Any Luck at All

by Denise Grover Swank

  Like she wanted to be.

  Don’t be a fool, Georgie. She went to the restroom, smiling a little as she changed out the toilet paper, and when she washed her hands, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. If she could see the guilt in her eyes, would he?

  When she returned to the living room area, River still hadn’t come in, so she took a moment to survey the space. He definitely couldn’t be accused of buying his pieces from a furniture showroom floor, but while his furniture was obviously older, each piece looked well-worn and loved. He was a man who found value in things others might discard, and she sensed he had a deep loyalty to those he cared about. More guilt washed over her.

  She needed to get a handle on that or she’d never make it to the Brewfest Competition next March.

  Torn, she ran her hand over a cracked leather side chair, letting herself think about River sitting there, reading one of the books from the case. Multiple photos lined the fireplace mantel—Dottie and Beau with a mountain view behind them. River with a man around his age, both beaming. They stood in front of a banner that said Brewfest Competition, and River was holding a blue ribbon. An older photo of a beautiful woman with long blond hair and River’s eyes, only hers looked troubled, taken in what appeared to be a jungle. But it was a photo of River with a cute woman with curly red hair that triggered an unexpected surge of jealousy.

  Georgie was falling for him, something she could not do. Coming here had been a bad idea.

  The living room and dining area were strewn with the puppy’s mess, so she started picking up the ripped tissue and fluffy batting. She had a good portion of it scooped up when the door opened.

  “Georgie, you don’t have to do that,” River said apologetically as Hops trotted in next to him on the leash. They were a funny sight—the six-foot-tall River walking a puppy who was all of nine inches tall. He looked all kinds of adorable…and the puppy was cute too.

  “I was just standing around,” she said, giving him a nervous smile and a shrug, her hand full of stuffing and damp toilet paper. “Figured I might as well help.”

  River squatted next to Hops and unhooked the leash. The puppy bolted for Georgie and zeroed in on the bow on her right shoe.

  “Apparently he has a thing for shoes,” River said with a chuckle.

  Georgie picked him up with her free hand and giggled when he nibbled on her fingers.

  River quickly took the trash she’d picked up and then cleaned up the rest and dumped it. After he examined the carrier, he declared it defective and murmured something about Maisie setting him up. Georgie wasn’t sure if he was teasing or not, but he seemed good-natured about it, so she supposed it didn’t matter.

  She loved that about him. He’d found the place a mess, and instead of blowing up or getting frustrated, he’d taken it in stride. She could only imagine the reaction her father or brother would have had. Or even her past two boyfriends.

  Turned out all of the men in her life had perpetual sticks up their asses. Maybe Asheville had more men like River. Only when she thought about dating men other than River, a heaviness settled on her chest. An overall wrongness.

  That wasn’t good.

  “So,” she said, stroking the puppy. “About making beer. You’re gonna teach me?”

  “Sure am,” he said, washing his hands at the kitchen sink. “How about we head back to my office, and I’ll start gathering what we need to make our first batch.”

  His office? That had her intrigued, but for some reason, it also made her think of Jack. Maybe because Lee had found out about him in their father’s office.

  What had that phone call been about, anyway? It was none of her business, but it had her worried. What did she really know about him other than that he was a bar manager in Chicago and half of his DNA belonged to her father, which wasn’t exactly a positive tick in the character column? Still, she’d gotten the impression he was fairly trustworthy, albeit slightly intense. She’d only just met him the day before, but it was obvious something had upset him. She wasn’t surprised he hadn’t opened up to her. He barely knew her, and on top of that she was a full-fledged Buchanan kid. He probably resented the hell out of her.

  “I keep wondering about Jack’s phone call,” she said as she followed River through the door across from the bathroom. When he’d called it his office, she’d imagined a desk with a computer, but instead she found a futon pushed against a wall with a window and a wall of shelving on the opposite side. The wooden shelves were lined with bottles and tubing, and all sorts of equipment that looked like it belonged in a laboratory instead of a spare bedroom, as well as multiple containers of grains and pellets, all neatly labeled.

