by Gina Ardito
Chapter 8
When Drew dropped Bo off at the brewery around eleven Saturday morning, she was so loose and languid she nearly fell getting out of the Jeep. Luckily, he was there to help her, keeping his hand on her back while he walked her to the door.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“All part of the Drew Garwood special service package,” he told her and punctuated the statement with another knee-melting kiss. “Now, get in there and get ready for your big night. I’ll be back later.”
“Where are you going?”
“You don’t need me right now. I’ll keep myself busy today and come back once the opening is in full swing. I’m going to head to the office for a few hours.” He gave her a gentle push. “Now, stop dawdling and go. You’re gonna kick butt tonight.”
She stole one last kiss to hold her over until he returned and then strode with confidence into the building. Her pride swelled as she took in the interior of Empire Brewery. She’d done it. She’d created this wonderland, this shrine to hops and barley. Tonight would be the result of months of hard work, of years of planning—the ideal foamy head on her beer.
Inside, Mitch was the first person to greet her. “Well, you look happy. I guess Drew did his job.”
She gave him a friendly hug. “God, Mitch, he excelled at it.”
“Please, no details,” he replied as he pulled away with a grimace. “I do not want those pictures in my head, thank you.”
She smirked. “So then I guess I shouldn’t mention what we did in the shower.”
“No.”
“The back seat of the Jeep is out, too, I assume?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “You got that right.”
“And I probably shouldn’t tell you about his living room couch.”
He clapped his hands over his ears. “La, la, la, la, la! I can’t hear you!”
“Wimp.” Laughing, she strode to the brewery floor, all her confidence renewed and invigorated. “Come on, Mitch. Let’s make Empire Brewery the place where everyone in the canyon wants to be.”
The rest of the day sped by, and at four o’clock in the afternoon, when Mitch opened the doors, at least two dozen people streamed toward the front area, marveling at the open floorplan, and pointing out the various entertainment options. The hot sun might have had something to do with everyone’s impatience to get inside. But as long as they were here, Bo figured they might as well quench their parched throats on Empire’s best brews and play chess or shoot a game of pool.
She stood behind the bar, desperately wishing she could hide in her office, but knowing, as the owner of Empire Brewery, her place was front and center, in the thick of things. Strangers. She was turning her entire future over to a bunch of strangers. She must have been out of her mind to think she could pull this off and make a success of it. A hand clamped her shoulder, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Relax,” Ian said to her. “You’re paler than our barley sacks. It’s going to be fine. Wait and see.”
She took a shuddering breath, then a second, and a third. Her hands still shook, and panic kept her heart pounding in her chest. “I’m trying.”
“Well, here’s someone who can help.”
Ian pointed toward the door, and her nerves slowed to a crawl—until she realized he didn’t refer to Drew. And when the hell did he become so important to her anyway?
Before annoyance could take hold, her gaze connected with the familiar woman’s face. “Aunt Connie,” she said on an exhale of relief.
“Belinda!” She waved as she rushed toward the bar, elbowing her way through the crowd.
Connie was the only person allowed to call her by her given name. She’d never been fond of it and had actually coined her nickname, Bo, when, as a toddler, she couldn’t pronounce Belinda. Her widower dad, at a loss as to what to do with a lone daughter in a house full of boys, used the shortened version as an excuse to raise her the same way he did his four sons. Connie, as the only feminine influence in Bo’s life, always referred to her as Belinda, and took over all those maternal tasks passed from woman to woman through the ages. Connie made sure she got her first bra, taught her how to apply makeup, and gave her the birds and the bees talk when the time came.
Ian flipped the hinged section of the bar so his wife could get to where Bo stood, waiting. Within seconds, Bo found herself wrapped in a hug as tight as a python’s.
“Look at you!” Connie pulled away, holding Bo’s arms out from her sides.
“Look at you,” Bo replied with genuine surprise. Always plump, Connie had slimmed down considerably since her move to Texas. While she was in her early seventies now, she looked at least a decade younger. “Ian said canyon life agreed with you. I had no idea how much.”
