by Crowe, Liz
“What part did you not understand?” He kept his voice even. He did not need to be pushed around by a bunch of sales people. Evan had said it himself. This was his brewery to run. He called the brew schedule. They made a lot of lagers which implied time in storage and he was determined to get his head around some of the bad batches they’d had come out of here before he arrived. That meant time. That meant her precious fucking amber ale was delayed.
She closed her eyes, obviously trying to keep her cool. He smiled at her, his level of horniness ramping up a thousand fold at the sight of the fire in them when they re-opened. “The part about the amber ale being my best off-premise seller and you being out of it, you ass. That part.”
“Well, I need the storage space to do some krausening on the blonde, to make sure it’s ready for summer, and to work out the shittiness you guys had going on in your pilsner.” He took a breath, willing his hardening cock soft. I really need to get laid. He gritted his teeth. “I call the shots back here, Suzanne. Remember?”
“Yes, Blake, I do.”
He shivered as she spoke his name, but let fury rule the day as she continued.
“But, you have no fucking shots to call if I—if we—don’t sell. If my customers want the Big House Amber and I have to tell them, ‘Our brewer is too busy dicking around with a perfectly good recipe just to feed his own ego. Sorry, you can’t have it. I’m sure you will find another good microbrewery to replace us with.’ That makes me very unhappy and makes the numbers at the end of the month an ugly red color. You do know what that means, right, brewer?”
He stood, nearly blinded with anger, knocking into the half-assed table they used to conduct their meeting. Coffees and profanity flew. But he never took his eyes from hers. “Fine. I’ll readjust. But, my ego is gonna be tied pretty fucking closely to this place soon. You’d best get used to it.”
By the time he’d sorted through the complications of changing the brew schedule to accommodate the increased demand for the amber, he’d calmed down. The two assistants he’d hired were scurrying around doing their various busy-work as he concocted the next day’s recipe. She was right, but he would be damned to hell and back before he admitted it to her. Before he knew it, the clock stood at nearly seven p.m. He’d been at it since 7 a.m. with only about an hour’s break.
“For a guy who’s been at work for nearly twelve hours you look pretty fresh.” He jerked his head back and up and connected nicely with the hard stainless of the brew vessel he was checking for leaks.
“Son of a fucking…” he muttered rubbing the rapidly growing knot on his skull. “Oh. You.” He muttered ignoring the zinging that flew through his veins at the sight of her jean-clad form by his side. The music that he and the brew boys kept on all day swirled around them. She held a fresh pour from the Tap Room.
“Peace offering?” She smiled. He tried not to match it. She had to know how pissed he was at her little stunt in the meeting. He stripped off his heavy-duty gloves and hung them beside the brew house, ignoring her as best he could, but her very presence encompassed him, making him tense, horny and unhappy all at the same time. “C’mon Blake. Have a beer with me?” She held it out, pouted a little. He knew she was manipulating him. He felt the basic male in him react, but he wrestled it back down. He would not be played.
“No. Thanks. Got a date. See you tomorrow.” Without looking at her, and risking being a pussy, he left.
Chapter Two
Two Months Later
“Blake!”
He grunted, rolled over, tried to grasp where he was and who was with him. The phone chirped. “Blake!” The strange voice coalesced in his brain, reminding him he’d gotten laid last night.
“Phone!” The guy held out his device.
He grabbed it and hit answer. “What!”
“Where the fuck are you?” Suzanne’s voice shattered his sleepy haze.
“Uh, home?” He sat, rubbing his hand over his face. He’d managed to find a pretty good rental deal on a downtown condo, given the current shitty real estate market and thanks to his sister. “Why? Jesus, Suzanne, it’s Sunday.” He groaned and flopped back on the bed, watching the taut backside of the guy he’d picked up the night before. At that moment, he could not even remember the man’s name. He put a hand over his eyes.
“God dammit Blake, we were going to…”
He groaned. “Oh shit. I totally forgot.”
“I can see that. I’m here. On a Sunday. It’s nine a.m. My sales staff is here. Ready to brew. You are apparently still in bed?”