  “I’m sure he’s okay,” River said, his eyes focused on her. Hops made a little sound as if in agreement, or maybe support.

  The tension in her shoulders eased at the tenderness in River’s voice, and she made herself take a mental step back. A romantic entanglement with him was a very bad idea, professional reasons aside. He was the person who inherited the brewery if it failed. It was hard enough to keep that secret without the added guilt that would come with dating him.

  “Yeah,” she said, breaking eye contact. She gestured to the shelving with her free hand. “This looks like serious business.”

  “I suppose it is,” he said as he stood next to her. “Like I said, I made most of my test brews at Big Catch, but it wasn’t uncommon for me to work on some here. Blue Whale was created in my kitchen, and it’s one of our biggest sellers.” His smile dimmed some. “I guess it’s not ours anymore.” Then he seemed to shake it off. “Since we’ll be working on an autumn line, we’ll need to incorporate flavors associated with the season. What comes to mind?” he asked, grabbing a giant pot from the shelf.

  “Pumpkin. Apples.”

  He nodded in approval. “We could make a hard apple cider. Beau never branched outside of beer, so if you’re looking to freshen up the brand, a limited fall cider might be good to throw into the mix.”

  She liked the sound of that. “Yeah. That sounds great.”

  “We can start on something basic. Maybe an East Coast IPA? Beau’s never had one on his menu. IPAs are usually more hop-heavy, so it might seem fitting given our new friend here.” Grinning, he shot a glance at the puffball still cradled in her arms. “But the hops make IPAs bitter. Given your scorecard I think you’d like an East Coast IPA. They’re fruity and have a slight kick of bitterness at the end. They use less hops and rely on yeast for a good portion of their flavor.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said, nodding her head. “You’re the genius, River. You do whatever you think is best.”

  “We’ll work on it together,” he said cheerfully as he opened a double closet door and revealed multiple glass carboys on shelves, a couple of which were filled with dark brown liquid. “We’ll focus on a few varieties of malt I know work well together, and then we’ll play with variations of hops. We’ll finish it off with a British yeast.”

  “Okay.”

  She set the puppy down and helped him carry all their equipment and containers of grain into the kitchen. First River told her the importance of sanitizing every part they would use, starting with the stockpot. Next he weighed the grains on a scale and put them into a cheesecloth bag, then measured out multiple pellets and put them into small glass bowls, explaining why he chose those specific blends and amounts to create a subtle play of flavors. “I went a little heavier on dry hops with Big Catch’s East Coast IPA, but if we tweak it enough, hopefully it will be different enough to be distinctive. I hope it’ll be even better. But we’ll try several different versions so we can see which one we like best.”

  “It’s like black magic,” she said in awe.

  “More like years and years of experience. I’ve made literally hundreds of batches. Some more successful than others.” He laughed. “When I was a kid, Beau always encouraged me to experiment. He let me have free rein, even when he knew the outcome in advance. He was always a firm believer in l
earning from experience.”

  Was that what Beau had intended? For River to gain experience running the brewery for a year, then gain financial control? But Beau could have had no way of knowing she’d hire River as their brewmaster. That part was pure coincidence. Still, while Georgie hadn’t gotten a decent look at the pots and equipment, River had said it was going to need updating. The brewery was cash poor, and it would have to be closed for who knew how many months, which meant Georgie would have to use her own money to keep it running. And if they lost the business, her money would be lost too.

  But losing the brewery wasn’t an option. Georgie was a Buchanan, and Buchanans didn’t lose. Ever. She was going to give this her all, and if they survived after the Brewfest Competition, she’d buy Lee and Adalia out so she could offer River a third of the ownership, something that had been lacking in his collaboration with Finn.

  Feeling better about her decision, Georgie grabbed her notebook and pen from her purse. “Okay, start from the beginning, because I want to learn everything.”