Connie laughed. “It’ll have the same effect on you, too. You’ll see.”
The first customers reached the bar, and Bo squeezed Connie’s hand. “You’ll stay here with me?”
Connie squeezed back. “You don’t need me, but I’ll stay back here as long as you think you do.”
She gave the older woman a grateful smile and turned to the clusters of strangers leaning over her bar. Mitch had schooled her well. Familiarity clicked into place, and she focused her attention on the mayor and his wife. “Mr. Mayor and Mrs. Shelton, it’s an honor. Welcome to Empire Brewery. Would you like to start with a flight or do you have a certain brew in mind?” She gestured to the taps behind her, and the chalkboard above that listed the names of the brews available, their alcohol content, and a mini-description of each.
“A flight?” Mrs. Shelton asked, confusion puckering her brow.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s what we call a set of samples. You can choose five different brews from the list.” She pointed to the chalkboard then grabbed a wooden tray, roughly the size and shape of a Frisbee, with five circular holes cut into it. Picking up a black marker, she gestured to the inside of the tray. Above each hole was a strip of Dry-Erase board. “Write down your choices here, and we’ll place that beer into its corresponding place. This way, when you find one you like, you’ll know the name of it so you can order a full pint.”
The mayor turned to his wife. “What do you think, Glenda? Shall we try a flight?”
“Yes, let’s,” she replied.
Bo handed over the tray and the marker. “Here ya go.” While the couple discussed their options, she moved on to the next person in line. Sheriff Cooper Wilson, his arm wrapped around a lovely dark-haired woman, caught her eye. “Sheriff,” she greeted him.
“Bo, this is my wife, Abby. Abby, meet Bo McKenzie, proprietress of Empire Brewery.”
The brunette extended her hand, and Bo clasped it. “The place looks great,” she said. “I love the medieval weapons and the coats of arms.”
“You would,” Cooper remarked with a smirk.
Assuming the couple shared a private joke, Bo dismissed Cooper’s comment and addressed Abby’s compliment. “Thank you.”
“Once a soldier, always a soldier,” Abby added, snuggling into her husband’s shoulder.
Ah. The puzzle pieces of the Wilsons started to come together for Bo. “Army?”
Abby straightened. “Yes, ma’am. Stationed in Afghanistan.”
“I have a brother who served. Air force. He’s a pilot nowadays.”
“I’m a rancher now,” Abby told her with a broad grin. “And a rancher-slash-sheriff’s wife. You should come around to the Malloy ranch. Meet my sisters.”
“I’d like that.” Then again, she was still without a car of her own and dependent on the kindness of too many strangers with wheels to shuttle her back and forth. “Better yet, bring them around here, if you want.” Gesturing to the board, she asked, “What can I get you two to start?”
“I’ve been looking forward to tasting Dragon’s Blood since we got the brew list with our invitation,” Abby said.
Bo nodded. “And for you, Sheriff?”
“Cooper,” he corrected. “I’m off-duty right now. La
st thing I need is someone to think the sheriff is drinking on the job.”
“Cooper, then,” she said. “Have you been waiting to try something specific? Or would you prefer a flight?”
He bounced his chin toward the board. “The Bee’s Knees. What’s that?”
“It’s a honey mead beer. Very sweet.”
“Okay, since I’m not up for sweet, how’s the Robber Baron?”
“Smooth and hearty. It’s a dark ale with hints of vanilla and caramel, aged in whiskey barrels. Really smooth, but be careful! It’s about twelve percent alcohol by volume so it packs a wallop. Would you like a taste?”
At his nod, she reached below the bar for a four-ounce plastic cup and turned to the tap. She drew a perfect sample and placed it in front of him.
He picked up the cup and arched a brow in her direction. “Is this like wine tasting? Do I have to smell it first? Let it swirl around my mouth ‘til it gets warm and tastes like battery acid?”
Bo laughed. “Not unless that’s how you normally drink beer. Really, there’s no pressure here. Take your time with that, and I’ll get Abby’s choice in the meantime.”
