“Hey, Babycakes,” Hailey’s dad says as he joins us. He kisses her forehead before lifting his chin to Aiden.
“Hi, Pops.” Hailey tilts her head toward the crowd. “You’re not mad?”
“Nah.” He smirks. Oh goodie. If he’s not mad, then he’s already planning his revenge on his former Army buddies. I can’t wait.
“Hey, Shorty,” he greets me. “Your Shorty’s Holiday Brew is selling like hotcakes.”
“You’re Shorty of Shorty’s Holiday Brew?” Grayson asks as he steps up behind me.
I scowl. I don’t like people knowing about my little micro-brewery. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not embarrassed. I’m merely not ready for everyone to know is all. I want a chance to figure out what I’m doing with my brewing before I shout about my beer from the rooftops.
“Where’s Phoebe?” I ask instead of answering him.
“Right here,” Phoebe answers as she pants for breath. One look at her hair is all it takes to know why she’s struggling for breath.
“Hey, stud.” I wiggle my eyebrows at Ryker. “Did you switch the security cameras off first?”
Phoebe’s eyes widen to the size of saucers. “Security cameras,” she squeaks.
Ryker pulls her close. “Suzie’s yanking your chain.”
“Thank you for confirming the location of your make-out session.” I clap my hands to get the uncles’ attention. “Who had Ryker’s truck?”
In addition to being pranksters, the uncles are addicted to betting. They bet about anything and everything. And I do mean everything. They even bet about when Hailey and Aiden would have sexy times for the first time, although the bet ended up being a test. I was not amused. Especially since I won!
“Um, Suzie.” Grayson touches my elbow to gain my attention. I quickly snatch my arm back before he can see the goosebumps his touch causes. He raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry. Can we talk?”
Ugh. Do I have to? Grayson and I are just friends. I don’t want to have ‘the talk’ with him. Hell, I don’t want to have ‘the talk’ with any man ever again. But it’s my fault he wants to chat. I befriended him before Christmas and then I was a total beyotch when Pops invited him for our family Christmas lunch. It was an accident! I was surprised. I don’t do well with surprises.
“Fine,” I huff and stomp off to the hallway leading to the restrooms, the only unoccupied floor space in the place.
I lean against the wall and cross my arms over my chest. “What do you want to talk about?” As if I don’t know.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did to piss you off on Christmas day, but I won’t do it again.”
I raise an eyebrow. “If you don’t know what you did, how are you going to not do it again?”
“Maybe you could tell me what I did wrong, then?”
Ugh. I let my head fall back against the wall. It’s me who should be apologizing to him. It’s not his fault I have not-friendly feelings for him. And not-friendly as in Little Susan trembles whenever he’s near.
I can’t blame her, Grayson is one fine specimen of manhood. He’s five-foot-ten with the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen. I never knew shoulders could be sexy. Let me tell you, they can be. His eyes are the color of whiskey and I do love me some whiskey. And his lips? They look incredibly soft. My lips yearn to touch them and see if they feel as soft as they look. To top it all off, when he smiles, two dimples pop out on his right cheek. Two dimples I want to lick before moving on to lick other naughtier bits of his body.
But I don’t get involved with friends. The whole friends with benefits thing is total and complete bullshit. You can’t have sex with a friend and stay friends. Nope. You either get involved in a relationship – something I do not do – or you ruin the friendship.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I finally say when the silence stretches on too long. I’m not the most patient of people. Silence and me are not good friends. “I was a bitch. I apologize.”
He tilts his head to study me. Please don’t ask why I was a bitch. Please don’t ask why I was a bitch. After a moment, he nods and offers me his hand. “Friends?”
“Friends,” I agree, and we shake hands to seal the deal.
Hailey and Phoebe come rushing into the hallway. “What’s going on?”
Hailey shushes me with a finger over her lips before she moves to lean against the wall next to me. Phoebe stands on the other side of me.
A few seconds later, Wally comes strolling by. He gives Grayson a chin lift before proceeding to the restrooms.
