. One half-hour. She could handle a half-hour.

  “You do that for me,” she murmured low in his ear, “and I’ll keep your underwear on beneath whatever outfit I change into.”

  His hand slid up her arm, slow and deliberate, while a wolfish smile lit up his face. “You’re on.”

  Chapter 7

  Drew pulled into the gravel-covered lot behind a building with aluminum siding the hideous color of Pepto-Bismol and slid the gear into park. “Here we are.”

  “This is my competition?” In comparison to Empire Brewery, this place was Barbie’s toolshed. Where was the ambience? The aesthetic details? “It’s pink. And ugly.”

  “Don’t be smug. The Sugar Shack has a loyal clientele. Look around.” He indicated the dented trucks, old cars, and motorcycles parked around them. “These are the real people in the canyon. Not the mayor or those state officials you’ll glad-hand at the soft opening on Saturday night.”

  “They’re not all state officials.”

  “You know what I mean.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the driver’s door. “Come on.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” she reminded him as she followed suit.

  “Thirty,” he said over the roof of the Jeep. “Plus, at least one dance and one drink.”

  “Okay, okay.” The soles of her favorite blue suede boots crunched over the gravel when she strode toward him. Taking Drew’s advice, she’d opted to wear a pair of dark jeans and a red-and-black-buffalo-plaid flannel shirt over a simple black tank. The boots were, as always, non-negotiable, but thankfully, Drew had approved of them anyway. Of course, the fact she still wore his boxer briefs beneath her jeans meant she could’ve insisted on coming barefoot and he would’ve agreed.

  She took a deep cleansing breath of the night air, hoping to borrow some calm from the stillness around them. As they drew nearer, music broke the quiet—something twangy with a banjo and a harmonica. So not her style. A few people loitered outside on a deck, smoking and laughing. Her nerves returned, and she gripped Drew’s hand with the strength of a vise.

  God, she hated making small talk. Strangers always started out by mentioning her height in some snarky way.

  “If one person asks me if I ever played professional basketball…” she warned.

  “Say yes and challenge them to a quick game of one-on-one in the yard. They’ll back down.”

  Despite her anxiety, a smile tugged at her lips.

  “Atta girl. Come on.” He loosened her grasp but kept her hand cupped in his, pulling her along.

  Meanwhile, she struggled to keep from digging in her heels to root in the ground beneath the gravel. It wasn’t just her height. What was she supposed to say when they asked, as people always did, about being a woman in a male-oriented business? Or why she’d left the hustle and bustle of New York for the laid-back Palo Duro Canyon in Texas? And would her husband be joining her? What about her children?

  By the time she’d run through her litany of rude questions, Drew had opened the door and ushered her inside the establishment. Bo paused to allow her senses to adjust to the dim interior, the loud music, the crush of the crowd, and the foreign surroundings. Where she had lined her walls at the brewery with armor and weapons from various historical empires, Mr. Tiny Lee had opted for old license plates from all over the country. A long bar ran the length of the building, flanked by assorted chairs and stools, none of which matched, and ended with a jukebox. A jukebox! Bo hadn’t seen one of those since she stopped watching Happy Days reruns.

  Drew led her to the bar and leaned closer to ask her what she’d like to drink. “Beer?”

  She shook her head. “Just a ginger ale, please.” She rarely drank outside the brewery, and even there, her intake was limited to sample tastes unless she was entertaining. A good brewmaster respected the powerful allure of the beverage and never overindulged.

  “You sure?” At her nod, he turned to the bartender and ordered two soft drinks.

  “Drew!” a male voice called out, followed by the appearance of a tall, older but good-looking cowboy with an equally tall redheaded woman at his side. Since the woman was eye-level with Bo, she assumed she might not have to worry about the basketball comment after all.

  “Jackson,” Drew said, thrusting out his hand. “Loretta. What are you two doing here?”

  “Date night,” the woman, Loretta, said. “Nona and Travis offered to babysit for us.”

  “I would imagine that doesn’t happen too often,” Drew remarked.

  “Which is why we take advantage when it does,” Jackson said, waggling his brows.

  The three of them laughed, but the redhead quickly sobered. “If you ask me, our oldest girl is up to something.”

  “Who cares? If it gives me time to take you out on a Thursday night and twirl you on the dance floor, darlin’, Nona can be up to her ears in ‘something.’”

  “You won’t be so quick to laugh if she’s planning to spring some surprise on us.”

  The cowboy’s gleeful expression dimmed. “What kind of surprise?”