“Yeah.” He had no answer. She was right. Damn her. “Give me twenty minutes.” He was supposed to be running a mini brew school. That morning at eight thirty. Shit. He’d spent so much damn energy avoiding her he’d even let himself forget this “special” Sunday event for the staff.
“Never mind. I sent them all home.” Blake put his head in his hands. “Obviously not a priority for you, so…”
“Listen, Suzanne, I’m sorry. I can make it happen I swear. Call them back. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“Do whatever you want.” He stared at the phone that had gone dead in his hands.
“Fuck!” He hurled it down on the bed, leapt in for a record-setting shower before heading for the door.
“Hey…” the man tried to waylay him with a kiss. Blake cut it off, put his hand on the guy’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry. I usually don’t, uh,”
“Fuck and run?” The guy smiled at him and patted his rough jaw. “It’s okay lover. I get you. Have a nice life. I can see myself out.”
Blake winced and cursed himself all the way to his truck and during the short drive to the brewery. He usually did not pick up strange men, or women, for that matter just for a quickie. For once he was grateful he had, taking the edge off his extreme horniness. He felt equipped to handle Suzanne without letting his overworked libido get in the way.
He squealed to a halt outside the brewery, jumped out of the truck and threw the door open. The place was dark. “Shit,” he muttered. No matter how he felt about her, blowing this off was a big deal. He ran a hand down his face. Might as well get ready for next week. He’d pulled the amber ahead on the brewing schedule so he had to double up on Monday to fill the larger fermentation vessels with the other beers that he could move out of the way in order to match her sales staff’s success with the mild red brew. A small sound made him look up. He took a step further into the room. Burbling buckets next to each fermenter made their usual noises and the pinging of the air compressor did its thing. All noises he knew well. He cocked his head to the side, listening for it again.
A sniffle, a hiccup, and then… he tossed the clipboard on the table and strode between the tall, stainless steel vessels. He stopped when he saw her with her hands propped on the lab table and shoulders shaking. He cleared his throat and she whirled around. The look in her eyes startled him. A combination of fear, anger, and, was it relief? Blake felt something start buzzing in the vicinity of his lizard brain. The part of him that needed to protect, to shield her from whatever it was that had her so upset, nearly made him stumble closer and grab her. But he stayed put, gritting his teeth.
“Sorry,” she wiped at her eyes. “I um…,” glancing down at her phone she sighed and held up a hand. “Hang on.” She put the device to her ear. “Yes?”
Blake watched, the protective buzz getting stronger by the second as she walked away, whispering into the phone. Realizing he had no business whatsoever doing it, he followed her, needing to hear her end of the conversation.
“I know Mitchell. I’ll be home later.” A pause. “No. He’s not. What difference does that…sorry.” A longer pause. “How is this any different that you being on call on the weekends?” A short pause. “Okay. I will be. I promise. Now, please let me work.” He backed away into the shadows and saw her slump against a conditioning tank, and nearly chewed a hole on the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling at her, to ask what was wrong. Clenching his
fists, he forced himself to whistle, to fuck around with shit in the lab. Then, he got an idea.
“Hey.” He called out, knowing she’d hear him. “You’re here. I’m here. Let’s brew.”
There was a few seconds of silence. “How long will that take?”
“A few hours, four at the most.” He walked over to the mill room, determined to make this happen, to do the brew school, anything to share time with her and, in the process, hopefully find out what was going on.
She emerged from the shadows. Her face was drawn and her eyes positively haunted. Deciding to ignore that in hopes of getting more out of her once they were hard at work, he held out some heavy rubber gloves. “C’mon doll. You can’t be a beer wench unless you’ve actually brewed.”
That did it. The smile was one he knew, and was growing to love in ways that terrified him. “Fine. Gauntlet thrown. Consider it picked up, brewer.” She grabbed the gloves.