While Abby thanked her, Cooper took a swig from his sample.
Picking up the larger sixteen-ounce cup, she whirled toward the taps and collided with Ian, also pulling a Dragon’s Blood.
“Catch up, dollface,” he murmured. “I’ve already served six people while you’ve been playing social butterfly.”
“It’s my job to play social butterfly. I’m the owner of this place.”
He grinned. “Atta girl. Nerves all gone?”
To her surprise, they were.
“And you didn’t even need Drew here,” he noted.
No, she hadn’t needed Drew to feel at home once the doors opened. She did want him there, though. Not for her nerves, but—she glanced with envy at Cooper and Abby huddled together—for his companionship and the way he made her relax when she didn’t even realize how tense she was. On a broader visual sweep, she noticed Connie had disappeared into the sea of unknowns. After placing Abby's beer on the bar, she filled another and another until the initial crush dwindled to an occasional call.
A long, lean man in a red flannel shirt standing beside a smiling, moon-faced woman with blowsy blond hair, leaned forward over the polished wooden bar.
“You Miss McKenzie?” the man asked.
“Bo,” she corrected. “That’s me.”
“I’m Chuck Patterson, and this is my wife, Sheila. We’re Adam and Aaron’s parents.”
“Oh.” She thrust out her hand to shake first his, then hers. “Nice to meet you! Your boys are great kids.”
“They’re a handful,” Sheila said, shaking Bo’s hand. “I’m grateful you were kind enough to let them work off their theft here. We try to raise them with good Christian values, but their teenage years have been…” She glanced at her husband as if seeking the right word. “…a challenge.”
Bo offered an understanding smile. “Not a problem. Count yourselves lucky. I think girls are probably worse. I have four brothers, and I can honestly say I was much more of a handful than they were.” She stretched her smile to a knowing smirk, gaining murmured polite denials from the couple. “No, it’s true. My father always said I was the reason he lost all his hair.” The Pattersons shared a laugh, and she finished up her idle chitchat with, “Your boys are hard workers. It’s been my pleasure getting to know them.” Okay, she was spreading it on a little thick. They were typical teenage boys, a little lazy, a little whiny, but she did believe they’d eventually outgrow those issues, as most people did. For now, her job, as she’d told Ian, was to play social butterfly with her customers. If that meant spraying a bit of sunshine up a pair of doting parents’ butts, well, so be it. All was fair in business. “What can I get you two?”
“I’m not much of a beer drinker,” Sheila Patterson demurred.
“No problem. We have a sarsaparilla, if you’d like.” She pointed to the last entry on the chalkboard above her head. “No alcohol content.”
Mrs. Patterson nodded. “Yes, thank you. That would be nice.”
“And for you, Mr. Patterson?”
“Call me Chuck. And I’ll take a pint of that Robber Baron.”
“Excellent choice.” She poured their draughts, made small talk for another minute or so to be polite, then moved on when a new customer approached the bar with a flight tablet and a black marker.
Taking a deep breath, she studied the crowd and counted the smiling faces. A cluster of people had discovered the pool table, and one of them currently racked the balls while three others watched, holding plastic cups filled with her brew. It was early, but the place was already filled.
Bo lost track of time as she took orders, described the flavors of the different brews, explained how the flights worked, and greeted her guests. Names and faces blurred, but after a while, she identified certain people by their selections.
For tonight’s event, Mitch had hired a local caterer to serve food, and the spicy smell of barbecue sauce wafted through the air to remind Bo’s stomach—quite loudly—she hadn’t eaten all day. After a while, with people approaching the bar with their plates in their hands, the aroma became almost too much to withstand.
She was about to tell Ian she needed a break when a voice called out to her, “When was the last time you ate?”
