Never Kiss A Stranger

“Well, it starts with barley. We use a mixture of barley and wheat and then throw a little oat into the mix. Shh, old family secret.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Then we add hot water over here.” He shows me the machine where it all begins. “It’s almost like porridge.” His knowledge makes him more attractive. He’s not just a pretty face, dammit. “Once the mash is at the right temperature the sugar is extracted. Then from there we add hops and there’s a little more to it, but that’s the gist of it all.”

“Very impressive.”

For the next thirty minutes, he leads me around, explaining all the different types of hops and beers they make.

“So, that’s the whole place. There will be a quiz to see if you were paying attention,” he jokes.

At least I think he’s joking, until he continues, “What’s the name of this tank?” He thumbs over his shoulder.

“Bob?” I guess.

He laughs. “Someone wasn’t paying attention.”

He slips his hands into his pockets, and how can you pay attention to someone when all you can think about is that same person putting their hands all over you? Hard to do, huh?

Well, that’s me. My whole brain is all disjointed, and all the normal thoughts I should be having about boilers, kettles, and kegs are replaced with sexy images of Ellis while he pours beer over me and his tongue drags down my neck, licking it off.

“Sure, I was,” I pipe out.

“We also have a little pub around front. Want a drink?”

“Yes,” I say, a bit too eager. “I could really use one.”

He leads me back through a door and down a narrow hallway. “What do you think of the place?”

“I love it.”

He opens another door and leads me into a dimly lit pub with a few people drinking at the bar.

When I turn to head in the direction of the bartender, Ellis touches the small of my back, gently, and leads me toward a secluded booth in the back.

With sweaty palms and a racing heart, I slide into the padded leather bench seat. “It’s really nice here.”

“Let me get you a beer. I have one I think you’ll love.”

He heads toward the bar, and moments later returns with two foaming mugs of beer. My mouth waters as he places one in front of me.

“It’s a tropical pale ale. Similar to the I’d Tap That, but it has passion fruit and grapefruit peel with an earthy kick to make it melt in your mouth.”

I take a sip, savoring it. “Ah, this is amazing.”

“It’s all in the hops,” he says with a wink. “It’s called Luau.”

“It’s delicious.” He sits across from me. “Why don’t you work here?” I’m guessing it has to do with his father, but I want to know more. I want to know it all.

“I run the packaging and distribution in Atlanta.”

“And you love it?” I sound like a twitterpated school girl.

He takes a swig. “I’ve been making beer before I was old enough to drink it. My father used to bring me and my brother here when we were kids, and we’d watch him.” He looks out at the large space. “Of course, back then, this place was a lot smaller.”

“Your dad did good.”

“Back then, my father was such a hard worker. He loved the business and everything about it.” He takes a drink. “And we idolized him.”

“I’m sorry it all changed.”

“It’s fine.” He shrugs it off, like a coat that’s not needed. “So, this is the dream my father built.”

“Is it your dream?”

His beer halts on the way back to his perfect mouth. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” I take another sip of liquid courage before continuing, “your father started this place. Is it something you want?”

His brows rise, and I may be overstepping my place here. “Damn,” he murmurs, “no one's ever asked me what I want before.” He leans in. “It’s probably not a good idea to tell you the answer.”

“What do you want, Ellis?” I press, my voice dropping a few octaves—not of my own volition. It’s the beer's fault.

He doesn’t answer, but the flames of desire climb to a cataclysmic level inside me. I can’t break away from his gaze.

“You,” he finally breathes out.

My thighs clench together as if they can stop what’s happening. I am irrefutably turned on.

By another man.

I drain the rest of my beer, so I can keep my mouth busy and stall a bit before responding. It is so, so wrong that I liked hearing him say he wants me. Even though it can never go anywhere. “You can’t say things like that to me, Ellis.”

He trails a finger against the lacquered wood of the table. “I know. I just can’t seem to help myself.”

“Well, try,” I half-ass say, because I’m sure failing at it. “Henry is your friend.”

He scrubs a hand down his jaw. “Maybe we should call this a day.”