“And you’re abstract. I bet that causes some debates.”
“Not really. They respect my opinion as I do theirs.” We’ve been friends for years and it’s never been an issue.
“So you agree to disagree?”
“Mostly.”
My attention is stolen when I recognize a rendition of Twin Forks’s “Kiss Me Darling” coming from somewhere nearby.
“What is it?” Lucas asks.
“This song. I can’t believe the band is playing it. It’s one of my favorites.”
Lucas gets up and offers his hand. “Then we have no choice but to dance if it’s one of your favorites.”
He holds my hand as he leads me to the crowd gathered around the folk-rock band on the small stage. “No one else is dancing.”
Lucas gestures toward a drunken man doing something I don’t classify as dancing. “Not true. Look at him. He’s gettin’ down.”
The guy stumbles and nearly face-plants. Clearly, he has sampled a lot of beer today. “He’s going to get down all right. And possibly not get back up.”
“He’s having a good time.” Lucas spins me outward and twirls me back so I’m pressed against his chest. “And so are we.”
He guides me backward, holding my hands while swaying to the beat of the music. He’s leading me to move with him. “Come on, Wren. You don’t strike me as one who cares what people think of you on the dance floor. Just let go.”
He wants me to let go? I can do that. In fact, there’s very little that I do better.
I grab his hands and use them to propel myself away. Releasing one, I spin back into his arms and my back is pressed to his front. Let’s see what he thinks about that.
He laces his fingers through mine and his arms wrap around me, holding my body close to his as we sway with the upbeat tempo of the folk song. And I let him.
I close my eyes, surrendering to the music and to the way this man’s arms feel around me. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched like this. I miss it. I didn’t realize how long until this moment.
There’s been no one since Xavier.
You are mine and no one else’s. I’ll never let anyone else have you. Those were the words he growled against my ear while he used his grip around my wrists to hold me down.
Sex with him was good in the beginning, but it became increasingly rough and painful. After a while, there was nothing hot or sexy about the way he handled me or his need to possess me. I saw something demented in his eyes the last night we were together, and it scared the hell out of me.
But that was a while ago. And I don’t want to think about it right now. I prefer to enjoy being in the arms of this man who seems genuinely interested in me.
Dancing. You know what I love most about it? It’s an acceptable disguise for touching. Rubbing. It’s like making out with your clothes on. And when the song ends, no one has to explain anything. It’s perfectly acceptable to pretend that the only thing you did was move to the music.
I press my body against Lucas, using my hands to encourage his arms to tighten around me, and our embrace grows stronger. The tickle of his beard and warmth of his breath against my neck send a tingle down my body, a message signaling goose bumps to erupt over my skin. No man has done that or had this kind of effect on me in so long.
Lucas rubs his hands up and down my pimpled skin, and I’m certain that he must feel and see the proof of what he’s doing to me. It’s a physical reaction that I can’t control, and there’s no denying or hiding it.
From his lips that are nearly against my ear, I hear him singing the chorus of “Kiss Me Darling” and more goose bumps prickle over my skin. As if I didn’t have enough already.
“You know this song?”
“Listen to it all the time.”
Lucas knowing this song is unexpected and hearing him sing it is hot. Those words against my ear are a huge turn-on.
He squeezes my hand when the female’s solo approaches. “Your turn.”
I tilt my head from side to side to keep tempo and follow his cue to sing when the girl’s lyrics start. I can’t sing for shit. I should be embarrassed but I’m not. I’m having too much fun to care how pitiful my singing voice sounds.
The crowd claps and yells when the song ends. I’m not ready for Lucas to release his hold on me but he does anyway, and we join in praising the band.
“That was fun.”
“It was. I wish I could hang out here with you longer but I’m judging a home-brew contest in twenty minutes. I need to make my way to the judge’s tent before Porter sends someone after me.”
Right. I can’t hog him all to myself even if that’s exactly what I want to do. “I’ve kept you from your responsibilities long enough. Thanks for the dance.”
“I’m sure this contest will be boring as hell to you, but you can come with me if you want.”
I want to go with him but Lucas is a host at this festival. He should be networking and ensuring that things are running smoothly. Entertaining me could prevent him from properly tending to his responsibilities.
“I don’t want to hinder you from doing your job.” Ollie wouldn’t be happy about that at all.
“You won’t hinder me.”
He acts like he wants me to go with him. I think he would have dropped it if he didn’t. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay.”
We pass all kinds of activities on the way to the competition booth. Cornhole boards. Life-size mechanical… something other than a bull. Beer pong. I had no idea there were so many things to do.
“Whoever organized this festival did a great job.”
“We hired a professional event organizer, but Oliver, Porter, and I mostly came up with this stuff.”
“Who suggested beer pong?”
“That was Oliver.”
I knew the answer before I asked. “Figures. He was the beer pong champion in his fraternity.”
“There was a 3K this morning. The organizer insisted we do that.”
I’m not a runner but I might have walked it had I known there was one. “A marathon before a beerathon. Nice.”
“I thought it was a mistake but Lisa was right. We had a huge turnout for the race.”