“What—”
Hailey lifts a hand and cuts Grayson off. “Wait for it.”
A loud air horn sounds before Wally can be heard cursing up a storm.
“Classic.” Hailey falls into a fit of laughter.
“Cruel,” Grayson says with a shake of his head.
“He earned an airhorn on the toilet seat when he tweeted it was no pants day at the pub.” Hailey is quick to defend Pops.
Grayson’s eyes widen. “I was wondering why there was a bunch of pantless men here. Good thing I don’t have Twitter.”
Wally barges out of the restroom. His jeans are wet like he had himself an accident. I bite my tongue to stop myself from laughing out loud. He marches toward us.
“Where’s your father?” He glares at Hailey. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Probably shouldn’t mention your plan to commit murder in front of an officer of the law,” Aiden suggests as he strolls toward us.
Aiden is a police detective. He’d never tell on the uncles, but he sure likes to threaten to squeal on them whenever he’s worried they’re getting out of hand.
He gets right up in Wally’s face. “And if you glare at my woman again, we’re having words.”
Hailey pulls Aiden away from Wally. “And if you call me your woman again, you’re sleeping with the dogs.”
“Good thing Leroy’s potty trained.” I slap my hands against my cheeks in mock surprise. “Oh wait. He’s not.”
“No comments from the cheap seats,” Aiden says before securing Hailey’s hand in his and leading her away. Wally follows them grumbling the entire time. I’m sure he’s already planning another prank.
“I guess the fun’s over. I better find my man before he starts up a search party.” Phoebe waves as she leaves.
She’s not joking. Since she was kidnapped, Ryker is super protective of her. I’m surprised he let her walk to the restroom by herself.
“We good?” Grayson asks once we’re alone in the hallway again.
I force a smile on my face. “Yep. Perfectly peachy.”
I’m a big fat liar. Nothing is peachy. Lusting after your friend is the definition of not peachy. What’s the opposite of peachy? Whatever it is, that’s what I am.
Chapter 3
Don’t worry, be Hoppy
“Uh-huh.” I nod my head despite Mom not being able to see me. “Yep.” Another nod. “Sure.”
I’m standing in my backyard in minus five temps shivering from the cold because I refuse to bring any negativity into my brew shack. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents. Although they retired to Arizona years ago and refuse to visit Wisconsin in the winter – even if it is Christmas – they’re good, caring parents.
But my mom is determined to marry me off. She thinks my being single at thirty-one is a personal failure on her part. She also thinks I should ‘get over my past’ because what Toby did was ‘to be expected’. Pardon? I should expect a man to betray me? If so, she can forget all about those grandchildren ever happening.
Who am I kidding? There is no doubt. She can totally forget about grandchildren happening. I am done with men. A picture of Grayson smiling with his two dimples on display pops into my head. Too bad men cannot be trusted.
“At least promise me you’ll think about it,” Mom insists.
“Sure,” I agree although I haven’t the first clue what I’ve agreed to as all my mind can think about is all the places on Grayson’s body I�
�d like to lick. No, Suzie! No! Licking friends is bad!
“Good,” Mom squeals and claps. “I think Match.com is the best option. The Tinder app seems a bit raunchy.”
Wait! What? Match.com and Tinder? “Um, Mom, I’m not signing up for a dating app.”
She huffs. “You agreed to not less than two minutes ago.”
Crap. I did, didn’t I? I blame Grayson and his lickable body. Damn him.
I backpedal. “I said I’d think about it.”
“Fine. I’ll send you some links. Love you.”
I wait for the click of her hanging up before I sigh. She’s getting relentless. I fear she may break her no trips up north during winter rule to come badger me some more. No thanks.
I take a deep breath and clear my mind of all thoughts of partners and grandchildren. No negative thoughts in the brew shack. I unlock the locks. Yes, multiple locks. Do you know how much brewing equipment costs? And then there’s all the beer I’m storing. Although, there isn’t too much beer stocked now. Pops wasn’t kidding when he said the patrons of McGraw’s enjoyed my Holiday Brew. I’m plum out.
