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Liam stood on the darkened brewery floor. He’d come over to find Bec so that he could tell her that he was leaving sooner than expected. Now it looked like she’d taken off somewhere with Wyatt. The brewery was empty, except for him.
He thought about turning on a light, but didn’t. He knew the room by now. The brew kettle was full of red ale, a run he’d helped Bec set up yesterday. The wheat beer was in the aging tank. All their hits, getting ready for the bottling line.
All Bec’s hits, really. He didn’t have much to do with them. But I helped. I did something.
He headed toward the other side of the room, making his way by the moonlight that shone through the high windows. His small brewing system rested against the far wall. Out of the way, probably far from Bec’s thoughts.
Not far from his own thoughts, though.
The saison was still aging. He hadn’t tried it yet. Once upon a time, he’d planned on trying it with Ruth, but now he was pretty sure that wouldn’t happen. Or sort of sure. He wasn’t ready to give up entirely yet.
I don’t want to give up on us. Not until I don’t have any choice.
Working more on impulse than anything else, he grabbed a length of plastic tubing and a beaker from the work table at the side. At least he could have a quick taste. And if it didn’t work out, it didn’t work out. The way things had been going lately, the chances of the saison being good were probably infinitesimal.
He siphoned off a small measure in the beaker, then started to bring it to his lips.
And stopped. What if it does work out?
He blew out a quick breath. In reality, he hadn’t considered that possibility. He’d been poised for failure.
What if it does? Only one way to find out.
He lifted the beaker and took a sip. And tasted basil and the crisp tang of citrus, along with the restrained bite of hops and mellowing of malt. He paused, savoring, then took another sip. And another.
Holy crap. I made good beer.
He had. In fact, he’d made damn good beer.
He reached behind him and clicked on one of the work lights, then held the beaker up to study it. Good color—deep gold with a faint cloudiness that was natural. No way to judge the head with such a small sample, but the carbonation tasted right.
Hot damn. That is one fuckin’ fine saison.
And why shouldn’t it be? He was a beer maker, a beer lover, a beer connoisseur. And he was part owner of one fuckin’ fine brewery. All of a sudden he felt it again, that rush of pleasure that came from knowing he was part of Antero, part of something good. Something outstanding, in fact.
Not just Bec’s assistant. A brewer in his own right. Maybe he wasn’t in her class, but he wasn’t a drone, either. He was part of what happened here.
You can’t be part of what happens here from Park City.
He closed his eyes. That was absolutely true.
Which means you can’t take the job.
Also true. A sudden wave of warmth spread from his chest to his toes.
Relief.
He wasn’t going to leave Antero. He wasn’t going to leave the brewery.
He wasn’t going to leave Ruth.
Now, all he had to do was figure out how to make that happen.
Chapter Twenty-One
On Saturdays, the deli closed at three rather than five thirty since the afternoon traffic was a lot slower. Ruth made it through the day by pretending it was just like any other Saturday. It wasn’t, but not because she wasn’t trying.
Carol stuffed her chain-mail gloves into a drawer below the counter where they’d be out of her sight. Ruth gritted her teeth, but she didn’t know what else she could do. Every time she remembered Carol’s joy when she’d first pulled the gloves on, she regretted not punching David when she’d had the chance.
Bec came in around ten, looking glum. Ruth considered unloading on her, but didn’t—she looked like she had her own problems. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard. Black Mountain Tavern is closing tonight. I’m afraid Liam’s going to be leaving for Park City sooner than I’d expected. I don’t know when he’ll be back. I wasn’t ready for him to go.”
A sudden chill worked its way down Ruth’s spine. It hadn’t occurred to her that Liam might leave Antero so soon. She’d thought he still had a couple of weeks. The day seemed to be heading downhill faster than ever.