  “I have no idea,” the redhead replied airily. “But, we do have an anniversary coming up. Maybe she’s got it in her head we need a surprise party to celebrate.�
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  “You think she’s planning a party?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I guess that’d be all right.” He straightened, and his eyes lit up with delight. “Why not? In fact, the more I think about it, the more I like the idea.”

  “Figures,” the woman retorted. “Jackson loves to be the center of attention.”

  Restless with their conversation, Bo shifted on her feet, which was enough of a signal for Drew to remember she was there. He snaked an arm around her waist. “Whoops. Sorry about that, sweetheart. I got all caught up in the party idea. Jackson, Loretta, meet Bo McKenzie. Bo, these are the Baileys, owners of the Lonesome Canyon Ranch.”

  Polite greetings were exchanged between the two couples. Before the awkward small talk could begin, Drew added, “Bo’s the proprietress of Empire Brewery in Silverton.”

  She tensed, waiting for the expressions of incredulity and the barrage of rude questions that would ensue.

  “Cooper said you’ve got a really great setup with that brewery,” Jackson said and turned to his wife. “Next time Nona offers to babysit, we should check it out.”

  “I’ve driven past the place a few times. You’ve done a great job capturing the spirit of the canyon,” Loretta said, gaining Bo’s eternal gratitude. “When’s the official opening?”

  “Well, the soft opening is this Saturday. It’s our dry run before the official grand opening in three weeks.”

  “Oh, how exciting! I wish we could go, but I doubt Nona’s generosity will extend to a weekend.”

  “Bring the baby,” Bo suggested. “Empire is meant to be a family-friendly place, despite its main business. We even have homemade root beer and ginger ale for kids.”

  “Umm…well,” Loretta replied, “it’s babies—two. We have twins at home. And since they’re only fourteen months old, I doubt anyone would be happy to have them around. Why do you think we’re here tonight? We haven’t had an escape in weeks.”

  “They’re mini-terrorists,” Jackson added, but his proud grin belied his statement.

  “I promise, though, we’ll come soon,” Loretta assured her, then nudged her husband. “Maybe we can convince Nona to host our surprise party there.”

  “If she really is planning a surprise party,” Jackson said.

  Loretta shook her head at Bo and gave her a knowing smirk. “He forgets I know our oldest daughter better than anyone.”

  “Well, if you’re right this time,” Bo replied, “tell your daughter to come talk to me. I guarantee you a great event—and since you’re friends of Drew’s—I promise I’ll give her a very good price.”

  Before she could continue her sales pitch, the bartender reappeared and slapped two full glasses on the counter.

  “We’ve got a table over there,” Jackson said with a jerk of his head toward a darkened corner on the other side of the room. “Care to join us?”

  “Thanks but another time,” Drew replied. “Right now, Bo owes me a dance.”

  Until he mentioned it, she hadn’t noticed the music had changed. The twang remained, softer now, but with a piano instead of the harmonica and banjo combo. The tempo had slowed, and a male voice crooned about “when love finds you.” She took a deep swig of her ginger ale, wishing she’d ordered a beer, and allowed him to lead her out to the open center of the bar. At least, they weren’t alone. Half a dozen other couples swayed to the tune blasting from the jukebox, a few in increasing degrees of inebriation.

  His arm wrapped around her waist, and he pulled her close. “You ready?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Nothing to it. Just rock with me and move in a slow, tight, right-bound circle. No one’s watching us. No one’s looking at our feet. Nobody here cares. Back and forth, a nice slow circle. Step. Step. Step. Step. See? You’ve got this…”

  The way he said it made her question whether he tried to convince her or himself. That was when the truth hit her. “You can’t dance, either!” she accused in a harsh whisper.

  “Nope.”

  “Then why did you insist on subjecting both of us to this?”

  “Because you need to get to know other people besides me and the guys who work for you. And look how well this idea panned out. You just booked a party, though I warn you again to be careful about poaching Tiny’s customers.”

  “I didn’t poach anyone. I casually promoted my establishment for a possible future event that would never be appropriate here.”

  He dipped her—so low her hair brushed the floor—and she let out a squeal of surprise.

  “Drew Garwood,” a voice boomed from across the bar, “quit trying to break that pretty lady’s back and bring her over here! She looks like she could use a beer.”

  As he brought her upright again, she said in a low voice, “I take it that’s Tiny.”

  “Yep. I hope you can skip the ginger ale and have a beer with him. It’ll go a long way to charming him.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Good. Let’s go say our hellos.”