Today I want to try a new recipe for a Session IPA. A Session IPA is more hoppy and has less body than my regular beers, but I think it’ll be a great beer for the spring. We may be deep in a cold-ass Wisconsin winter right now, but spring will come – eventually.
Before I can start brewing, I need to make sure my equipment is clean and sanitized. Hailey thinks I’m an obsessive-compulsive cleaner. I’m not. Seriously, I’m not. But I have experienced an entire batch of ruined beer due to my equipment not being sparkling clean. And ruined beer is putting it nicely. I thought I was going to have rush Hailey to the ER when she started projectile vomiting after drinking one of the contaminated beers. Not an experience I’m anxious to repeat. And I don’t think Hailey is either.
I switch on my brewing soundtrack – because all brewers should have a brewing soundtrack – and start cleaning. Thirty minutes later, my stainless-steel equipment is shining and the phone conversation with my mom is completely forgotten.
“Time to steep the grains!” Yes, I’m shouting out loud to myself. What? I really enjoy brewing beer.
I fill up my brew kettle with the exact amount of water. And it does have to be exact. Trust me on this. The first rule in brewing beer is there are tons of rules, and the second rule in brewing beer is to measure, measure, measure!
I set my timer for twenty minutes and open a book on the Kindle app on my phone. It’s not one of those sex books Phoebe thinks we don’t know she reads. Okay, I read them, too. The girl is on to something with those erotica books. They are addicting! They’re also distracting. Rule number three of brewing – no distractions!
Instead of getting all hot and bothered by my next book boyfriend, I’m reading an autobiography about some sister brewers in Amsterdam who are wildly successful now. Not that I’m trying to make my hobby into a business. Sure, it would be fun to call myself a professional brewer, but I’m realistic. It’s not going to happen.
Once the grains are steeped, it’s time to bring the kettle to a boil. I put my phone away. Boiling the wort requires my full attention.
When my phone beeps with an incoming message, I’m tempted to ignore it. But when it beeps for a second time, I can’t stop myself from looking.
How does a squid go into battle?
Well-armed.
I laugh despite myself. I thought Barney had the market on corny jokes cornered. Looks like Grayson is also a member of the corny joke brigade.
I respond with a gif of a cat eating a piece of corn.
How are you doing, munchkin?
Munchkin? Who you calling munchkin? For good measure, I add a whatchu talkin’ bout Willis gif.
Spoiler alert – I’m totally a munchkin. In my defense, I’m surrounded by giants making my slightly short stature of five-feet-two seem shorter than it actually is.
You up for grabbing a beer?
Smart man. He knows better than to respond to my ire about my height.
Can’t. I’m brewing.
I cringe when I realize what I wrote. I love brewing, but it’s my secret hobby I don’t talk about with anyone. Not a secret hobby like learning to speak Wookie or extreme ironing. Now those are some weird hobbies. Before I have a chance to completely flip out, Grayson responds.
Cool. Any new flavors? The holiday brew was good. And I want to try your stout.
Who told you about the stout? Confession – it could have been me. New Year’s Eve got a bit hazy at the end there. There’s no guarantee I kept my mouth shut.
He ignores my question. What are you brewing now?
Oh, what the hell. I decide to tell him. It’s not like it’s some super secret like what Wally does for a living. Yes, Wally. Although all of the uncles are retired from the Army, I’m pretty sure Wally is into some black ops super secret shit. He disappears for weeks on end and no one has any idea where he is. All the uncles will say is he’s ‘off-grid’. And if those words don’t spell black ops, I don’t know what does.
Session IPA.
What’s Session IPA?
While I’m typing up my answer, Grayson calls. “Hey,” he says in a rich, buttery voice. Geez. All the guy has to do is say ‘hey’ and Little Susan wakes up and starts singing Marvin Gaye.
“Hey.” My voice comes out husky. Bad voice!
“I thought it might be easier if you explained on the phone instead of typing on the tiny keyboard.”
“Are you calling my fingers fat?”