By the time they had the wort happily boiling, Blake knew he was an utter goner. She took to everything, shied from no challenge, hefted malt bags, calculated complex equations for gravity, even made a few pretty good suggestions about the hops to use. Blake showed her how to measure the aromatic pellets of brewing magic, handed her the buckets and she poured them in, smiling as the steam took on a distinctive odor he loved. “I love this part of the process.” She said as she stared into the huge tank holding the now hop laden sugar water that would eventually become a batch of their distinctive India Pale Ale. He repressed the urge to leap up the steps of the brewing platform and kiss her.
“Huh. Mine too.” He kept it cool, watching as steam swirled around her face. She seemed relaxed, even happy, for the first time since he’d laid eyes on her nearly three months prior. Unable to resist, drawn by something he simply could not name, he climbed the metal steps and stood behind her. She shifted, leaned back into him ever so slightly. He put a hand on her shoulder. But she shook her head, turned and smiled at him, putting a little distance between them again. And the moment was broken.
“Okay,” he croaked out. “Time to work.” She gave him a quizzical look. He handed her the stainless steel trowel.
An hour later she had the heavy remnants of their brew day—the wet, spent grains they started with—scraped down into rubber garbage bins and ready to put outside for the farmer who picked up twice a week. She stood, wiped a hand across her face. “Damn.” He grinned at her from his position by the fermenter where he’d just pitched yeast into the wort for the fermentation stage of brewing.
He fiddled with the connections, even though he knew there were perfect. “Yeah, who needs aerobics, eh?” She looked stunning even in jeans and a t-shirt, covered nearly head to toe with wet, smelly, sticky grains of barley. She laughed and together they hosed off the inside of the tank, the trowel and all of the various implements they’d used in the previous hours. He kept up an inane chatter, talking about chemistry, original gravities, all sort of bullshit just to keep talking. Because, if he stopped, he was certain he would grab her and kiss her, which was probably not the right move at that moment, possibly not ever.
She groaned and stretched her arms. He held out a hand. “Let’s have a drink. Celebrate our first day working together that did not end in profanity and thrown objects.” She looked at it, yearning in her eyes.
“Oh, well…” She plucked her phone from the table and glanced at it.
The look on her face caused a thrill of anger to pass through him. Whoever was communicating with her had scared her. He tried not to interfere, just stood, unwilling to move. “What’s up?” he gestured at the phone.
“Nothing. Okay. One beer. You choose.”
Within minutes they sat on the couch in the Tap Room, feet up on the makeshift table made of crates, holding the first of the bourbon barrel aged series. “Oh hell, Blake this is…” she sipped again, closed her eyes then looked straight at him. “You really are good at this aren’t you?”
He shrugged, sipped his own, noted its imperfections before acknowledging it was pretty damn good even this young. “Yeah. I am. Sorry you have to admit it.”
She bumped shoulders with him, making him gulp. He had never in his entire life felt this worked up over anyone, male or female. He didn’t like it. But had no idea what to do about it. He propped an arm on the couch back, feeling like a kid on his first date. She flopped back, her hair draping over his bare skin. He tried not to shiver too obviously.
They continued to sip in companionable silence, thighs touching slightly, observing the mellow vibe of the Tap Room on a Sunday. Her phone buzzed. She sighed and stared at it, then over at him. He smiled, hoping he didn’t give away the raw emotion churning in his gut. “Well,” she touched his leg nearly making him leap out of his overwrought skin. “Gotta go. Thanks, Blake. Seriously. This was,” she held up her empty glass, “exactly what I needed.”
She rose, her small frame full of tension again. Blake forced himself to stay silent and still as she greeted a few customers, set her glass on the bar and left. Hauling himself out of the couch, he stretched and headed back into the brewery to do a few more things before heading home. He made some notes on the IPA board, ran his hand over his rough jaw, entertaining the concept of growing a beard, realized he had his black belt test in a week. Willing himself to think about everything, anything, but Suzanne and that look of fear that had passed over her face. The whole strong-professional female vibe she cultivated had cracked, given him a look at the real her. It made him even crazier than before.
