Damn. Had she ever seen him clean-shaven? Did she ever want to?
"Hey, Jess," he said, and her uterus trembled.
There was that feeling again, that dangerous feeling, that they were meant to be together. Scratch the surface of that, and you'd end up unhappy and worse than when you were alone...but still.
"Your brother is so handsome," breathed the young woman behind the bar.
"You need to get over that, Jordan," Colleen said. "First of all, he's really ugly. Secondly, he's your boss."
Connor ignored them both. "Let's go sit down." He put his hand on her back and guided her to the last, most private booth.
Jess found that her mouth was dry. Other parts were not.
Had she actually broken up with him? Or was it the other way around? And what was the reason again? Because not only could the man cook--that lasagna had been unfreakingbelievable--he looked like a sullen angel, that dark, dark brown hair, the blue eyes, those big, manly hands, the smear of something across his chest.
"How are you?"
"Oh, good. Good, good. I'm good."
"Good." There was a smile in his eyes. "Things okay with your father?"
Right. She shrugged. "Things are stable."
He nodded. He had the most beautiful mouth; lips that were full and soft and brooding--could lips brood?--and when he smiled, she could actually feel it, a warm force that practically knocked her on her back, and hey, if she was on her back, they might as well--
"Let me get you a drink," he said. "Sorry, I should've offered first thing. Seltzer and cranberry, lemon twist, right?"
"Yes. Thanks."
He went off to the bar. There was a crash as the new girl dropped something, then the low rumble of Connor, reassuring her, no doubt. He went behind the bar and the girl--Jordan, was it?--swayed on her feet, her face fire-engine red as Connor bent to pick up the pieces of whatever she'd broken. Her heart, maybe.
First a date with Marcy. Now the pretty bartender with a huge crush.
She was going to have to find a way to make that okay in her head.
Connor deserved to be with someone great. Rumor had it that Colleen was on the case, so it'd be a matter of months before he was in love with someone.
She remembered the time she'd seen him kiss that redhead, and how it felt like a razor slice with an acid chaser.
But she'd turned him down for all good reasons, and he'd been generous enough to offer his friendship, anyway.
She wondered if everyone knew how incredibly decent Connor O'Rourke was underneath his grumblings. How many men would do that?
She could only think of one.
"First-day jitters for Jordan there," he said, setting her glass in front of her.
"And a massive crush."
He rolled his eyes and sat down across from her. "So what have you got?"
"Behold," she said. She dragged her laptop out of her bag and opened it, clicked a few buttons, then turned the computer so Connor could see it.
The first slide was the brewery logo, using the same font the pub used. But it was even better; Jess had enhanced the colors, giving the brown letters a shadow of gold, adding some Victorian-style corners.
Connor nodded. "Nice."
But this was dumb. She slid around to his side of the booth and sat next to him.
He was warm. He smelled like garlic. Her uterus trembled again.
The next few slides were mock-ups of labels for the types of beer he planned to produce: India Pale Ale, Amber Lager, Pilsner, Porter, Stout. Each had its own label--the Dog Face IPA was her favorite, featuring an antiqued photo of a collie, after his sister. She glanced at his face; there was a slight smile there.
"You'll have to give me a description of what each beer will taste like," Jess said. "Same kind of idea as wine tastings--boldly hopped, caramel maltiness, whatever you have in mind. I made these up, obviously."
"Boldly hopped, huh?" His smile grew.
The next slides detailed some data--the fast rate at which microbreweries were expanding into the area, the increased revenue for five comparable breweries, the tourism statistics for the Finger Lakes.
And then a picture of Connor himself, at the stove in the restaurant kitchen, flipping a pan of something, flames leaping. His face was intent and serious, and he looked ridiculously handsome.
There was that tremble again. The thought that she was sitting right next to Smokin' McDamn made it almost painful.
"Where'd you get that picture?" he asked.
She cleared her throat. "Colleen. She gave me the numbers on the restaurant, too."
Connor's credentials were listed in bullet points--education, experience, awards, reviews. Next came O'Rourke's booming success and statistics--fourteen hundred percent profit growth in the first three years, sustained growth since. A little bit about Tim Parsons and his experience in brewing--not much, but enough.
