Page 20 of Mane Brew

“Which makes it even more confidential.” He tucks the clipboard against his chest, protective. Possessive. “You’d only argue with my findings.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Keep your precious notes. But know that I’m judging you.”

“I’ve been judged by you since the Humble Pie Ale incident. I’m accustomed to it.”

The mention of that case makes my stomach flip. Four years ago, he shut down my brewery for safety violations. I retaliated by sending him a case of beer with that petty label. He never mentioned it again.

What I didn’t know until recently—until Leire mentioned it in passing—is that he kept the case. Every single bottle. Never drank it. Never threw it away.

I’m still not sure what to do with that information.

Silence. Then: “Did you see anything else in the hallucination that you haven’t told me?”

My hand is still on the temperature gauge.

I haven’t told anyone else about the shadows. The things lurking at the edges of those visions—watching, waiting, hungry. Anouk noticed I was shaken afterward. Leire asked if I was okay. I deflected with jokes because that’s what I do.

I deflect with jokes because the alternative is admitting that fear crept in. And Zeph Grimwood doesn’t get scared. She gets chaotic. She gets loud. She gets another batch brewing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your pulse elevated. Your magic spiked.” His voice is closer now. When did he move? “You’re a terrible liar.”

“And you’re a terrible investigator if you think accusing your source of lying is going to get you anywhere.” He’s three feet away. Too close. Not close enough. His gaze tracks across my face with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. I spin around.

Stop it.

“I’m not accusing.” His voice drops. Softer. Almost gentle. “I’m paying attention.”

“Pay attention somewhere else.” I sidestep around him, heading for the ingredient storage. “Some of us have actual work to do.”

“This is my work.”

“Your work is documenting safety violations that don’t exist.”

“They exist.” He follows me. Of course, he follows me. “Your secondary containment wards are seven years out of date.”

“They’re vintage.”

“They’re insufficient.”

I grab a bag of enchanted hops from the shelf, mostly so I have an excuse not to strangle him. Or touch him. Or⁠—

Focus, Zeph.

“You want to know what’s insufficient? Your personality.” I dump the hops into the measuring basin with more force than necessary. “Actually, no. That implies you have one. Jury’s still out.”

He should bristle. He should snap back with some cutting comment about proper procedures. That’s what we do—we bicker, we argue, we drive each other crazy in the least fun way possible.

“Noted for the record.”

Did he just⁠—

“Did you just almost smile?”

“Lions don’t smile.”

“Lions also don’t spend eighteen visits in seven days hovering over brew witches, and yet.” I gesture at him with the measuring cup. “Here you are. Hovering.”