The soft snick of the back brewery door made him look up, a greeting on his lips for what he assumed was likely his second brewer. The guy was OCD about this process, which was the very reason he’d been hired. He blinked at the bright sunlight backlighting the figure in the doorway. “Cal?” He called out, looking back down at this laptop screen. “Hey man, I, um, we went ahead and did the IPA today so…” A touch on his arm made him turn.
His heart pounded again at the sight of the lovely redheaded woman who starred in all his most vivid recent fantasies. “Hey,” He started to try and deflect, but she put her lips to his so fast he knew nothing else. Nothing but her. After a half second of surprise he cupped the back of her neck, held her close, afraid this was yet another dream and he’d awake to nothing. She slid her arms around him, opened her lips to his tongue and he couldn’t repress a groan as he dove into her mouth. Their hands roamed all over each other in a strange dance of desperation. He turned her so her back was against the tall worktable, kissed his way down her neck, cupped a breast as she sighed and fisted her hands in his hair.
“Blake,” she whispered. “Wait.”
“Hell no. I am not waiting.” He mumbled against the intoxicating deliciousness of her skin. “I can’t.” He shifted, sensing her hand make its way toward the stiffening under his zipper. But then, as soon as it started, it was over. The phone buzzed in her back pocket; she lifted the damn thing up and stared at it. Blake caught a glimpse of the name “Mitchell.” She tucked it back into her jeans, cradled his face between her hands.
“I just wanted to thank you.” She brushed her lips over his. He shuddered, realizing this was indeed a fucking nightmare. He ran his hands up the pebbling skin of her arms, frowning as she flinched when he reached her biceps. The bizarre, possessive buzzing started up again. He pushed up the sleeve of her tee shirt. A ring of angry bruises against her porcelain skin nearly made him growl with anger. She sucked in a breath as he stared at it, then up at her.
“What the fuck?” he started, but she pulled away, yanked her sleeves down.
“Oh, I was rollerblading. Nearly fell. A friend grabbed me, kept me from face planting. But I bruise like a peach.” She rubbed one arm, her eyes darting all over the room, anywhere but on him. He put a thumb to her chin, made her focus.
He leaned in to taste her lips, just once more. She met him halfway, sending him further in a downward spiral of lust and need. He broke the clinch this time kissing her nose, her forehea
d, and both cheeks. “Thank me anytime, just like that.” She blushed beet red, turned and darted out the door, leaving him, chest heaving, brain humming, every nerve ending on fire.
Suzanne sat in her car gripping the steering wheel, and tried to calm her pounding pulse. She stared out the windshield. Recaptured the sensation of Blake’s arms around her, of his lips on hers. The memory of that perfect moment when they finally came together made tears press behind her eyes. She sucked in a breath, and answered Mitchell’s millionth call of the day.
“Yes?”
“Where the hell are you now?”
She winced at the familiar tightness in his voice. “In the car, heading home.”
“About fucking time.”
“Aren’t you leaving soon anyway?” She knew this was true and something in her wanted to hear him say it. She’d mostly gotten past the need to provoke her hot-tempered husband a few months ago, when the verbal control he’d always exerted over her had become actual physical abuse. She rubbed her arm, still sore where he’d grabbed her. The lies she’d started concocting sometimes even convinced her that she was not the victim of a brutish man she’d once loved.
“Huh,” he grunted, and she could picture him pacing, running his fingers through his hair, obsessing about her every move. “Yeah. That’s why I wanted you home. I thought we’d, you know, spend some time together today.”
Suzanne closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest of her expensive imported car. Without realizing she was doing it, she brushed her fingers over her lips, attempting to conjure Blake as she placated the man who’d met her the first week of medical school, chased her with flattering intensity and now had turned on her with such shocking ferocity.
“Okay, I’m on my way. Was going to stop for groceries.” She had started calculating ways to avoid him, work around his schedule so she didn’t have to be in the house when he was there. She shuddered at a sudden flash of memory. Mitchell’s handsome, eager face as he went down on one knee and presented his family’s heirloom diamond ring for her. The terror-filled moment when she refused him and he stood, anger clear in his gaze and gripped her arm for a split second before releasing her.