Then came the point that would set O'Rourke's Brewing apart from the other microbreweries. Connor's knowledge of flavors, beer that was sophisticated and elegant enough to pair with the best meals, as well as to be enjoyed on its own. She'd lifted pictures of beer from the internet, as well as pictures of Connor's signature dishes, taken from their website.
"I was thinking you could include recipes to go along with each different beer," Jess murmured. "Buy a growler, get free recipes so the customer could really see how that particular beer enhanced the meal."
"Good idea." He glanced at her, and she felt it, the pull of him. Jordan wasn't the only one affected. Hopefully, Jess's face wasn't beet red, however. She had more practice, after all.
A few more slides showed four fermenting tanks, bags of hops and yeast, all attractively arranged. The dollar amounts Connor had emailed her and what they would go for. Targeted advertising and demographic research.
Then the last slide. The logo again, and the simple message. Make every day special. Drink O'Rourke's.
She looked at him. "What do you think?"
"This is...perfect, Jess." He looked at her, his eyes so damn beautiful, halfway between blue and gray. "Perfect."
She looked away. "I'll just need you to answer some questions about the flavors and correct any mistakes, and you'll be good to go."
"There aren't any mistakes."
"Hey... Hi." It was Jordan, staring with puppy-dog eyes at Connor. She seemed about to swoon, the poor thing, struck dumb with the wonder that was Connor Michael O'Rourke.
"Yes?" he said when Jordan failed to speak further.
"Right. Um, Colleen? She says your mother? She's here."
Colleen herself came over. "You guys almost done?" she asked. "Time for wedding talk, Con. Jess, our mother is marrying the Chicken King and will soon become the Chicken Queen."
"I know. Congratulations."
"Oh, of course you do! You work with her. Well, it's a little freaky, but thank you. We're happy to get another sister, right, Con?"
"I already have too many, but yes."
Jessica nodded. Paulie Petrosinsky was one of the nicest kids from their graduating class, an only child, Jess thought. She'd make a great sister to just about anyone.
"Jordan, sweetheart," Colleen said, "go make my mom a white zin and 7-UP, because I just can't bear to do it, okay?" The girl gave Connor one more longing look and went off, bumping into a table on her way. "Call me crazy, Connor, but I think she has a crush on you. Don't go sleeping with the staff, now." Colleen winked at Jess.
"She's a little young for me," Connor said.
"Yeah, and don't you forget it."
"Why would I forget it? I'm not even--"
"Stop talking," Colleen said. "By the way, I do have a date for you. Tonight. Be here and be clean, okay? Is it so much to ask? And shave that scruff. You look like you're half grizzly bear. Come on, what are you waiting for?" She waddled off.
"You guys are still so cute," Jessica said, standing up.
Connor stood as well, towering over her. "If she wasn't my sister, I'm pretty
sure I'd hate her."
"Liar." She paused. "Does she know?"
"Know what?"
Jess swallowed. "Know about us? Me?"
Connor's eyes dropped for a second. "I didn't tell her. But yes. She does. The twin thing."
Jess nodded. "She's being really nice. I thought she'd stab me if she knew."
"Her stabbing days are mostly past." He just kept looking at her, and she wondered what he wanted to say. It would wring her heart one way if he said he missed her, and it would wring it the other if he didn't.
He looked over at the other table. "Well. I have to go off to hell now and talk about weddings. Colleen's was bad enough. Now my mom."
If she'd said yes, they'd be planning their own wedding. Or maybe, they'd already be married.
"Hey, dude," came a voice. Paulie, who was about five-foot-three and solid muscle. "Jess. How's it hanging?"
"I...I never know how to answer that question. But I'm good. Congratulations about your dad getting married."
"Yeah, it's pretty cool!" Paulie said. "And Con, that means you and Coll and I are kinda related."
He grinned and punched Paulie lightly on the shoulder. It was hard not to feel jealous. "I should get back to Blue Heron," Jess said. "My break is almost over."
"I'll email you with those beer descriptions," Connor said. "Thanks again. This was great." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a check.
