Probably the Best Kiss in the World

by Pernille Hughes

  The door slammed downstairs. Oh crap. The one day she’d told Lydia she couldn’t collect her from the station was apparently also the same day she’d come home early. Somewhere in Jen’s head she’d thought she could feed Yakob and have him out for the local tour before Lydia got home and that she might have gone back out by the time they returned. Damn the plans that didn’t work.

  She trundled down the stairs, mentally prioritising the things she needed to sort in the kitchen. She had her beer tasting plan fully sorted too. She planned to show Yakob all her wares.

  Jen came to an abrupt halt as she rounded the door jamb. Lydia stood holding her cosmesis.

  “You got it back.” Lydia’s expression was more confusion than elation, but she hugged it to her body. Jen moved on again, past the table and dug about in the cupboard for the steamer. “How did you find it? I looked everywhere. The police station and I are on best-buddy terms.”

  Jen nabbed the broccoli out of the fridge drawer while she considered whether to have this conversation right now. She was trying to stay composed, going head to head with Lydia wouldn’t help that. But she couldn’t help herself. Perhaps leaving the issue festering wasn’t helping her nerves.

  “Some spotty student had it in Kingsley. Two whole towns away. Practically pissed himself when I showed up asking for it.”

  Lydia looked questioningly at Jen, her leg-reunion happiness moving aside.

  “Right, but how’d’you find it, Jen?”

  “Can you explain how it got from a field to his house?” Jen deflected the question, trying to keep her annoyance at bay, channelling it into slashing florets from the stalk.

  “Dunno?” Lydia’s defences were raising. “Thieving rambler?” There it was, the snark. Jen doubted this lad had known one end of a walking boot from the other. His skin suggested he rarely saw daylight.

  “I asked him where he’d found it and he grunted something about an extreme sports event.”

  “Weird.” Lydia was refusing to get into it. Well, Jen knew exactly where she’d been, she knew all about the Xtreme Sports expo. They tried tapping her for advertising every year, as if inco pads were for people peeing themselves with fear. Arguing about Lydia being there wasn’t going to help. Jen decided to climb down, but she needed to state her position and explain her concern.

  She stopped her aggressive prepping to give Lydia her full attention. “Look, I don’t mind if you go to watch people doing mad things, but can you just let me know? That’s not too much to ask. I need to know where you are in case anything happens. Anything can happen. Those loonies trying those sports have no idea what they’re dicing with. Surely you must have thought that when you saw them?”

  Lydia’s eyes were bright but her mouth was tightly pursed, clearly holding back.

  “Actually, they looked like they were having the most amazing, liberating, heart-stoppingly fabulous time, like life had no limitations or big sisters telling them what they can and can’t do, even if they’re adults and capable of making their own choices.” Jen sensed Lydia was trying to make a point.

  “All I’m asking is that you don’t lie to me, and you let me know where you are. Then I might not have to go fetch your leg.”

  Lydia was very still, but it wasn’t a calm stillness, more the seething kind. “You still haven’t said how you found it. How Jen?”

  Jen looked about the room. Her face was rather shifty. Bum. She shouldn’t have started this.

  “I, umm, there’s this website, lost things, I …” her explanation trailed out. “I’m expecting a guest. I don’t have time to discuss this now.”

  “Fine,” Lydia said crossly, grabbing her bag from the table, “but the subject isn’t closed, Jen.” She whipped out of the room, allowing Jen to exhale slowly in private and take a moment to try stilling her heart.

  “You’re welcome,” she said to the empty room.

  The doorbell rang and she almost dropped the floret she’d been crushing in her hand. She tried to walk in a composed fashion to the door, slowing further to check her hair in the mirror. “Calm, calm, calm,” she told herself like a mantra. It wasn’t a very good one. It didn’t work.

  And there he was. On her doorstep. So close she could touch him. Looking every bit as delicious as he had in Copenhagen. His smile was warm and not remotely nervous as far as she could see, which put her more to shame. Why was she blushing? Her entire head felt hot.

