Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 100853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Hope said. “At the moment, she’s out cold. And if she wakes up, I’ll figure it out. Don’t give it another thought. I’ll see you in a bit.”
I hung up, locked my car, and headed down the street to Sawyers Bend Brewing. I hadn’t seen Ford since that kiss in the utility closet. My stomach squeezed at the thought of facing him. We hadn’t had a lot of full-on conversations. What would I say to him? Was I going to make a thing about the kiss? Talk to him about it? Or was it better to just pretend it never happened?
Whatever. I’d have to deal with it.
I pushed open the door of the taproom to find it about a third full—more than I’d expected for a weekday afternoon in December. Ford was behind the bar, his face set in his usual serious expression, though his lack of welcome didn’t seem to be chasing off the beer drinkers. He was the opposite of Dave, Avery’s other bartender, whom I knew from previous trips to the brewery, was all smiles and friendly conversation. Ford looked like he manned the bar the way he did everything else: eyes hard, mouth in a tight line, the world locked out, and everything that was Ford Sawyer sealed up tight inside.
I didn’t think anyone could break through that shell. I was under no illusion that I was any different. He’d kissed me—it didn’t mean he’d tell me his secrets. That was fine. I wasn’t telling him mine either.
Those moments in the dark utility closet haunted me. His strong hands closing over my hips, his mouth hot and demanding. Those stolen moments felt a million miles away from Sawyers Bend Brewing. In here, the fire was roaring, golden light flickering on the pine walls, friendly conversation filling the room.
I straightened my shoulders and approached the bar. Ford’s eyes flicked to mine, one dark eyebrow raising a fraction.
“Hope called,” he said. “Dave should be here in thirty.”
I nodded, climbed onto a stool, and set my packages on the bar. “Thanks for the ride,” I said.
He nodded once, his eyes landing on my shopping bags. “Sweetheart and jewelry?”
I nodded. “Cookies for Hope and something for me. I can’t resist Daisy and Grams’s baking.”
“Few can,” Ford agreed. “What else did you get?” he asked, nodding to the bag from the jewelry store.
“Earrings.” I pulled the box out of the bag to show him, half thinking he wouldn’t care. But he’d asked, hadn’t he? Sort of. I opened the box and showed him the gold wire wrapped around rough-cut garnet.
He looked from the earrings to me. “They suit you,” he said. “Good choice.”
I nodded, not sure what to say. They did suit me—at least I’d thought so when I bought them. I didn’t need Ford’s approval on my jewelry, but I had to admit, if only to myself, that I liked it. Ugh.
“What can I get you while you wait?” he asked, lifting a pint glass from beneath the bar.
“Oh, I’m good,” I said. “It’s a little early in the day for me to have a drink.” I’d been about to say I was driving, but I wasn’t. I hesitated, eyeing the taps. “I… Maybe…”
Before I could make up my mind, Ford asked, “How do you feel about a stout?”
I tilted my head to the side, considering. “I like a stout.”
“All right, then,” he said. “I won’t give you a whole pint, but try this.” He pulled a lever, and dark liquid the color of molasses filled the pint glass about halfway.
I waited for him to slide it across the bar, but instead he turned, glass in hand, doing something I couldn’t see behind the counter. When he turned back, there was a long toothpick lying across the top of the glass, skewering one donut hole.
“Try it,” he said, sliding it toward me. “It’s Avery’s donut hole stout.”
I shook my head but took the glass from him, picking up the donut hole before dipping my nose for a sniff. The stout didn’t smell like a donut hole. It smelled like stout. Maybe a little yeasty. A hint of sweetness.
“Take a sip,” Ford said. “Avery’s a genius.”
I followed his instructions and tilted the glass. The second the stout hit my tongue, I knew he was right—there was the faintest undertone of yeasty sweetness. The drink itself wasn’t sweet; it was more like an impression of a freshly baked cake doughnut woven through the dense flavor of the stout.
“Now take a bite of the donut hole,” Ford ordered.
I took a nibble, letting it melt across my tongue. “Did Daisy or Grams make this?”
“Daisy dropped them off a few hours ago.”
“It’s amazing.” I took another sip of stout, savoring. The flavors complemented each other perfectly. “Wow, Avery really is a genius,” I agreed. “How do you work here and not spend your whole shift drinking?”