Page 7 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

Both of which our mama, Miss Belle, hates. Although not as much as the one that features a candy cane and says, “It’s not going to lick itself.” She hates that one the most.

Then again, with seven kids, six of whom are boys, Mama got lucky that the worst thing she has to worry about is me wearing borderline inappropriate T-shirts in public. At least now. As teens we gave her plenty of trouble, but Gus, Huxley, Anton, Jace, Ewan, and I—plus our younger sister, Willa—all grew up to be good contributing members of society. Each one of us works for the family business, solidifying the future of the empire that our family has worked so hard on for generations.

Shifting my truck into park, I kill the engine, my mind consumed with where this damn shirt is. The thought that I hadn’t seen it in a hot minute hit me shortly after merging back onto the highway after dropping Brandt off and hasn’t left. It’s a long drive to and from the Atlanta airport—three hours each way—leaving me with plenty of open road to let my mind wander.

And it wandered to this shirt.

Not any of the really important things I need to focus on. Like naming a beer. Working with Rose Adler and Bronwyn Ainsworth, Hayes’s director of marketing, on a Christmas campaign for All Snowed Gin. Coordinating with Willa, her two best friends Sylvie Forde and Kenzie Wilder, and the rest of the committee on anything and everything Rhythm and Brews related. Getting Drafts and Dig In, our newest endeavor of a food truck night at Pour Decision up and running.

But mostly naming this beer.

Because this beer needs a damn good name. It’s a damn good beer. Light, fun…borderline whimsical. If a beer can be such a thing.

Slamming the truck door behind me, I glance at my watch, trying to math out if I have enough time to do a walk through the brew house before I head up to shower and change to open up the taproom.

It’s Wednesday, so the local knitters will be hitting us up at about five thirty for what they are now calling “Pints and Purls,” but the Rhythm and Brews committee will be at the library until seven, so my sister and friends won’t wander over until about seven thirty. Add in the few Hayes employees looking to grab a beer after work, and it’s nothing that Ben, the local kid back for the summer from Georgia Southern, won’t be able to handle if I’m a few minutes late getting down there.

When we decided to create Pour Decisions, our original thought was we’d open up Friday and Saturday nights, as a more low-key option to the only other watering hole around, The Giddy Up, a local honky-tonk out at the county line. What we hadn’t realized was how popular the idea would be and the sub groups of residents in Hickory Hills that would turn it into a meeting place.

Now we’re open evenings, Wednesday through Friday, and Saturday starting at lunchtime. Most of the time it’s either Brandt or me behind the bar, with the help of our siblings in a pinch. Getting Southern Brothers up and running was a dream come true. Having to open our taproom extra hours because it’s an in demand hot spot—well, words don’t cover that.

“Hot spot,” I say out loud, walking toward the brew house. “Hot spot.”

The name is easy enough to spout out, but something about it feels off. Doesn’t taste quite right. Maybe because nothing about a beer should be hot.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, stealing my attention. I pull it out, glancing at it quickly, the message from Mrs. Franco over at Little Slice of Heaven, Hickory’s Hills’s pizza joint, kick-starting my pulse into gear.

Mrs. Franco

Pizzas for Pints and Purls are almost done. Will y’all be coming to get them, or do I need to send Dan over?

Shit. I totally spaced that Holly Stillman said she was going to start ordering pizzas for Pints and Purls. She’d run the idea by Brandt and me last week, wanting to be respectful of our business, which we appreciated. We also had been kicking ourselves for not thinking of it sooner.

Mind sending Dan over? Just got back from dropping Brandt off, running a little behind

No problem! Expect him in about 15

Fifteen minutes?

I do an about-face, turning back toward the old, converted warehouse that houses everything but the brewing operation, picking up my pace. I can’t leave Ben all alone to open up and set up for something he doesn’t even know is happening.

All of this doesn’t leave much time for a shower, but that part isn’t optional. I can still smell the mash on me from mixing it up this morning, and while I think the strong, yeasty smell is perfection, not everyone does. It’s overpowering if you’re not used to it. And the last thing I need with a full house this evening is to be off-putting, or deal with my sister’s comments about it smelling like vomit. Maybe that’s why the new gal at Dye Hard went a little crazy cutting my hair; she was too distracted by the smell.

Plus, I still need to find my shirt.

The apartment is quiet when I open the front door. I don’t know what I expected—it’s not like Brenna was going to throw a rave while I drove her brother to the airport—but the feeling is unsettling, nonetheless. Like something is missing.

Oh wait, that’s right—my loud and obnoxious best friend. How could I forget?

“Brenna?” I call out, considering for a moment that she isn’t as loud as Brandt, who always has either the TV or the stereo on. I swear, that guy is afraid of silence.

The lack of response tells me I’m all by myself, which is probably better. I don’t have time for a distraction at the moment. I need to find my shirt, shower, and head down to Pour Decisions. And let’s be honest here, finding my shirt might get cut short. Because I am on borrowed time, and I don’t have a spare second to rummage through the pile of laundry that⁠—

Laundry.

A light bulb sparks above my head, the realization hitting me. Brandt did a whole bunch of laundry before he packed. Including some of mine, none of which made it back to me. I can only assume that where it did end up was in his room.

Bingo.