  His eyes twinkled. “There’s that pen again. I’ve been waiting.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  They’d made three batches of IPA, each with subtle differences to the grain ratio. The first time Georgie had just watched him, the second time she’d helped with the measurements, and the third time he’d let her do it all on her own.

  He’d liked watching her work. She’d had a determined look on her face the whole time, a nice change from whatever dark emotions she’d been left with after Jack’s disappearing act. She had indeed taken notes while watching him earlier, extensive notes, and she’d referred to them at least a dozen times, a tiny line appearing between her eyebrows.

  There was no denying Georgie Buchanan was a force to be reckoned with. Still, she knew how to cut loose when she let herself. He’d told her she could pick the music while she brewed, and straight-faced as could be, she’d turned on a ’90s boy band, and proceeded to laugh hysterically at his attempted politeness.

  God, he loved seeing her in his apartment, all the more so because she was making beer, his beer. The pull he felt toward her was more powerful than ever. But he wasn’t going to push her. She’d had enough people pushing her every which way. He would have denied it until he was blue in the face, but Aunt Dottie had him indoctrinated just enough for him to hope that maybe the pink crystal had meant something. If waiting was what it took, he could wait. He would wait.

  “All right,” he said after they poured the water in—okay, so he’d helped with that part—“time for the capping. Feels like there should be a ceremony or something.”

  She looked up at him with shining eyes, her hair pulled back again to avoid getting anything in the brew.

  “It kind of does. I can’t believe I made beer. I mean, I know it has to sit for weeks, and then carbonate for weeks, but still. This is pretty awesome.”

  “Enjoy your drumroll,” he said, tapping against the kitchen counter. “It’ll have to suffice.”

  Grinning, she went to cap the carboy. Which was when Hops, who’d been napping in the living room, darted toward them and took a flying leap. He’d aimed himself at Georgie’s arms, perhaps hoping she’d cradle him again, but she fumbled catching him, and he ended up falling onto the top of the carboy before she could grab him.

  Could the dog fly? He’d never seen such a tiny animal soar so high.

  Hops gave a scared yelp, snuggling into Georgie’s arms. She’d scooped him up quicker than he would have thought possible.

  “Oh no!”

  For a second he thought she was lamenting the fate of her beer—which, fair enough, they’d dealt with enough tainted brew for one day—but then she lifted the little dog, examining him carefully for any injuries.

  Damn. He really wanted to kiss her.

  Instead, he stepped closer and put a hand on her arm.

  “It’s okay, Georgie. He didn’t get hurt. He’s just a little scared.”

  Their eyes met and held, something passing between them, but Hops gave another little yelp and pushed into River’s arms. He snuggled the little puppy closer, kissed his head, feeling Georgie’s eyes on him, and set him down.

  “I never knew a dog could jump that high,” she said, sounding a little flustered.

  “Me neither,” he said with a grin. “He must have some basenji in him.”

  Hops wagged his tail as if in agreement and proceeded to return to his favorite sandal. Maybe he had imprinted on it.

  She cocked her head. “What’s a basenji?”

  “A dog breed known for jumping. I’ve helped my friend Maisie a lot at her dog shelter. It’s given me a somewhat encyclopedic knowledge of dog breeds.”

  He glanced down at the carboy, and she did the same, groaning a little.

  “It’s ruined, isn’t it? We have no way of knowing if there’s any dog hair in there. Maybe I’m cursed when it comes to beer.” She set the cap down on the counter, as if resigning herself to the fact that the beer wasn’t worth capping. Although he knew she’d said the thing about the curse as a joke, there’d been enough actual defeat in her voice for him to realize part of her meant it.

  He leaned toward the counter and started the drumroll again.

  “None of that,” he said. “The drumroll insists you do the honors. There’s no denying the drumroll.”

  A smile crept back onto her face as she plugged the cap in and set up the tubing.

  “But what if there’s hair in it?” she persisted.