"Oh. Um...thanks," Jess said.
Transaction completed.
Maybe he was over her, she thought as he went over to the table where Jeanette was sitting with her fiance and Colleen.
This will be the last time you break up with me.
He really did seem...fine.
Jess's throat was tight.
It would've been nice if she felt the same way. An unexpected wave of longing for the way things had been made her knees wobble. Those secret dates at his place, the way it felt when he opened the door and smiled at her, the way he hugged her so tight. The way he kissed her.
All told, she'd slept with twelve men, eleven of them when she was in high school. Only one since. The only one who'd ever made her feel...cherished.
"Jessica?"
She jumped.
It was her father. "What do you want?" she said, all her soft thoughts blown away.
"Do you have a minute?"
"For what?"
"Just a minute to talk, Jessie."
She glanced around. The bar was mostly empty; the O'Rourke-Petrosinsky group the only people sitting at a table in the back. Victor Iskin was sitting at the bar with his latest taxidermied pet there on display, and Jordan was eying Connor and wiping the same spot on the counter over and over.
"I have to be back at work in fifteen minutes," she said.
"I won't take that long."
With a deep breath, Jessica sat back down in the booth she'd just shared with Connor. Heard him laugh from across the room. Connor didn't know Keith was here; he'd be at her side in a heartbeat if he did.
"What is it?" she asked.
Keith sat down. "I was wondering if you'd given any thought to my request."
He smelled like soap. This was new. In her memory, her father always had that rank smell of cheap beer and stale cigarette smoke. His eyes were clear and blue, the long, straight lashes just like Davey's. He'd lost the gross little beer gut he'd sported and was now skinny as a shoelace.
She didn't say anything.
"I miss him, is all," her father said, his voice husky.
"I'm sure you do," she said. "Eight years is a long time to go without seeing someone."
Another chorus of laughter came from the O'Rourke table.
"I owe you an apology for what I said last week," Keith said. "You didn't exaggerate anything. Your mother and I let you be the adult while I did nothing. I acknowledge that, and I'm sorry, Jess. You deserve the Medal of Honor as far as I'm concerned."
"I love my brother more than anything or anyone. When I tell you I would kill anyone who'd hurt him, don't think I'm exaggerating."
"Oh, I believe you," her father said with a sad smile. "You always were so fierce. Listen, I just want to see him. You can breathalyze me. Call my sponsor at AA if you want. I've waited over a thousand days for this, to make sure it would stick this time, that I could do it. Please, Jess. It can be however you want it. Just give me a chance to see him."
She could feel the pulse in her stomach.
Davey had been so quiet this past week. A little somber, which was so unlike him, except for when Mom had died.
And he'd been so happy to see their father the other night.
Jessica glanced at her watch. Then she looked at her father. "We have drum circle tonight at seven over at the Art League. Next to the pizza place. You can come to that. Nothing afterward. You tell Davey you have to go when he asks if you can come over."
"Oh, Jessie, thank you," he breathed. "Thank you."
"It goes without saying that if I ever smell even the faintest hint of alcohol on you, I'll get a restraining order. I used to sleep with the police chief, don't forget." She stood up, suddenly desperate to get back to work, to her clean office, to her tidy computer files.
"Understood." Her father grabbed her hand. "I won't let you down."
She pulled her hand away. "That would be a first."
*
"COME ON," DAVEY SAID. "I don't want to be late for drum circle! I love drum circle! Jess! We're gonna miss drum circle!"
"We're not late. See? It's ten of. Just calm down." But Davey was out of the car and running for the entrance the second she pulled into the parking lot.
Jess got out and sighed. This wasn't what she yearned to do in her free time, but boy, did Davey love it.
Drum circle was exactly what it sounded like--a circle of people sitting on hard metal chairs with a lot of different types of percussion instruments to choose from, from bongo to Toca to maracas to Davey's favorite, the cowbell. Jess generally went for the wooden block and stick, one of the less desired instruments each week.
Davey wasn't the only special needs person here; Brody Tatum, a Downs kid, was here with his parents; Jess had waited on them dozens of times. Miranda Cho, who worked with Davey at the candle factory, was also here with her mother, who waved to Jess.
