Imani sits in the passenger seat, one knee bouncing. “Look at this turnout,” she says, cheek pressed against the window. “We’re gonna get slammed.”
God, I hope so.
I know my beer is good. I’ve spent months perfecting it, experimenting with new brews and different hop distributors. But still, that nagging voice in the back of my mind insists I’m bound to fail, that opening this business was a mistake.
Unfortunately, the voice sounds a lot like Melanie’s.
Imani hops out of the van before I can even put it in park. I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my lips. She’s exactly the kind of person I wanted as my first hire—smart, energetic, and a total go-getter. She’s good with the customers, charismatic in a way I’ve never been.
The fact she’s a married lesbian is an added bonus. It made me feel safe coming out to her a few weeks ago. It was a weight off mychest, finally having someone in this town who knew that part of me.
I climb out and circle to the back, swinging open the cargo doors. Together we unload the kegs and crates of beer, the glass bottles clinking with each step as we haul everything across the lot to our booth. Food trucks are parked alongside us, fryers popping with oil, the air heavy with the smell of sugary dough and grease.
Our table sits at the very end of the row, a prime spot right along the main walkway. The pop-up tent is already anchored down, and above the table hangs our banner: a black cat smirking mischievously, its tail curled around a pint of foaming beer. Cryptid’s unofficial mascot debut.
Imani sets down a crate of bottles, her biceps flexing beneath her sleeveless tank. “Good turnout, and everyone’s gonna be thirsty,” she calls over her shoulder. “We’re about to make bank.”
“Manifesting it,” I reply, hooking up the keg tap.
Almost on cue, the first round of boats flick on their lights. A ripple moves through the crowd as they flock to the pier, desperate to find a good spot to take their photos. As the boats start trailing by in a slow procession, the beach fills with cheers, camera flashes, and excited squeals from kids perched on their parents’ shoulders.
People pour in fast, packing tightly across the sand, the pier, and every inch of walkway. An unnatural mixture of music rolls over the harbor, each boat blasting its own soundtrack in a chaotic mash of pop, rock, and the occasional country twang.
My chest tightens as the first customer of the night peels out of the crowd and approaches our booth. It’s a tall older man with neatly combed white hair and thick, bushy eyebrows. He’s got a sunburned nose and is dressed in a crisp blue polo and boat shoes, not a single scuff in sight.
“Evenin’,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly. “Got any IPAs?”
“Of course.” I pop open the cooler. “Bottle okay?”
“Perfect.”
While I fish one out, icy water numbing my fingers, the man looks around our booth, curiosity written all over him.
“This brewery just opened up, right?” he asks, rocking back on his heels. “Down on Main Street?”
“Yep,” I say, handing him the bottle. “I’m the owner.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You?”
There it is—the reaction I’ve gotten at least a dozen times since moving here. With my tattooed arms and piercings, I know I stand out in a conservative lakeshore town. Still, the flicker of judgment on his face manages to scrape under my skin.
I straighten a little and extend my hand. He hesitates for half a beat before shaking it, my silver rings tapping against his palm.
“Troy Fischer,” I greet, forcing a polite smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Greg Peters,” he responds, slipping his hand back into his pocket.
Oh, shit. The name rattles through my brain, raising goose bumps on my skin.
“You’re the mayor,” I blurt, eyes wide.
An amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” he says, a soft laugh under his breath. “Tell me—what made you choose our quaint little town for your brewery?”
I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Well, the building I bought is beautiful. You can’t put a price on that view of the lake.” I nod toward the water. “To be honest, Claremont Shores just felt like a good place for… a fresh start.”
He grunts thoughtfully, then lifts his bottle in a small toast. “Well, welcome to Claremont Shores. Always good to have another local spot to support.”
“Thank you, sir.”