  “Hello again,” he said smiling, hands in pockets, looking the epitome of relaxed. His pale blue work-shirt had lost its tie somewhere and the sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, giving her a good view of his tanned forearms. His hair was as rebellious as ever.

  “Hello again.” She stood gazing at him, taking him in, until it dawned on her she should ask him in. Flustered, she ushered him past her, which he did, but stopped to kiss her firmly on both cheeks, leaving her frozen for a moment in his wake, as he headed into the kitchen. Befuddled by the evocative reminder of his aftershave, she felt her inner prat resurfacing. Oh crap.

  Chapter 23

  Sitting opposite Yakob at the kitchen table, Jen’s assessment was so far things were going well. She’d dreaded their conversation being stilted, but it hadn’t been at all. He’d made all the right sounds in response to her food, so hurrah for that. He’d even had seconds, which was a firm sign of approval, or incredible politeness and she was willing to take either. And he’d liked her beers, at least the two she’d given him before and with the meal. He’d tasted and considered each carefully, while she’d sat with her heart in her throat, until he’d given her a detailed and thankfully favourable critique of each. She was conflicted as to whether she could have taken a harsh verdict from him; he knew his stuff, so no doubt it would have been fair and constructive, but anything other than “It’s wonderful” would possibly have crushed her. It dawned on her how much his approval meant to her. She was so keen for him, as her newest supporter, to be impressed. Feeling faintly embarrassed by her neediness, she sought to direct the subject onto himself.

  “So Corporate Shark, how was the show for you? Enjoy the panel? The title was very aggressive.”

  “The show was busy, I hate those panels – which is why my rule is not to do them unless a colleague is welded to the toilet – and those panel titles are just to stir people up.”

  “You don’t think Kronegaard is a ‘Brewing Giant’ set on global domination?” It looked like it to her.

  He took a swig of his beer and lips pursed, took a long look at her. “OK. Probably.” His following smile said he wasn’t remotely repentant, the ridiculously cute lip-pursing thing had purely been for being caught out.

  “You’re still in my bad books for not having told me, by the way” she grumbled, getting up under the guise of fetching a couple more bottles from the side, but really to hide her face. “I would have kept my criticisms to myself.” Yeah. That probably was a lie. “Well, toned them down a bit perhaps.” Jen knew her limitations on such subjects.

  “That’s precisely why I didn’t say!” he exclaimed, amused. “I like hearing what people think. I like knowing what people think about beer. Telling them what I do, who I work for, doesn’t generally help that flow of information.”

  “Oh, man, is that what I was? A one-woman focus group?” She said it in jest, but what if?

  “No, of course not,” he laughed. He really had a great laugh there. “Trust me, I don’t entertain and kiss women for research purposes. That would be too much dedication to the firm.”

  There. Now he’d done it. He’d acknowledged the kiss and she didn’t know what to do with it. It needed addressing somehow, didn’t it? Even if it was to say it had been lovely, thank you, but it was a mistake and one she couldn’t elaborate on. Jen’s mouth opened a couple of times as she tried to work out what to say. Instinctively, she couldn’t bring herself to call it a mistake. It had been incredible. Looking back – and she did, often – Jen knew that kiss, the way it made her heels lift off the ground and th
e blood roar past her ears, had been the icing on the cake of her trip. In the end she wussed out and changed the subject as she returned to the table.

  “Tell me what it is you do there, exactly.” She really wished he wasn’t a corporate shark. She couldn’t help it. Her dad had brainwashed her on the subject.

  “It’s very boring,” he said and then paused, taking another swig of his beer. She deliberately waited for him to go on, which he eventually did. “I focus on the stability and longevity of the company.” She raised her eyebrows at him for a translation. “The way I see it, my job is to make sure the company stays strong and our employees’ jobs are safe.” That sounded more decent.

  “Like how?”

  “So, for example, our plant here in the UK; we need to keep the right balance of employees to beer output, and to make sure it still makes financial sense to have local plants rather than import the beer from elsewhere. It’s the same in all of our overseas territories, so I try to safeguard both in all of them.”