"Hi, Miranda," Davey said, running up to her. "What's your favorite instrument? Mine's the cowbell. I love cowbell!" They had this conversation every week, verbatim. Well, Davey did. Miranda didn't answer; Jess had never heard her speak. But she glanced at Davey with a shy little smile and went to the center of the circle, grabbed a big African drum, then sat down. Davey sat next to her, and Jess next to him, block and stick ready.
Tanner Angst--his real name--sat down on Jess's other side, the better to bathe her in his tormented artist black cloud. Tanner felt he should've been the next Dave Matthews back in high school--and yes, she'd slept with him, once, and he hadn't even been that good at looking out for Davey. He'd been the king of cool back then, but one semester at Berklee College of Music had shown him he wasn't quite the special snowflake he thought. He now taught music at the middle school. Four years ago, he'd asked Jessica out and hadn't yet forgiven her for turning him down, yet also couldn't stay away from her. Some people could pull off brooding, Jess thought, picturing Connor. And some people just looked stupid.
She kept looking at the door. She didn't have to wait long; Keith Dunn came in at two minutes before seven.
"Dad!" Davey was out of his chair and racing across the circle to greet their father.
"Hey, son!" Keith gave him a long hug, then tousled his hair. "Is it okay if I stay?"
"Yes! Yes, it is, Dad! Come sit with us. Come on! Get your drum. Or you can have the triangle! Here! Here's the triangle! This is my best friend Miranda. Miranda, this is my father! Jess! Dad is here!"
"So I see."
"Isn't it great?"
"Yes." She managed to smile at her brother, but her heart was thudding. "Sit next to me, why do
n't you?" she said to her father. That way, she could smell if he'd been drinking. She turned to Tanner. "Do you mind moving over a seat?"
"Oh, Jessica. I didn't see you there," he said. "Fine. Whatever."
Her father smelled like Ivory soap. Not a hint of booze, and Jess was an expert.
She felt a tiny stir of hope, then cut it off. Her father was here; he was sober at the moment; Davey was happy. That was all. Reading into it, or expecting it to last, would be idiotic.
"Thank you for this," her father said quietly. She nodded once.
The circle was full now, and populated with some of the odder ducks in Manningsport, the creative souls who yearned to break free from the constrains of ordinary life. Jess stood out a little, as someone who had no rhythm--as shown by her aborted attempt at stripping--and as someone with no yearning to express herself artistically, someone who would quite love ordinary life.
"Gang, we're here to express ourselves artistically," said Debbie Meering, who ran the Art League. "This is a time for us to reach deep into our souls, envisioning our primordial roots in the swamps of time."
Every week she came up with something weirder. Jess tried, unsuccessfully, not to roll her eyes.
"Let's think back to the heartbeat of the brave little frog," Debbie went on, "who decided to be the first to venture out of the slime of the past and bravely leaped onto the shores of today."
Her father snorted.
Jess turned to look at him. He cut her a guilty smile, then looked at Davey. "I love cowbell," he said. "I got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell."
Well, well. Her father had a sense of humor. Same sense of humor she had, apparently, since she loved that old Saturday Night Live skit.
"Are you sick, Dad?" Davey asked. "Do you have a fever?"
"No, no, Davey. Just joking around."
"Tanner," Debbie said with a disapproving frown at Jess and her father, "will you lay down a rhythm for us, the rhythm of that brave little frog's heartbeat?"
There was another small snort, and Jess almost smiled herself.
Weird, the idea of laughing with Keith Dunn.
Tanner started with a basic rhythm, which the drum circle picked up. Even Jess could follow it, so long as she didn't think too hard. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. It was when people started getting fancy that she screwed up. Taptap. Tap... Tap. Okay, time to fake it.
Her father wasn't much better, pinging away at a triangle at irregular moments. Davey was pretty good, though, and Miranda kept whacking out the, er, heartbeat, steady and loud. There were two actual drummers in the group who made them all sound pretty fantastic, adding beats and riffs and whatever else they were called.
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