Hollywood on Tap (Sweet Salvation Brewery 2)

Sean followed her inside and shut the door behind them. He stayed by the door, but in the tiny room the distance was more an illusion than a reality. In actuality, he filled the space from wall to wall until even the idea of him pushed against her, as tangible as the books on the shelves.

Awareness of him jolted through her body, as if she had a sixth sense for hotness. It made her jittery and unsure. Two of her least favorite feelings. She backed up until her ass hit the table’s edge. Shit, she was doing that a lot around him.

Floundering for words—something else that happened whenever he was near—she blurted out the first thing that came to mind that didn’t involve her licking his abs. “So this is one of the places besides the cooler where you hole up whenever I’m looking for yo

u.”

God, it seemed so obvious now. No one would be calling her Sherlock anytime soon.

He shrugged. “Pretty much.”

He slouched against one of the bookshelves, his brown–eyed gaze locked on her. Though his body language was relaxed, an underlying sexual tension came off him in waves.

And damn her, she wanted to drown in him. Another place, another man, Natalie would be planning which item of clothing to discard first. But he was an employee and she couldn’t cross that line with him again.

Needing to touch something, she raised her hand to her necklace and rubbed one pale pearl between her fingers. “Why are we here?”

“You need to be distracted before your head explodes.” The too–knowing smile curling one side of his delicious mouth showed that he knew exactly how much he’d thrown her off balance. “I’m working on the stout recipe that will win the Southeast Brewers Invitational. I’m making small batches to test out each recipe, and this is where I come up with combinations to try out.”

Falling into research mode, she relaxed. “How does that work?”

Sean pushed away from the bookshelf and joined her by the table. Standing only inches in front of her, he let his dark gaze dropped to her mouth.

So much for getting comfortable. Her heart jackhammered against her rib cage. There were a dozen reasons why she should leave now, but standing so close to him, none of them seemed to matter.

Leaning forward, his arm snaked around her, close enough that his bare forearm brushed against her waist as he reached for something on the table.

Her breath caught. It would have taken an earthquake to move her even the barest inch as she inhaled his clean–soap scent mixed with the brewery’s distinctive hoppy aroma. Somewhere between inhalation and exhalation, she gave up the ghost. While she hadn’t moved a millimeter, inside she felt like one of those animated gifs declaring “My body is ready.”

“First…” His whisper tickled her ear. “You have to figure out what kind you’re making.” Sean pulled a red spiral notebook from behind her and took half a step back.

He stood far enough that she could make an escape if she wanted but close enough that she didn’t want to. He flipped open the notebook but kept staring at her, not even trying to temper the lust swirling in his brown eyes.

The man was a first–class tease.

Remembering the night before at his house and the experimental beer, followed by him shirtless and the kiss that had burned its way into her forever memory, a slow shiver worked its way up her spine. “You’re making a stout.”

“Right.” He reached up and drew her fingers away from her pearl necklace, sending an atom–bomb–level frisson of need through her body. “What makes a stout a stout?”

Fighting her way through the zero–visibility fog in her brain, she sputtered out the first answer she could come up with. “It’s thick and has a foamy top?”

“Not foam, a head.” He laughed and stroked his thumb down the center of her palm before releasing it. He squeezed his eyes closed, clenched his jaw shut and gulped. After a deep breath, he reopened his eyes and sidestepped her so they stood shoulder to shoulder.

At least she wasn’t the only one affected. Triumph and relief battled inside her as she pivoted to face the table.

He laid the notebook on the table and flipped to a page filled with his cramped, printed writing. “Usually, a stout is an opaque black or brown with dark–red highlights. A typical dry stout has a roasted, grainy sharpness, a hint of unsweetened chocolate, and a bitter bite from the hops. The one I’m working on has a touch of an acidic sourness too.”

Natalie made the bitter–beer face, as if she’d just sucked a lemon.

That made him laugh out loud. The sound released some of the sexual tension stringing both of them tight. “Don’t make that face. It’s a good kind of tart sour, not nasty sour like milk gone bad.”

The warm sound of his voice was doing more to ease the worry curdling her lunch about tonight’s stakeout than three trips up and down her pearl necklace. “Why a stout?”

“Ales and IPAs are everywhere, but there aren’t that many small–craft beers that make a stellar stout that stands out. So it’s good business sense for the Sweet Salvation Brewery.” He said it as if reciting a line he’d had to memorize.

The man needed to learn he didn’t have to guard every piece of information as if it were the combination to Fort Knox. “But that’s not all of it.”

“No.” He shook his head and spoke slowly, as if building up to something. “I like the strength of it. The stouts were created to capitalize on the porters that came first. The difference was the stouts were fuller, creamier, with more body and alcohol punch—though not so much anymore.”