The server blinks.
I bite my lip. “They don’t fly.”
“Then the name is inaccurate.”
The server laughs, bless her brave soul. “It’s just a tasting set.”
Kauss nods gravely. “Then I will have the inaccurate beer flight.”
When she leaves, I fold my hands beneath my chin. “You’re adorable.”
His eyes narrow. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I am not.”
“You asked why beer flies.”
“The terminology is flawed.”
“You are killing me.”
“That would be unfortunate on a first date.”
My heart catches because he said it. Date. Not arrangement, not outing, not scheduled social companionship. Date.
He seems to realize it at the same time. His hand tightens around the edge of the menu until it bends.
I reach across the table and tap his knuckle. “Careful. That menu never hurt anyone.”
“It is laminated.”
“It still has feelings.”
“No, it does not.”
“There you go again, crushing dreams.”
The drinks arrive, and Kauss stares at the little row of glasses with increasing distrust. Mine fizzes crimson and gold, fire pearls popping softly against the surface like tiny edible fireworks. I take a sip and sigh because it is sweet, tart, cold, and exactly irresponsible enough.
Kauss samples the first beer.
His expression changes by one-eighth of a degree.
I lean forward. “Bad?”
“No.”
“Good?”
“No.”
“Fascinating. We’ve found beer purgatory.”
He samples the second. “This one tastes like smoke.”
“Do you like smoke?”