  “Then you and I and probably Jack will be the only ones to ever try it. Either that, or it will prove to be the magic ingredient we want to put in all our beers.”

  She grinned at that. “In that case, I think I have a name for it.”

  “Oh yeah?” he asked, taking a step closer, telling himself he was doing it to check on the seal but knowing better.

  “I hereby declare this beer Hair of Hops.” She laughed, that nice warm laugh of hers, and he joined in.

  He let himself touch her arm again but stopped short of leaning in like he wanted to. Like he thought maybe she wanted him to. If—no, when—the time came, he wanted her to meet him halfway. “Now, what do you say we celebrate by eating some of the cinnamon rolls Aunt Dottie left this morning and drinking someone else’s beer? We can figure out what ingredients we’ll need for the cider and a couple of other experiments.”

  “We could have been eating cinnamon rolls this whole time?” she asked with a smile. “What were you thinking?”

  As they sat there scheming over cinnamon rolls and beer, a feeling of contentment rolled over River. It felt right. All of it. The new direction they were discussing, the relaunch of the brand, and…this. Sitting here with Georgie in his home, talking and laughing with her like they’d known each other for their whole lives instead of a couple of days. When he thought of all the time he’d spent not knowing her, he felt almost robbed.

  “Hops is humping your sandal again,” she said, jarring him from his thoughts.

  “Of course he is. When I bring him back to Maisie, he’ll miss that sandal more than he misses me.”

  Her brows knitted together a little, her concentration look. “Are you sure you want to bring him back? He kind of seems like he fits. And we are naming a beer after him. Maybe he can be our Buchanan mascot.”

  He smiled a little, liking the thought of seeing Hops on a T-shirt—it would surely be better than their current selection—but he shook his head. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, although it hasn’t stopped Maisie from trying. She thinks everyone needs a dog, or three. Soul companions, she calls them.”

  “Have you fostered for her before?”

  “No, but I’ve kept a couple of dogs here overnight in emergencies.” He glanced over at Hops and couldn’t help but laugh. The little guy was really going at it. “I guess something about this one just clicked.”

  “You said you helped Maisie at the shelter before. Was that what you were doing before you started a
t Big Catch?”

  It felt a little like cold water had been splashed on him. He didn’t like thinking of those days. The Lost Days, he thought of them.

  “Sort of,” he said. “To be honest, I didn’t have much…direction back then. Maisie helped me. She’s a good friend. She actually started the shelter from the ground up. Her parents passed away and left her the property and some money. She’s always known what she wanted to do.”

  Unlike him.

  “That’s pretty amazing,” Georgie said. “I wish I could say the same.”

  He laughed and shoved his beer back a little. “Really? You strike me as the kind of woman who knows what she wants.”

  His comment hung between them for a moment, heavy with possibilities, and he saw a flash of something in her eyes. Finally, she said, “Wanting something isn’t the same thing as going for it. Sometimes you can’t.” She cleared her throat, her cheeks flushing a little. “You know, my dad had always told us kids he’d finance us if we had a good start-up idea. So after I graduated business school, I spent weeks putting together my proposal for Moon Goddess. I had a whole hour-long presentation planned. Do you know how much of it he listened to before refusing me?”

  He reached across the table and put his hand over hers, needing to touch her, to comfort her. “I can tell from the look in your eyes it wasn’t long.”

  Which made him want to pummel the stuck-up asshole for being too blind to see his own daughter.

  “Seventy seconds. That’s how long he gave me. He said it would never work, that he was ashamed his daughter would ask for help with something like feminine products. He thought it was a disgrace to the family name.” She looked at her hand, that little crease appearing between her eyebrows, but she didn’t pull away. “He gave Lee a job as soon as he graduated. I was never offered one. I’ve never had an interest in real estate, but for a while that was what I thought I wanted. Or I guess I wanted him to want it. But Georgie Buchanan stopped being his replacement son the second he got a real one.”