Page 54 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

“Hey!” he shouts, the sound of the wind whipping through the phone. “Hold on.”

I shake my head, knowing exactly how he feels. The winds of Colorado’s front range can be sneaky and powerful, catching you more than a little off guard at times. Although, they’re much better in July than they are in January.

“Sorry,” he says a moment later. “Stepped outside and, like, walked into a wind tunnel. Wasn’t that way earlier.”

“As long as Greeley isn’t wafting over,” I joke, knowing he’ll understand exactly what I’m saying.

The old putdown isn’t at all fair to the city of Greeley, which is about thirty miles to the southeast of Fort Collins. Surrounded by cattle yards, like most of the eastern part of the state, Greeley has actually grown quite a bit since we left college. From what I hear, it’s a nice place. That does nothing to stop the jokes about the smell of those cattle yards hitting the Fort on particularly windy days and blaming a town that had nothing to do with it.

“Dude, don’t put that out there. We haven’t had that once this summer. It’s been perfect. You have no idea what you’re missing.”

I know what I’d be missing if I’d gone…

The sweet coos and moans from Brenna as I settled between her thighs fill my ears, distracting me from the call. My dick twitches, all thanks to thoughts of her. But certainly not something that should be happening while I’m on the phone with her brother.

I need to stop it.

“Someone had to hold things down here. Or we wouldn’t have an operation for you to be off bragging about.”

Brandt laughs, then launches into his updates. Some of it’s a repeat from texts we’ve exchanged or the couple of times we’ve chatted. The classes he’s teaching are going well, as is the program as a whole. He’s connected with a guy from Oregon who’s been doing some fun things with stouts, an area that we’ve never explored. Some of it, though, is new. Like how there’s a student who he’s impressed with, and who has expressed interest in coming to help us with Southern Brothers if there is ever an opening.

“Think he can handle Saff?” I ask.

Southern Brothers employee number three, Saffron Ros, was the first person Brandt and I hired when it became clear we could no longer manage everything just the two of us. She takes care of all the day-to-day brewing operations, leaving us to be able to handle the business side, as well as dream up new concepts.

Always down for a challenge, Saff has been supportive of whatever crazy idea we come up with, and was the genius behind the Silver Lining Sour name when that experiment seemed to have gone wrong. We would not be able to function without her. Even if in some ways she does remind me of Teeter from Yellowstone, only more reclusive, rarely making an appearance outside the brewhouse.

“He’s just weird enough that he might be able to,” Brandt replied. I nod, not quite sure what that says about this kid, but it does leave me thinking it might not be a bad fit.

“How’s everything there?”

Errr…ummm….

My mouth goes dry, and my throat flexes, as if I’m trying to dry swallow a pill. It’s a simple question. Especially since I know he’s asking about Southern Brothers. Specifically the new beer and if I have a name.

Which I don’t.

That fact is haunting me enough. Bronwyn and Rose both gave me an earful yesterday about how they need the name so they can work on a label and marketing plans. According to Rose, a number of our customers are already asking when they can start carrying it. A good thing from a sales and marketing perspective. But also puts a cramp in the whole naming thing. This is not the sort of thing that happens under pressure.

“Good, good. Construction is on schedule; everything is moving right along,” I lie. No, not lie. Buffer. Smooth over.

Nothing is outright different. And construction is on schedule. There is that one thing, however. The thing that is currently knotting up in my stomach and starting to gnaw at my resolve.

“So you still don’t have a name.”

“It’ll hit me; don’t worry. I’ll be struck in the right moment.”

I pick up the rag I was using to clean the taps and start wiping down the counter as a distraction. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Gus and Hux, both of them sitting there quietly, not even pretending not to listen to my side of the call. Fuckers.

“Clock’s ticking.”

Don’t I know it…

“How’s Brenna?”

And there it is, the gut punch question. Also a simple, normal inquiry. One that you’d expect out of the ever overprotective older brother. The one who asked his best friend to look out for her.

“You ask that like you haven’t talked to her,” I deflect.