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“We love you and stuff.” Samuel takes his hand out of his pocket to gesture vaguely in Hank’s direction. “But yeah, turns out the best Van Halen cover band in the world doesn’t offer refunds, so . . .”
Hank gives his brother a shove. “Y’all are the worst.”
“And you’re damn lucky to have us,” Beau says.
Hank raises his glass. “To the worst siblings in the whole fucking world. I love y’all.” He turns to me. “I love you.”
All the emotions I’ve felt today finally catch up to me, and I release them on a happy sob as I tilt up my face for a kiss. Hank’s lips taste like champagne.
I hope it’s the first of a million kisses like this. In kitchens. In the middle of messes we make. In front of family who loves us despite those messes.
Only took a failed marriage and five years of self-discovery, but I finally—literally—know what freedom tastes like.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Hank
“This seat taken?” a woman asks.
I glance up from my phone, stomach dipping as I rake my gaze over the familiar figure. As luck would have it, she’s wearing the same outfit she did the first day we met: sneakers, jeans that are painted on, white tee.
Tits for days.
Aw, hell, it’s almost like she planned it.
“Goddamn it,” I say, lips twitching. “Who told you I was coming? Beau?”
Stevie slides onto the stool beside mine, that supermodel smile lighting up her whole face. “Milly, actually.”
“No shit,” I reply, genuinely surprised. I shake my head. “Girl can’t mind her own business to save her life.”
Stevie elbows me. “Believe it or not, she wanted to set up a little surprise of her own.”
“Oh?” I lean in close enough to smell the toothpaste on her breath. “Good surprise or bad one?”
Stevie leans in for the kiss. I really want to lay one on her, teenage tonsil hockey style, but this is my first time at Lady Luck’s Brewhouse, and I don’t want to embarrass Stevie or gross out her patrons or employees. It’s early-ish on a Thursday afternoon—just after two—but the brewery is hopping.
I keep the kiss short and sweet, and Stevie’s eyes flash appreciatively when I pull back.
“You’ll see,” she says, and then she turns to the pair of women behind the bar. “Maya, Andi, this is my boyfriend, Hank. Hank, meet the people who pour the good stuff.”
One of the bartenders throws a towel over her shoulder and extends her hand, while the other places a menu in front of me.
“Andi,” she says by way of introduction. “Pleasure to meet you. We’ve noticed Stevie’s had some extra pep in her step lately. That you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and the three of them laugh at my no-nonsense reply. “I know everything’s good here, but what’s your favorite?”
“Definitely the Tennessee Brunette,” Andi says. “It’s an early release of our spring lineup we’ll be launching in a few weeks. It’s an amber ale with notes of cherry, light on the malt.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“I’ll take the same, please, Andi,” Stevie says, her knee touching mine underneath the bar. My body ignites. It’s been all of a week since I had my hands on this girl, and I am craving her something fierce.
I put my hand on her thigh. “Hi.”
She beams at me, pressing her teeth into her bottom lip. “Hey.”
“I’m eager to taste my Tennessee brunette.”
“Had to go there right off the bat, huh?” She laughs, a throaty, happy sound, and my chest swells.
“Hey, you went there first by naming a cherry-flavored beer after yourself.”
“I named it after Maya, actually.” Stevie nods at the bartender, who’s busy filling elegant pint glasses with a Hefeweizen. “But I’ll take the compliment.”
Andi sets our beers on coasters in front of us. The glasses are deliciously frosty, the tiniest amount of foam spilling over the top. Perfect pour. The beer itself is a light reddish-brown color, which, yeah, is pretty much exactly the color of Maya’s hair.
“Cheers,” I say, holding up my glass. “Thanks for letting me crash your weekend.”
Stevie taps her glass to mine. “Thank you for keeping things fresh. This back and forth could get really unfun really fast, but surprises like this—I love it.”
I drink my beer and smack my lips. “Damn, that’s good. Cherry and malt are very subtle—they don’t overpower each other or that nice hit of bitterness.”
Stevie pulls back, brow furrowed. “Look at you, throwing around fancy beer words.”
“I may have brushed up on my beer vocabulary.” I glance around the brewery. “Stevie, this place is incredible. I’m proud of you, honey.”
Lady Luck Brewhouse’s current space is a cinder block building in Charlotte Pike, one of Nashville’s up-and-coming areas. It’s not fancy, but it’s been lovingly updated with fresh paint, a cool zinc-topped bar, and high ceilings. Large steel windows overlook a sun-drenched patio, where people—lots of people—sip their beers at long farm tables underneath funky tasseled umbrellas.
