“It’s one of our more popular lines.” I should ignore him like he so badly seems to want to forget I exist, but beer is my weakness. Honey Creek is my favorite, which is why I keep it stocked at home.
I leave the table and grab two cans from the fridge. I set one next to the laptop for him—a small peace offering, even though he’s been helping himself anyway. My taste buds are still craving my four-cheese calzone.
I crack open my can and take a long pull. The beer is kept in the coldest part of the fridge, even colder than the brewery. Closing my eyes, I enjoy the burn of the bubbles on my tongue and savor the malted honey flavor.
“Mmm.”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and open my eyes to find him staring at me, an unidentifiable emotion filling his gaze. His hands hover over the keyboard of the nicer laptop, and the air between us crackles.
“It’s more than decent.” I shove another piece of toast in my mouth.
He grunts, the spell broken, and pops the tab on his can. Slowly, he lifts the beer to his mouth without dropping my gaze. This time, I’m the one gawking as his throat works with his swallow.
He smacks his lips when he’s finished and inspects the back of the can. “‘Perfection, twenty-five years in the making.’”
“I refined the recipe when I returned to Scandal.”
Curiosity fills his gaze, but he doesn’t ask a follow-up question. Good. The few years in my mid-twenties when I tried to make my own way in Williston didn’t include building my own multimillion-dollar company.
“I found your mom’s original notes in the office.”
His expression goes flat, and he sets the can down with a thump.
“She really knew what she was doing,” I say softly.
“Yeah. She did.”
It’s not like we’re making progress right now, but I don’t want to antagonize him further. I risk doing just that with more explanation.
“Ransom would’ve worked on it earlier, but it was in a folder in one of the cabinets. She had a lot of notes jotted down about what she wanted to try. I’ve developed a few from them, since wecan’t use other recipes.”Jules Creek comes from Julia’s brews, Ransom used to chant whenever I brought him ideas. Then he’d tell me how everyone close to her called her Jules, and that was why she wanted that as part of the name. “Honey Creek, and our stout, Angus Creek.”
“Mama didn’t like stouts.”
“She respected them. I’m not a stout-lover either, but I will create the best one possible.”
He arches another brow, and the arrogant tilt to his lips grows more pronounced. “Indeed?”
I don’t get pure smugness from him, though. He’s interested.
“I know we have our issues, but I respected your mom, and the brewery is…It means a lot.”
The muscles in his jaw tense. He taps a few buttons on the dusty laptop before closing the lid. I finish my slice of toast. He powers down the second laptop and stuffs it into the bag on the floor.
I wipe off my mouth. “Is that Carlos’s?”
“I’m catching up on the records.” He slips the ranch computer next to his fancy one.
Surprised he gave me that much of an answer, I nod. His beer isn’t empty, condensation creeping up half the can. Calder is still packing his notes, his handwriting as slashing and defined as he is.
“You gonna finish that?” I ask, starting on my second piece of toast. A part of me doesn’t like him gathering his things to leave. Three days in a big, empty house that was filled with love and laughter weighs heavily on my heart. While vexing, Calder is still company.
He downs the rest of the beer, tipping his head back. The muscles in the column of his throat strain, and I’m riveted. When he sets the can down, he keeps his long fingers wrapped around it.
“What’d you change?”
“Huh?” I have to tear my attention off the strong grip leading to a flexed forearm and—my god—the veins. The definition. The dusting of dark hair. The thrum starts once again, stronger this time. I should’ve been working less and dating more.
“Mama’s recipe. What’d you change?”