  Within the realms of working for the evil corporates, it sounded to Jen like he’d picked a worthier area to work in. Maybe not the sharkiest of sharks then.

  But then she remembered that he hadn’t been bothered by her spouting at the show – more amused in fact – he certainly hadn’t denied their activities.

  “But you do buy other breweries, don’t you? You are responsible for companies disappearing.” That copy of Brewing Times had instigated some colourful language.

  Yakob seemed to pick his words carefully. “Jen, do you remember Ross brewery?”

  Yes, of course she did. A middle-sized macro-brewer, Kronegaard had swallowed it up some years ago. The beer had been the usual insipid blandness, but it had plants in various countries. “We bought that to increase our business around the world, but it allowed most of the workforce to keep their jobs. Every job loss was voluntary redundancy – that’s rare in mergers and acquisitions. That was a good thing.” It placated the look of alarm on her face. “So the brand name disappeared, but it firmed up the future for us and the employees – both theirs and ours.”

  Jen relaxed a little. Corporates eating corporates was fine by her and she didn’t want people to lose their jobs. And besides, she told herself, it wasn’t like it was him dominating the brewing world. It was the company, his bosses, the Kronegaard family. It was just his job. Lord knew, she understood that. She was a slave to her bosses too. Sometimes you just had to do what it took to pay the bills. She certainly wouldn’t have chosen the inco pads.

  “Speaking of futures,” he said briskly, placing his cutlery together on the mopped-clean plate, “I have a gift for you.” He pulled a package out of his pocket. A little smaller than his palm, it was roughly wrapped in newspaper. It reminded her of how equally crap her dad had been at wrapping. She cocked her head questioning. “Something to bring you luck for the new venture,” he said, with a slightly shy smile.

  Thanking him, she carefully unwrapped what could only be described as an amulet, an oval golden engraving of a woman holding barley. Jen smiled widely.

  “Ninkasi. Goddess of brewing.” Her smile grew further as she turned the metal over in her hand. It was old and hand-worn. It was beautiful. She loved it.

  “It seemed apt,” he said gazing at her, which made her blush all over again. This blushing thing was something only he made her do. It certainly wasn’t anything she had any sway over.

  She stood up and moved to open the back door, clutching Ninkasi to her chest. Instinctively she held out her hand. “Wanna see where the magic happens?”

  By brewery standards, the outbuilding was of course tiny – it could probably have fit inside one of the vessels attached to the building he worked in – but it wasn’t minuscule. But standing in there with him, as he took it all in, Jen suddenly felt the compactness of the space and the close proximity it put them in. She made room for Ninkasi in the centre of her awards shelf, then slid up on the counter like Lydia normally did, to put a little distance between them, lest she faint. It allowed her to watch as he slowly turned, assessing the room, observing her neat organisation, her chalkboard planning and the actual brewing that was happening right here, right now.

  He struck her as a different man from the Yakob she’d seen at Brewing Live. There he’d clearly been a business man, aware of how he appeared to others, more formal as he nodded briskly to people they passed. But he was also different from the Yakob she’d met on the boat, so relaxed in his home. This Yakob, looking at all the elements of the space, breathing in the scents with clear intent, was both lost in memories and also more relaxed than ever she’d seen him. Compared to her, he had always been the epitome of chilled, but this was a new level. It was like he’d come home. Watching him almost felt intrusive. Her sanctuary clearly had some similar meaning for him.

  She could hardly breathe waiting to hear his appraisal.

  “It’s perfect,” he said, pulling himself out of his daze, leaning back against the opposite counter, crossing his arms, flexing the muscles in those lovely forearms of his. You’re perfect, she thought. Catching herself, she pulled two bottles from another shelf, hoping her hair might hide her blushing face.

  “This is the show winner,” she said uncapping them and passing him one. He studied the label before taking a swig. He closed his eyes while he thought about it. It gave her a chance to run her eyes up and down him. He was really here, in her brewery, as opposed to in her memories.

