I’ve got to keep this professional, find the keg thief, and whatever I do, don’t melt for the man who broke my heart in two.
2
VIKING
As I follow Sydney down the stairs to the brewery floor, my gaze travels down the back of her neck and the thick rope of dark hair that swings between her shoulder blades.
It’s longer than I remember, hanging a good few inches past her shoulders.
Her knee-high boots leave a sliver of thigh where they don’t quite meet her skirt and make her go slow on the stairs. I’m right behind her, and her thick plait is too tempting. I have to know if her hair still has the same silky texture and if she still uses citrus-scented shampoo. I reach my hand out and capture her plait in my fist.
She goes dead still as I run my hand down the length of her plait from her scalp to her shoulders. The locks are silky smooth, a balm against my callused palm.
“What are you doing?”
She keeps looking ahead, and I tug on the end of her plait before letting it drop.
“Did you just pull my hair?”
Her tone is annoyed and incredulous and brings back memories of the two of us sparking off each other. Sydney wasalways challenging. That’s why I loved her so much. Why I still do.
“I did.”
I wait for her to spin around, to see the fire in her eyes and the retort that’s sure to follow. But she doesn’t even glance back.
“Touch me again and I’ll report you for harassment.”
Not the playful retort I was expecting.
She marches down the stairs, and I follow her. It was never going to be easy coming back, but I didn’t expect her icy response.
We get to the cellar, and Sydney spins around.
“You know what? You can show yourself around. The cellar’s down there. There’s a missing keg in row C1. You’re security. You figure it out.”
Her eyes flash dangerously, and it’s a relief to see her fire. Better than her ignoring me.
“And next time you want to touch my hair, ask me first. The answer will always be no.”
She stomps off, and I watch her go. Her hips sway in the fitted skirt she’s wearing, and her boots clack angrily across the floor.
It’s later that evening, and the brewing shift has left for the day. Barrels rushed out half an hour ago. He’s in an awful hurry to get home these days and to his family.
The last time I was back between deployments, the Wild Riders were single men. Now they’re coupled up, and there are kids and babies crawling around the clubhouse.
Time moves on, and I hope like hell I haven’t missed my chance at that.
Barrels told me Sydney would take me through the lock-up procedure, but I haven’t seen her since this morning and I dare not go into the office.
Yesterday she threw a drink at me, and today she stomped off in a huff. I deserve it, I guess. But I sure as hell would like her forgiveness.
I hear the clip of Sydney’s boots coming down the metal stairs before I see her. I lean on the door frame that leads to the tasting room to watch her descend the stairs.
She’s filled out in the four years since I last saw her. Her curves are more pronounced, more womanly. There’s a new confidence about her. Sydney was always confident, but now she’s downright bold.
She avoids looking at me as she marches past and into the tasting room. “Barrels insisted I show you how we lock up.”
I follow her into the tasting room.