She whirled from the taps to find Drew in the closest corner of the bar, two plates piled high with sauce-slathered ribs, fried chicken, sliced steak, potato salad, and coleslaw in front of him. He was dressed in what she’d come to consider his cowboy clothes: chambray shirt, jeans, and contacts that brought his golden-brown eyes to life. He wore this garb as naturally as he did his lawyer suits with crisp dress shirts, power ties, and black-rimmed glasses. The man was part chameleon. And, for now, all hers. Tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed for anyone, and after what happened with Rob, she couldn’t bring herself to look past today, this moment, when it came to Drew.
“Hey,” she said, leaning over the bar and the mountains of food to give him a kiss. “This looks fab. How’d you know?”
He kissed her back, bringing a tingle to her lips. “You look ‘fab.’ And I know because in the last three weeks, you never seem to eat unless I remind you. Makes me wonder how you survived before we met.”
“I eat,” she argued with no emphasis behind the words. “I’ve just been really busy lately, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Well, take a break now. Let Ian handle the taps for a while.”
She would’ve liked to tell him not to boss her around, but her hunger far outweighed her resentment, and she pulled out the stool that hid underneath the bar in the corner for just this purpose. “I can do both.” There. That kept her in charge.
As if he knew what went through her mind, he saluted her with his plastic fork. “Dig in, chief.”
With lightning speed, she swiped the fork from his hand, speared a piece of steak, and slid it into her mouth. “Mmm…that’s good.”
“Of course it is.” He pushed one plate closer to her. “You’re in the heart of barbecue country.”
“In that case…” She grabbed a rib and sank her teeth into the meat. Her eyes rolled so far back in joy, she probably saw her daydreams. “Oh, my God. That’s heavenly!” She craned her neck to shout over her shoulder, “Ian! I’m taking five.” She waved the rib between her fingers at him. “Tell Connie to fix you a plate, and I’ll relieve you when I’m done.”
He nodded and returned his attention to the patrons who approached the bar.
“Looks like a successful event so far,” Drew remarked.
“It’s been crazy busy since we opened the doors. If the official grand opening goes this well, I’ll be thrilled.” As she scooped up a forkful of coleslaw, Mitch approached and stood behind Drew, a frown on his face. She put the fork down on her plate. “Uh-oh. Well, it was fun while it lasted. What’s gone wrong, Mitch?”
“Sorry,” he said as he sh
ouldered his way to the bar. “There’s a guy in your office. Says he’s from the TTB. Wants to close us down because we’re missing some form or other.”
She slid a suspicious look in Drew’s direction. Had he overlooked something? Accidentally? Or did he intentionally forget a form or application? Wouldn’t be too hard for a lawyer who wanted to see her fail to misplace a crucial document. The old feelings of shame washed over her, bathing her in flop sweat. No. Not again. Never again. Steeling her spine, she fisted her hands at her sides. She’d put too much of herself into this brewery. No way would she go down without a fight. Her nails dug into her palms. Faking a self-assured smile, she told him, “Guess I’d better see what this is about.”
Drew rose. “I’ll go with you.”
“No need. You’ve done enough.”
“I’ll ignore that,” he retorted. “If there is a problem with any of the forms, I should be the one to address it.”
“Fine.” She used the sink under the bar to wash her hands of any sauce and dried them on a towel. Business as usual, she reminded herself. As she sidled past Ian, her legs buckled, but he caught her by the forearms.
“You okay?”
“I’ll let you know,” she said through her false grin.
She flipped open the bar’s barrier and walked past the crowd of revelers, pool players, drinkers, and local VIPs. Her heeled boots thumped on each step on the way up, echoed by the shoes of the men who followed her. Here we go. The execution. All her dreams, her hopes, her future about to be beheaded in one swoop. Her office door was closed when she reached the top of the stairs, which did nothing to calm her jumpy nerves. On a deep breath, she propelled herself forward and pushed inside.
The man sat in her chair behind her desk—what chutzpah!—his back to the door.
“Good evening, I’m Bo McKenzie. I understand you have an issue to discuss with me.” Amazing she could keep her voice steady while her insides quaked strong enough to register on a Richter scale.
While Drew and Mitch joined her, the man in her chair slowly revolved so she could get a look at his face. His familiar, teasing face.