  “Hyld,” he said in Danish, “elderflower.”

  She nodded to show he was right and to go on. She was grinning like a fool already. “It tastes like summer.” He gave her a big smile, clearly proud of his skills and also impressed with what she’d done. “It’s refreshing, but comforting,” he went on, talking as much to the bottle as the brewster. “Like lazy days. That’s brilliant.” She wanted to fling herself at him. He got it. He understood what she was doing with that beer.

  He bounced up on the counter next to her, their shoulders almost touching. His hands gripped the edge as hers did.

  “It reminds me of my Morfar’s brewing room. The smells, the equipment, all of it.”

  She took a punt. “Admit it, Yakob, you want to have a go. It calls to you.”

  “It’s nostalgia, that’s all.”

  She didn’t believe him. “Strange. Your eyes don’t light up in the same way when you talk about the numbers. Some things you can’t hide. It’s in your blood,” she whispered.

  He took a moment to think about it. “Some doors in life close as you get older, don’t they, Jen?” There! That was tantamount to an admission. She was right and Jen felt duly smug. “You were correct on the telephone the other night. My family wanted me to take a different path and I did not want to disappoint them.” Oh. Her smugness switched to sadness. Her parents had always encouraged her to pursue her interests. “So I followed the numbers as they wished, but I get to use them in a brewing environment. That is a win-win situation, no? And I am good at what I do.” He wasn’t bragging. He had always owned his numerical adeptness and more recently his corporate sharkiness, and yet Jen felt he was trying to convince himself that he really was in a win-win situation, having turned his back on the actual alchemy of brewing. She wasn’t quite sure what to say.

  Yakob turned abruptly to face her. “Jen, this has to be one of my favourite breweries, but you know you can’t stay here, yes? It is too small for what you need if you are going to supply other people.”

  “I do,” she conceded, but knowing she’d still keep this for testing new recipes. This would still be her lab. It was also her link to her dad, his framed photo on the shelf where Ninkasi now stood. They were both brewing gods to Jen. “I’ve been doing the figures based on what I sell at the markets. I’m going to invest in a six-barrel kit, with mash tun, the lautering system with a heat exchange and three fermentation vessels for a start. So, a big outlay, but you have to speculate to accumulate, right?” He was nodding along, listening to her thoughts. “I up
graded from a small kit to this kit when I started selling at the markets, I’ll just have to do it again. More spend, more paperwork, more permits, but I’m not scared of that.”

  “And a location.” He looked from the ceiling to the floor. “Those vessels won’t fit.”

  “I’m on that one too, smartarse.” She deliberately knocked him with her shoulder, and felt the skin of their little fingers touch. Neither moved away. “I found somewhere. Somewhere totally perfect.”

  “Tell me.”

  Reluctant as she was to remove her hand, she grabbed the photo behind him.

  “So this is my dad. I think he and your Morfar would have got on.” She gave Yakob a quick smile. “I owe him all of this. But what you need to look at here is the workshop behind him …”

  She told him all about it, somewhere along the way setting the picture back, freeing her hands to illustrate her grand plan. Her heart was hammering from her excitement. Just as it had when she’d been telling him about the beer on his boat.

  “And you own this already?” he asked when she finally finished.

  “I do. We do. Lydia and I.”

  “It’s perfect,” he said, looking her right in the eyes.

  “Perfect,” she agreed, caught in the depth of the cornflower blue and desperately trying to regulate her breathing as it was still recovering from her enthusiastic expounding, but also rather wobbly at their faces being in such close proximity. “I could show you the arch. If you like,” she said in a low husky voice she didn’t quite recognise as her own. The atmosphere had changed somewhat. There was a charge there she couldn’t put a name to.

  “Do you want to leave?” he asked, his own voice suddenly rather hitched.

  She slowly moved her head from side to side, eyes still locked on his, and giving in to the need to swallow. Her mouth was parched, but in spite of having a beer in her hand, she couldn’t bring herself to use it.

  “Show me another time?”