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James
Fifteen more minutes.
He could last fifteen more minutes before shutting off the lights in the main tasting room. The Wicked Ways Brew Company closed at ten o’clock. In a few short minutes, James could politely kick out the last bunch of hipsters and lock up for the night.
He stared at the digital clock on the iPad, waiting for it to roll to the desired time. It had been a solid decision to let Carson, the bartender scheduled to close, clock out early. Tuesday evenings weren’t exactly moneymakers. As the owner, James didn’t mind sticking around to let Carson get home to his kids and wife. But now, after having listened to the over idealistic hipsters groan about things they knew very little about, he could not wait for closing time. The first half hour of their rantings had been easy to drown out with cleaning up and checking stock, but the last hour had burned his ears.
“A watched clock never moves,” a silky voice teased him.
He hadn’t heard the new customer come in.
“Yeah, I guess it doesn’t.” He took a step to the side, away from the register to focus directly on her. “We’re actually about to close,” he said, glancing at the group of four who looked nowhere near ready to take off.
A short brunette stood at the bar, looking at him with a wary smile, windblown hair, and tired eyes. Had they shared the same kind of day?
“Oh, I know.” She placed her purse on the bar. “I actually only stopped in to pick up a—what did she call it?—a growl?”
James’ lips twitched. “You mean a growler.”
Her cheeks went pink. “Yes. Thank you. That’s what I meant. I’m supposed to pick up a growler of IPA.” She tilted her chin up and surveyed the chalk written menu posted above the bar.
“We have two. West Coast and Grapefruit Hazy.” He narrowed the choices while taking a moment to admire the sweetness of her blush.
She pinched her lips together, blowing out her cheeks in frustrated uncertainty, trying to find the unwritten answer on the board. “What’s the difference?”
“Westcoast is a pretty typical IPA. I keep it on tap mostly for the locals. It has a hoppy flavor but not piney. The Grapefruit Hazy has a citrus element.”
She nodded along with him, her brow wrinkled in concentration. He doubted she understood a single thing about what he’d said.
“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning in closer. “My roommate said to grab a growler of IPA. I’m really not a beer drinker. Which do you think is best?”
“It’s for your roommate?” He knew it wasn’t for her. She looked at the board with as much confusion as he would a menu in a French restaurant. “What kind of beer does he normally drink? What brand?”
“She,” the young woman corrected. “Mary doesn’t really drink beer either. It’s for a party we’re going to later tonight.”
Later? It was already ten on a Tuesday. Maybe she was part of the L.A. scene where life didn’t even begin until midnight.
“Oh. Then I’d probably just go with the Westcoast IPA.” He grabbed a fresh chilled growler from the cooler behind him.
“Okay. Let’s do that.” She tapped the bar top. “Or… you know what? Give me one of each. They can sort it out.”
James gave her a brief nod as he grabbed a second growler and went to the end of the bar to fill them both while she took a seat on a stool. He looked up to find her tapping away on her phone, her lips twisted up to one side.
He wasn’t blind. The woman was more than pretty, but not in the typical L.A. party-girl way. She had a graceful beauty to her. Other than some mascara and a little eyeliner, she wore no makeup.
Her phone rang, and she picked up the call. He pulled the tubing from the growler slowly, then twisted on the cap.
“Thanks, man!” One hipster waved to him as the four of them shuffled from the table toward the door. “Great beer!” he said, giving James two thumbs up before following his friends out.
James grimaced. Great beer? Whatever. Those assholes wouldn’t know an IPA from a Lager. He placed the growler on the counter and grabbed the second jug, catching the tail end of the phone conversation his last customer of the night was having.
“Okay, Mary, I hear you. I promise I won’t embarrass you.”
James looked down the length of the bar to find her rubbing her forehead. “I’ll remember this time. I won’t use his name. Just Sir. Got it.”
James’ ears perked at the phrasing, and he froze for a moment. Maybe he had misunderstood. She could be going to a work party and the big boss got off on the label. But who brings a growler to a work party? He shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Just because sir held a certain connotation with him, didn’t mean it did for her. Though, he wouldn’t lie to himself and say a small part of him didn’t hope it did.
“I’m not as experienced as you, Mary, but I promise I’ll do my best.”
