Bad Boys Do (Donovan Brothers Brewery 2)

Fury rolled through Jamie like fire, setting every muscle aflame with the need to lash out. But he only clenched his jaw. “I did respond like an adult,” he ground out.

“You acted like a mindless teenage boy, just like you always do.”

“You’re the one who’s in my bar right now, trying to start shit in front of the customers. Good job being the adult in the family.”

Eric let his head fall back. He took a deep breath and glared at the ceiling for five seconds. “I’m sorry. It just sets me off when you seem unconcerned with what you did.”

“I don’t need you telling me what I should feel, Eric. And I don’t need to prove shit to you, all right?” He caught the movement of someone approaching the bar and shot his brother a glare. “Now, get the hell out. I’m working.”

“Jamie—” Eric started, but Jamie was already turning away, offering a smile for the grandmotherly woman approaching.

“Jamie.” Eric tried again, but Jamie kept his focus on the customer.

“Are you ready to try the stout now, Maggie?”

“Oh, you,” she giggled. “No, we just need some more pretzels.”

Eric finally turned and left. A minute later, Jamie heard the beep of the back door and rolled his neck, trying to let the tension go.

Maybe his plan for this place was ridiculous. Eric was never going to give him a chance. He’d never listen to Jamie’s ideas. And in the end, Jamie was beginning to think he’d have to make some very different plans. He couldn’t live like this for the rest of his life, like some kid under his big brother’s thumb.

He’d give this brewery expansion idea a good try. He really would. He’d pour his heart into it. And then, if Eric chose to stomp all over Jamie’s plans, Jamie would make new ones, and they’d have nothing to do with the other Donovans.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

OLIVIA HAD RUN FOR NEARLY TWO hours, and strangely, after that long run, she’d found it much easier to breathe. She was not going to let Victor or anyone else ruin her plans for fun. A few months ago—hell, a few days ago—she would’ve responded very differently to that call from her department chair. She would have cowered, retreated, turned a one-eighty and run far away from any hint of scandal.

But she hadn’t done anything wrong, and the idea of running back to her safe existence pissed her off. She’d been safe, yes. But she’d also been lonely. And cold. And bored.

So when Jamie called and asked if she could stop by the brewery tonight to discuss his plans, she jumped in feetfirst. Still, her heart was fluttering like a bird when she stepped inside. It was busier than she’d expected for a weeknight, but she wasn’t surprised to find that three quarters of the customers were women. So many book clubs; so little time.

She spotted Jamie at a corner table delivering a tray of beers to a large group of women. One of them jumped up and planted a kiss on his cheek. Jamie didn’t even act surprised—he just smiled and handed her a pint glass, while the other ladies hooted their approval.

Olivia hurried toward an empty seat at the bar, not sure why she felt so nervous. He’d asked her to come, confessing that he was feeling a sudden urgency to get through the project.

I’m brave, she told herself as she scurried across the barroom like a mouse. Taking a seat, she folded her hands neatly in her lap and waited for Jamie to appear behind the bar. He was taking his sweet time, though. She dared a glance over her shoulder and saw him wiping down a table, his kilt rising up to show the backs of his knees.

His kilt.

Her face flashed hot. Other parts followed suit.

When Jamie finally came to the bar, he didn’t notice her at first. He stacked the dirty glasses, wiped down his tray, then looked expectantly over the customers at the bar. His face was so open, as if he were anticipating happiness even under the most mundane circumstances. When his gaze touched her, he smiled.

“Hey, you’re here!”

“I wasn’t sure what I should bring….” She held up her notebook.

“Want a beer?”

“No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jamie said, reaching for a pint glass. “Try the hefeweizen.”

“I won’t like it!” she laughed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t like beer.”

“Everyone likes beer,” he insisted, sliding her the glass. “Look, this one comes with a lemon slice.”

“Is that to mask the awful taste?”