“You can never go wrong with anything that has ‘thon’ on the end of it. People like stuff like that.”
“I guess.”
“You’re not a runner?”
“No. You?”
I’m fine with exercise but running is not my thing. It’s too jarring. I prefer something calming. “I’m more of a yoga and meditation kind of girl.”
“I can see that about you.”
I’m surprised by the large crowd at the judges’ tent. “Looks like you had a lot of entries.”
“I think there’re fifty-five or so.”
Wow. That’s a lot of beer even if you only taste them. “You’re going to be drunk as a skunk by the time you finish sampling all those beers.”
“Porter is splitting the categories with me. I’m judging IPA and the pales, reds, and browns. He’s taking the porters and stouts and anything falling into the other categories like sours, lagers, etcetera.”
“A sour beer?” The thought of it makes my face pucker. “That sounds weird. I’m not sure who’d want to drink that.”
“You’d be surprised by how tasty they can be.” His brows lift and the corners of his mouth turn up. “You should do the tasting with me.”
I can’t judge beer. “I drink beer but I’m not a connoisseur. I don’t know what the different types should taste like.”
“It’s called quantitative parameters. Oliver and Porter taught me all about it and I can teach you.”
Beer is my brother’s livelihood. I wouldn’t mind learning more about it. Maybe then I’ll understand what sparked his interest in brewing. “I’ll give it a try.”
Lucas holds up a single finger to a man wearing an Iron City T-shirt. “We need another chair at the judges’ table for Mi
ss Thorn.”
Porter approaches me from behind and wraps his arm around my shoulder. “You’re going to help Lucas judge his categories?”
“I’m going to taste them with him. I doubt I’ll do any judging.”
Iron City T-shirt guy returns with my chair. “Where you want this, boss?”
“Right here.” Lucas takes the chair from his employee and places it next to the empty one. “It’s time to start. Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
There must be at least thirty bottles on the table. “We have to taste all of these?”
“Yeah. Think you’re up for the challenge?”
My stomach bloats just looking at them. They’re going to be thick and heavy. I just know it. “I don’t know. That’s a lot of beer.”
“Probably not as much as you think. Consider how many swallows you take from a single beer. You’ll probably end up drinking the equivalent of three full beers by the time you’re done tasting each of these.”
“I’m not a lightweight. I just choose to never have more than three.”
It’s not that I’m a fuddy-duddy. I just refuse to let myself get out of control like Jimmy and Christie.
“You can stop anytime you want.”
There are rows of glasses in front of Lucas, each a different shape and size. “I thought I’d be judging alone so I didn’t send an extra set of glasses. I hope you don’t mind drinking with me from the same glass.”
There must be at least a dozen glasses in front of us. “I don’t mind sharing but why would we need to? Looks like there are plenty here for both of us.”
“Glassware is important because the vessel is the first thing you see. Beer that appears pleasing to the eye has already started the mental process for enjoyment.”
“Same as presentation on a dish?”
“Exactly. And the shape of the glass affects the formation and retention of the head, which acts as a net to catch the hop oils, spices, and fermentation byproducts evaporating from the beer. Those compounds are what produce the aroma.”
Lucas pops the top of the first beer and pours it into a wide-mouthed goblet, a thick foam forming on the top. “This is an IPA. India pale ale. A healthy head of foam can help retain volatiles, and using different glassware allows for different levels of head retention, which affects the aroma of your drink.”
“This one has good head?”
A deep chuckle vibrates in his chest and I catch the innuendo that I just made. “Yes, it has good head.”
He watches the beer settle in the glass. “Copper in color and there’s lace around the edge of the goblet. That’s a very good sign.”
He looks at the label on the bottle. “Eight percent alcohol. That’s pretty impressive.”
Lucas brings it to his nose and sniffs before passing it to me. “Sweet golden malt with a touch of Belgian candy sugar. Slightly fruity hops with hints of lemon and wheatgrass. Also, a hint of very light spice.”
He passes the glass in my direction and I mimic his sniffing method but I’m lost. I pick up on a little citrus and spice. Maybe. “My nose needs training. Nothing about that smells like candy to me.”
“It takes time and experience. I didn’t learn it in one sitting.”
Lucas takes a drink and then another. “Smooth malty body. Warm golden malt with a dry sweetness.”
He passes the glass to me, and again, I mimic what he did. “I’m picking up on some fruitiness.”
“Exactly. Fruity hops of apple and berry. There’s a touch of Belgian yeast at the end with fruitier notes on the aftertaste.”
“It’s good. I like it.” That sounds like a dumb response after the detailed description he just gave.
Lucas scribbles his thoughts on a scorecard, and good Lord, it looks like chicken scratch. “Well balanced. Very drinkable. A nice way to begin the competition. This one is a definite contender.”
He pushes the card across the table in my direction. “Have anything you want to say about it?”
“Will the brewer see this?” I don’t want my comments to look amateurish if he or she will be given the scorecard.
“This is for our eyes only. Molly will provide entrants with a professional feedback card based on what we say. It’s okay to say it sucks. I promise we will come across plenty that do.”
