Page 37 of Grumpy Ex-Military Brewmaster’s Secret

"It was the only thing that mattered."

I glance at the chair by the window, where my clothes from last night are draped in a heap I don't remember making, and the reality of the morning finally catches up to the warmth of it. "I need to get the twins from Maggie's before she starts feeding them sugar for breakfast out of spite."

"Would she do that?"

"She's threatened it before. Something about payback for the time Eli explained, in detail, exactly how her knee replacement probably works."

Rafe laughs, real and surprised out of him, a sound I don't think I'll ever get tired of causing. "I'll drop you at your car."

"That obvious a getaway plan?"

"I'm ex-military. Every plan I make is technically a getaway plan." He stands, holds a hand out to pull me up, and doesn't let go of it once I'm standing, like helping me up was never really the point. "You've got a bit of a situation, by the way."

"What kind of situation?"

"You're wearing my shirt."

I look down, and he's right. Somewhere around one in the morning, borrowing his shirt apparently seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea, one I have zero memory of agreeing to.

"I don't remember agreeing to this."

"You didn't. I offered. You didn't argue very hard."

"I should probably not be wearing your shirt when I go pick up two very observant eight-year-olds from their honorary grandmother's house."

"Probably not, no."

I change back into yesterday's clothes, the same jeans and sweater I wore to dinner, and it isn't until I'm standing in front of the small mirror by his door that the actual problem announces itself. Same clothes, same everything, and there isn't a version of walking into Maggie's kitchen in this outfit that reads as anything other than precisely what it is.

"This is going to be a disaster," I tell him.

"You'll be fine."

"You don't have kids. You don't know how fast an eight-year-old can build a case."

"I met the prosecution personally. On your porch. With a printed checklist." He kisses my forehead, quick and easy, like it's something we've done a hundred times instead of something brand new. "Good luck. Call me later."

It's an eleven-minute drive from the brewery to Maggie's place, the same eleven minutes it takes to get anywhere in this town that matters, and I spend every one of them rehearsing a story that falls apart a little more each time I run it in my head.

Maggie's is a low ranch house with a wraparound porch and wind chimes she's had since long before I moved to town, and I've barely got the car in park before the front door bangs open and both twins come barreling out, Eli in the lead, Josie a half step behind with her backpack still half unzipped.

"Mom!" Eli's already talking before he's off the porch steps. "Maggie let us watch three movies. Three. And we had popcorn with the fake butter, the good kind, not the healthy kind."

"Sounds like a rough night," I say, catching him in a hug he tolerates for exactly two seconds before wriggling free, already moving on to the next piece of news.

"Josie cried during the sad part and said she didn't, but she did."

"I did not cry. My eyes were just tired."

"Your eyes were tired in a crying way."

Maggie appears in the doorway behind them, coffee mug in hand, still in her robe, taking one long look at me before her eyebrows climb somewhere near her hairline. I know that look. I've seen versions of it on her face before, usually right before she says something I'm not prepared to answer.

"Morning," she says, entirely too innocent.

"Morning. Thank you for having them."

"Anytime. They're easier than my own grandkids, and that's saying something." Her eyes travel over me, slow and deliberate, cataloguing details I'd very much rather she didn't notice. "Nice sweater."