  He stopped dancing and led her toward the farthest corner of the bar where an extra-extra-large man sat on the last chair in the line. “Who’ve you got here, Drew?”

  “Tiny, this is Bo McKenzie. She’s new in town.”

  “That much I know. Otherwise, I would’ve heard about her before tonight.” He patted the empty seat next to him. “C’mere, darlin’. Tell me about yourself. What’s someone like you doing wasting your time with Drew?”

  Tiny Lee might not have been the most attractive man she’d met in Texas, but he knew how to turn on the charm. If nothing else, Bo could learn a lesson or two from him. She settled into the seat he’d indicated while the bartender set down two mugs of beer, the foamy head a little too dense to her experienced eye.

  Tiny slid one of the mugs toward her with a, “Here you are, darlin’,” and lifted the second mug to slug down a quarter of the beverage.

  Beside her, his hand on the back of her stool, Drew cleared his throat.

  Tiny glared at him. “You want something, Garwood, you buy your own.”

  Bo hid her smile behind her own mug, watched the head fall flat, and took a small sip. The beer was cold and wet, but flavorless. She surreptitiously ran a finger down the outside of the glass.

  “Good, huh?” Tiny asked, and she nodded her agreement. “What’s brought a pretty lady like you to this place with the town’s ambulance chaser?”

  She hesitated with her reply. How soon would he get ticked off once she mentioned she was his new competition? Then again, he’d find out sooner or later. Wasn’t it better to get it out in the open fast…like ripping off a Band-Aid? If she kept it from him, when he did find out the truth, he might assume she’d done so for some nefarious reason. Like she’d come to the Shack to spy on or poach from his business.

  “Empire Brewery,” Drew answered before she could, “over in Silverton.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Tiny’s eyes narrowed, but his tone remained casual. “What do you do there?”

  “I own it.”

  He nearly choked on his beer. “You?”

  “Me.”

  Tiny’s laughter boomed over the music coming from the jukebox, over the conversations of other patrons, and echoed off the ceiling. “What do you know about beer, young lady?”

  She lifted her mug to show him exactly what she knew. “I can tell you you’ve got flat beer here. My first thought was that maybe my mug wasn’t washed out properly, and you might have some trouble with your dishwashing system, especially since your beer started out with the same too-foamy head that disappeared too soon. Once I tasted it, I realized it’s not the mugs. Then I watched your friend over there pour a draught for another customer.” She gestured at the bartender. “It shouldn’t take more than five seconds to fill a mug this size. Four seconds is actually optimal, but five will do for ten ounces—under two seconds per ounce is the goal. Yours are taking way longer, which tells me you’ve got some problems in your pressure lines or compressor, slowin
g down your output. You should have someone check your vent valves and your lines for a possible obstruction.”

  All three men—Drew, Tiny, and the bartender—stared at her, slack-jawed. Bo spared a helpless glance Drew’s way and offered an apologetic shrug. She’d warned him she didn’t do charm.

  After a breathless moment, Tiny slammed his mug down on the bar. “I can’t argue with ya. What you said actually makes sense, but I don’t know much about beer taps. You happen to have an employee who does that kinda work you wouldn’t mind sparing to fix whatever’s wrong here? I’d consider it a goodwill gesture, if you could help me out.”

  “I could do the work myself,” she replied. “The trick is finding the problem. Once you know what the issue is and where it’s located, fixing it is easy. The bigger problem is I’ll be busy all weekend with our soft opening. If you don’t mind waiting until Monday or Tuesday, and you’re willing to meet me here in the morning, I’d be happy to help you out then.”

  He wagged a sausage finger at her. “You’re a classy lady, Bo McKenzie. I’m gonna take you up on that offer. You come Tuesday morning. ‘Round ten. I’ll meet you here.” He leaned over the bar and winked. “I don’t suppose I could sweet talk you into leaving that brew place and coming to work for me full-time, huh?”

  She shook her head and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, Tiny. I’m not a bartender, per se. I’m a brewmaster. You get customers asking for a gin and tonic or a whiskey sour, and I’m way outta my element. I can’t tell vodka from rum. My passion is beer and only beer.”

  “There are worse passions to have,” Tiny remarked. “Like your questionable taste in men.”

  “Believe me, if I’d met you first, I never would have given Drew a second glance.”

  “My loss, I suppose. I’ll just have to thank you for your help on Tuesday and wish you luck with your brewery,” he said and lifted his mug again, holding it in front of her in toast-fashion. “To Bo and her Empire. Much success.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, lifting her own mug to bang against his before taking one last sip of the sub-par beer.