“There’s nothing fat about you, Munchkin.”
I was joking but now Little Susan is doing the tango while singing Marvin Gaye. And, yes, I realize those two things do not go together. I never said Little Susan had taste.
I hold my hand over the phone to clear my throat. No reason for my friend to hear the effect he has on me. “It’s like this,” I say and then go on to explain what a Session IPA is. I may get a bit over-excited and drone on and on. What? I’m a beer geek. There are worse things in life.
“Oh shit,” I say when I open my eyes because I closed my eyes when I started to wax poetic about beer. No judging.
“What’s wrong?” Grayson asks. To be honest, I’m surprised he’s still paying attention. It’s not like I’ve let him speak for the last twenty minutes.
“Crappity crap.”
“You’re freaking me out. What’s wrong? Where are you? I’m on my way.”
“Unless you fancy cleaning up a sticky, goopy mess, there’s no need.” I switch off the heat and place my phone on the table. “I gotta go,” I say and hit the end button before he has a chance to respond.
I study the mess trying to figure out where to begin before realizing there is no good place to begin. Time to roll up my sleeves and dive in. It’s no big deal. I can start over. It’s Friday night. I’ve got all night. And, yes, I realize how lame that statement made me sound.
Chapter 4
I only drink beer on days that end with a y.
I groan when my doorbell rings the next evening. I’m laying on my sofa in my flannel pajamas while wrapped in my fuzzy blanket. Obviously, I’m not expecting company. And I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care if it is Saturday night. I was up most of last night and this morning brewing. I’m taking the night off from playing happy-go-lucky klutzy Suzie.
There’s a knock on the window. I startle and nearly fall off the sofa. “Come on, Suzie. I know you’re in there.”
Who was the idiot who didn’t shut the curtains? Oh yeah, it was me.
I wave at Grayson and shout, “Go away!”
He puts his hands against the window to peer in. “I’m not leaving.”
I throw off my blanket and stomp to the door. “What?”
“Someone’s grumpy.” I grunt. He’s not wrong. “I guess someone doesn’t want her present.” He practically shoves a wrapped package in my face. “Not interested?”
As soon as I reach for it, he yanks his hand away.
“Nope. Get dressed. I’m buying you dinner.”
My stomach rumbles in response to his proclamation. “I’m not in the mood to go out.”
“Your stomach disagrees. Come on. I’ll take you to McGraw’s for a bite to eat and then let you beat me in a round of pool.”
I place my hands on my hips. “Let me beat you?”
He chuckles as he looks me up and down. “Love the pj’s.”
My face heats. I’m wearing my beer bottle pajamas. They’re men’s pajamas, meaning they’re about a mile too long for me. I have to roll the pant legs up to stop myself from tripping. It’s ridiculous. I’m only two inches shorter than average for freak’s sake.
Grayson waves the present in my face. “Come on. Get dressed. You know you want to.”
I don’t. No, really, I don’t want to spend the evening with Grayson. And it’s a good thing my flannel bottoms are flame retardant because I’m a big fat liar.
“Fine.” I twirl on my heel and march toward the stairs. “Make yourself comfortable.”
I take the fastest shower a woman can take. I leave my hair wet and throw it into the shortest ponytail known to man. I’m growing my hair out from the short spikes I used to sport, and it’s barely long enough to put up. All I need is a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and I’m done.
When I walk into the living room, Grayson chuckles. “Cool t-shirt.”
He’s not wrong. It’s a totally cool shirt with the words Hoptimist A person who believes everything is better with a good craft beer on the front.
“You ready?”
At his question, I hold out my hand. “Present first.” I wiggle my fingers in a gimme gesture.
He chuckles but hands me the gift. “I wanted to apologize for ruining your word yesterday.”
“Wort,” I correct absently as I rip into the gift. “A leather-bound brew journal.”
I caress the material before flipping it open. There are gravity charts, SRM guides, information on grain and hops, and tips on troubleshooting.
A Soldier for Suzie: A Military Romantic Comedy (Love will OUT Book 3) Page 2