I take the pen from his hand. I read my comment aloud as I write while biting the inside of my bottom lip to prevent my lips from curling at the corners. “Has good head.”
I slide the scorecard back to Lucas. “How’s that?”
A series of contained chuckles forces his upper body to vibrate. “I’ve always thought good head deserved proper recognition.”
I don’t think we’re talking about beer anymore.
He reaches for the next bottle. “Moving on.”
7
Lucas Broussard
I watch Wren’s plump pink lips wrap around the rim of the glass as she samples a nutty brown ale. Her tongue darts out to catch a dribble from the corner of her mouth. Sexy as hell. Who knew a home-brew competition could be such a turn-on?
“Definitely nutty.” She reaches for the dark amber bottle. “Hazelnut?”
“Maple pecan.”
She brings the glass to her nose and deeply draws breath into her lungs. “Maple pecan, huh?”
She samples it again. I watch for a trickle in the corner of her mouth, hoping to see the tip of her tongue catch it. But I get nothing. “It’s good but it doesn’t beat Iron City’s hazelnut.”
“Yeah, that’s an awesome one for sure.”
I look at the spread of opened bottles on the table and I’m a little sad that we’re finished. I’ve enjoyed spending this time with her. “That was the last one. Time to choose a winner for this division.”
I drag the three best bottles of home brew in front of us. “These are the top contenders. Which one was your favorite?”
She pushes one of the bottles backward. “The hops were too heavy on this one. Its aftertaste was too bitter and long-lasting for me.”
This one is a quick learner.
“Agreed. The bitterness lingered a little too long in that one.”
I already know which one I like better, but I’m interested to see what she has to say about the remaining two. “Did you favor one of these over the other?”
“I think so but I want to compare the two of them against each other.”
“Good idea.” I pour samples of the remaining candidates into glasses side by side.
“Both have good head,” she says.
I cut my eyes over at her and see a suppressed grin on her face. “True. And lacing is mostly equal.”
I analyze all components and grade the beers on a point system including aroma, appearance, flavor, mouth feel, and overall impression. “It’s close but one of them is a little better than the other.”
“For me, the saison beats the IPA. I’m sucked in by its fruity essence.”
And I’m sucked in by her baby-blue eyes.
We share the same opinion. “Then we agree on the winner. I think our work here is done.”
Lawrence leans forward and rests her elbow on the table with her chin propped in her palm. Head tilted. Dilated pupils. Rosy cheeks. Nibbling on her bottom lip. I know that look. It happens to be one I like very much.
“You’re feeling pretty good, aren’t you?”
She giggles as she leans over and pokes me in my ribs. “You said I’d have three beers, tops. You liiied.” The last word is prolonged and has an especially southern twang about it.
“In my defense, I didn’t know you were going to take your job as my judging assistant so seriously.” I expected her to sip the first few beers and then leave the rest to me. I had no idea she was going to sample all of them multiple times.
“Allow me to tell you a little something about me, Lucas. I don’t anything halfway.” She leans closer so we’re eye to eye. “I go all the way.”
I go all the way. My c
ock twitches when those words leave her pouty pink lips. I swear that I could kiss the fuck out of her right now.
Porter’s hand comes down on my shoulder. “How’d it go over here? Discover any good ones?”
“We had two high scorers. Each was pretty impressive.” I pour samples of both and push them in his direction. “A Belgian IPA and a saison.”
One brow lifts. “Nice. I haven’t had a good saison in a while.”
“We chose that one as the winner.”
“It’s considerably better than the winner for my category. Looks like a saison is going to be the overall best in show.” Porter takes another drink of the beer and nods. “I wouldn’t mind working on a saison recipe with Oliver when he feels up to it.”
Lawrence spins in her chair to look at Porter. “When he feels up to it? What does that mean?”
Well, fuck. Way to go, Porter. I lean behind her back, throw my hands in the air, and mouth, “What the fuck?”
Maybe now I understand a little better why Oliver left the handling of his sister in my hands rather than Porter’s.
He looks at me and then back to Wren. Come on, dude. Pull it together. This is starting to look fishy.
“I just meant he’ll probably be tired from his trip. Traveling usually takes it out of me. I need time to recuperate.”
Nice save. I hope.
“Oh yeah. I’m sure you’re right.” That’s all she says about Porter’s comment, and I release the breath that I’m holding.
We dodged a bullet but I’m pretty sure it’s all thanks to the alcohol she has on board. She might not have let that one go so easily otherwise.
I need to get her away from Porter if he’s going to be so careless with his words.
“There’s a new band on stage. I think you’ll like them.” That’s a damn lie. I have no idea who’s playing. “I’ve heard they’re really good. Want to check them out?”
She sits taller. “Sure. I’m up for it.”
This is a record for me. I’ve never told so many lies in one evening. Thanks a lot, Oliver.
Wren’s arm is looped through mine as we walk toward the stage, and she stops dead in her tracks. “What the hell is that thing?”
Southern Girl Series: Bohemain Girl, Neighbor Girl & Intern Girl Page 7