Stout (Men of Lovibond 2)

“Been eagerly awaiting that bug to bite.” Fuck, I’ve been craving her bread. And, fuck, I’ve been craving her company.

It’s been four days since our business meeting. Not that I really ever considered it any kind of work consultation between her and me. Crashing on Lawrence’s lunch with Adelyn was just an easy way to spend time with her.

I’ve gone back and forth with myself at least a dozen times about going next door to visit. I’ve stolen many glances of her the last few days. Some from my kitchen window. Some from my driveway. Some from my upstairs guest room that overlooks her backyard and pool.

Damn. That woman knows the perfect way to stretch her body on a lounger. And she knows exactly how to wear a skimpy bikini. I especially love the black one, although I’m not prejudice against the turquoise one. It’s a close second.

I wonder if she knows I look at her. I wonder if she wants me to.

“Come in.”

She enters my foyer and looks around. “Wow. I love what you’ve done here.”

“Not what I’ve done. This was all Lawry’s doings. She’s the decorator of the family. I’d have posters of dogs playing poker taped to the wall if it were left up to me.”

She goes to the table and picks up a framed photo of Lawry and me. “You were such a cute kid. How old are y’all here?”

I’m not really sure but our cheeks are fuller. Our eyes brighter. It’s definitely the post Jimmy and Christie era of our lives. “Probably seven and eleven. Maybe eight and twelve.”

“Four years apart. Same as my brother and I.”

“You’re older?”

“No. Tommy was.”

Was. “He’s passed?”

“Yeah. Car accident two years ago.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Sounds so cliché but I’m not sure what else to say.

“Thanks.”

She returns the photo to its place before following me to the kitchen. “I packed raspberry butter this time instead of jam. I thought you might like to try it.”

“Where in the world do you buy raspberry butter?”

“You don’t. You make it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that, but it sounds good.”

My sister has a fixation with nutrition, so tasty food is my thing.

The pink spread glides over the still-warm bread and then seeps. Damn. My mouth floods in anticipation. Just like a woman after the right kind of foreplay.

Fuck. I shouldn’t have thoughts like that while I’m with Adelyn. She’s my neighbor. Not even a down-the-street neighbor. She’s right next door. Our houses can’t be an inch more than fifty yards apart.

You don’t fuck with neighbors. Things go bad, there’s no getting away.

“De-li-cious.” Something about hearing me say that amuses her. I see it in the smile she’s suppressing. In those dimples threatening to deepen at any moment.

Motherfucker.

Those damn hazel eyes and long, pale lashes darkened with mascara. Those damn scattered freckles across her porcelain skin. Those damn flaming locks.

Don’t look, Stout. Don’t get sucked in. It will end badly. It always does. Change the course of this ship before it runs ashore and ruins any potential for platonic friendship.

Neutral conversation. It’s safe. “Did you grow up here?”

“I grew up in a lot of different places.”

“Military brat?”

She’s no longer boss over that smile. It has won the battle. “No. Baptist brat.”

“Oh.” Fuck me. Adelyn is a preacher’s daughter. That puts all kinds of naughty thoughts in my head.

“What about you?”

“Savannah, Georgia.”

“How’d you end up all the way in Birmingham?”

“Went to Alabama.”

“Roll-damn-tide,” we say in unison.

She points at me. “Jinx. You owe me a Coke.” I haven’t heard anyone say that in forever.

“Don’t have any of those. How ’bout a beer instead?”

“I’ll take a beer.”

I’m limited on choices at the moment. Doesn’t say a lot for a beer brewer. “Pale Hazel or IPA.”

“Ah, man. I’m caught.” She squeezes her lids shut and scrunches her nose before covering her eyes. “I don’t know the difference.” She peeks at me between parted fingers. “Will you choose for me?”

“It’s okay. I’m not offended you aren’t a beer connoisseur.” I go with Pale Hazel because it’s light and usually preferred by people who don’t drink craft beer on a regular basis.

“I don’t dislike beer. I often choose it over wine or cocktails, but I’m not very educated about it.”

“Then we’ll need to do something about that sometime.” I push the bottle across the island in her direction. “Sorry. All I have is this shitty Lovibond brand.”

She takes a drink and nods. “It’s good. Nutty.”

“Hazelnut.”

Her eyes widen. “You’re right. But I guess you would be since you formulated the recipe.” She giggles while taking another drink and beer dribbles down her lip. Her hand quickly wipes away the drops I wish I could lick from her mouth. You’re going to get in trouble if you don’t behave.

“I don’t recall Alabama offering a beer brewing degree. What did you study?”

“Chemical engineering.”

“Wow. You’re an engineer?”

“No. I’m a beer brewer with a degree in engineering. Big difference.”

“How does one go to school for something like that and end up a beer brewer?”

“I bought a home-brew beer kit when I was a sophomore. Did some research. Toyed with the process. Found out I was pretty damn good at it. My best friend and I spent the next couple of years perfecting recipes. Graduation was approaching, and we both knew we wanted to make a go at a brewery. Found an investor and the rest is history.”

“It worked out.”

Not everyone is able to follow their dreams. And those who do often fail. “We were lucky.”

“And talented.”

“Talent is a part of it.”

“So your sister married your best friend?” I consider Tap one of my best buddies, but I don’t think that’s what Adelyn means.

“No. Lawry married the man who financially backed Lovibond. And then together, they started Bohemian Cider Company.”

“Oh, okay. I think I have it straight now.”

I want to hear more about this preacher’s daughter. “How’d Birmingham become your landing pad?”

“Daddy was pastor of a church here when I was in high school. All my friends were from this place, so I stayed when he moved on to the next church. I lived with my best friend and her parents until I graduated from high school. Went to Alabama. Got a bachelor in Executive Restaurant and Hospitality Management. And here I am.”

“And now you own an event coordinating agency. Impressive for someone so young.”

“How young do you think I am?”

“Based on looks . . .”

“Careful what you say, Oliver.” Her dimples are trying to make another appearance.

“I’d guess twenty-two according to appearance. But logic tells me you must be closer to thirty.”

“Good answer. I’m twenty-seven.”

“You obviously didn’t acquire your agency yesterday. How did you manage to pull off owning a company so young?”

“Same as you. An investor.”

I’m always interested in hearing another business owner’s success story. “How did you convince your financial backer to invest in you?”

“He was my boss.”

Sounds similar to our situation. “He must have seen your determination and believed in your drive to succeed?”

“No. He believed in fucking me. And owning me. And beating me when I no longer wanted to be his toy.”

Fuck.

I don’t know what to say to that.

She’s silent for a moment before speaking a

gain. “I’ve stunned you.”

“Yes, you have.”