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Beau exchanges a glance with Samuel. “Very well done.”
We taste an IPA next, Hop Girl Summer, that’s out of this world. Not too hoppy, not in your face, just solid, clean flavors. Stevie follows it up with a blackberry sour that’s just the right combination of sweet and savory.
“Tell us about Lady Luck,” I say, smacking my lips. “Why beer? Why now? It’s obvious your beer is beautifully, painstakingly crafted. Why pour—pun not intended—your heart and soul into making it?”
Samuel grins. “You know the answer to that.”
“Of course I do. But y’all don’t, so listen up. Stevie’s got a good story to tell.”
She presses her teeth into her bottom lip. “Thanks for that.”
“I mean it.”
“I focus on what I like to drink,” Stevie says, turning to my family. “Which just so happens to be what my girlfriends like, and what their girlfriends like. We draw a predominantly female crowd at the brewery, which I love.”
“Very cool,” Samuel says.
Stevie’s eyes sparkle. Pulling out the chair at the head of the table, she sits. “My parents were always beer drinkers, so naturally I stole a few beers here and there throughout high school.”
I cock a brow. “A few?”
“Meh, maybe a few more than a few. I remember thinking the taste was gross, but clearly we weren’t drinking it for that. Over time, though, I found myself actually liking the stuff.” Stevie grabs a nearby can and refills her glass. “I liked how unpretentious beer was. How it worked for any occasion. I also liked the craft involved. For some reason, making something like, say, wine”—Stevie nods at Emma—“seemed like an impossible dream. But crafting your own beer? That I could see myself doing. How cool would it be, making art that people could drink every day?”
“So you love the artistry involved,” I say. “Beer is your blank canvas. A creative pursuit that jazzes you unlike anything else.”
“Yeah.” Stevie crinkles her forehead. “That’s a line from an interview I did with a blog back in Nashville.”
I glance across the table at my brothers. Beau’s got this proud look in his eyes, and Samuel’s eyes are narrowed in that just-about-to-smile way again.
What a fucking relief. But I feel a tug of something else too. Something new and not exactly pleasant. Guilt?
“Your butt isn’t the only thing I admire, Stevie. Your passion and your incredible business sense are equally arousing.”
Beau scoffs. “Christ almighty, how many times you gonna make me say ‘ew’ today, brother?”
“A lot,” I say, gaze locked on Stevie’s.
She blinks, hard, and looks away.
Her cheeks are pink.
She’s biting back a smile.
How you gonna fill that hole, Hank?
“Craft breweries were just beginning to pop up back then,” she continues, flattening her palm on the tasting menu and gliding it forward. “But I was still intimidated by the whole thing. Actually taking the leap, learning the craft. Learning how to run a business. So I played it safe for a while—I worked for other brewers, other business owners—and learned as much as I could I homebrewed a lot during that time, experimenting with recipes. I did countless hours of cellar work. It took me a while to finally get the courage to strike out on my own. Actually”—her eyes flick to meet mine—“my life had to fall apart before I finally said ‘fuck it, it’s now or never.’”
I nod, finishing the last sip of my blond ale. “You had nothing left to lose.”
“I had nothing left to lose,” she repeats.
As she looks and I look, feeling swells between us. A charged pull that seeps into my skin and electrifies it.
She blinks again. Looks away. “I had to hit rock bottom. I lost my job, my marriage, and my house, one right after the other.”
“The low point.” Emma runs her fingers down the sides of her glass. “Been there. It is not pleasant.”
“No shit,” I say. “I’ve said it before and I’ll said it again, I’m sorry, Stevie.”
I actually haven’t said that before. But for the sake of our ruse, I go with it.
Stevie shakes her head. “Darkest time of my life. But hey, I wouldn’t be where I am if it hadn’t happened. Losing it all taught me lessons I needed to learn. It showed me how resilient I am, and how important persistence is.”
“Cheers to that.” Beau holds up his glass and sends a pointed look my way. “I think we can all relate to the power of second chances.”
My body is buzzing now. It’s the beer. But it’s also my brothers. It’s this stunner of a girl sitting at my family’s table and baring herself in a way that speaks to the stuff between my blood and bones.
I touch her knee underneath the table. By the way her eyes go wide, I can tell she knows.
She knows this touch has nothing to do with made-up love stories.
