One Last Time (Loveless Brothers 5)

He stops, leans toward one dial, then looks up at the tank. It all looks fine to me, but then again, this part isn’t really my specialty. I can run it just fine if Daniel’s not around, but he’s the brewmaster.

I’m the spreadsheet master. It sounds less sexy, but trust me, it’s just as important.

“You gonna call the IRS on her?” he asks, looking at me and grinning. “Maybe you could also mention the time she set up a lemonade stand and didn’t collect sales tax.”

“That’s more of a county matter,” I deadpan.

“Look, Rusty likes hanging out with her Uncle Levi and collecting juniper berries,” Daniel says. “It’s a good bonding experience for the two of them.”

“SETH!” a voice hollers behind us, and we both turn.

Catherine, our operations manager, is standing at the far end of the row of steel tanks, waving both arms in the air.

I wave back.

“Someone here to see you,” she calls out, walking toward us.

“Who?” I call back.

“Am I your secretary?” she says as we meet in the middle of the room, under the steel tanks.

“Do you have any information at all about this mystery person?” I tease. “Or am I walking blind into some kind of ambush?”

“It’s a fancy-looking blonde, so you tell me,” Catherine says, raising both her eyebrows. “Hopefully she just wants beer. You know what I told you about hanky-pank during work hours.”

“Was it that as the owner, I can hanky whatever pank I want?” I shoot back, but I’m just razzing her. I know my reputation. I’m the one who earned it.

Behind me, Daniel sighs.

“You want me to take this one?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest. I’m ninety percent sure he’s giving me a hard time, but my annoyance flickers anyway.

“No, I’d like to make sure that this beer order is properly logged, accounted for, and doesn’t fuck up the rest of this month’s numbers,” I say, a little testy.

“I did that once,” he says. “Three years ago.”

“Yeah, and Nancy still calls me every month to make sure that the Dixie Pub is getting the right kegs delivered on the right day,” I say.

“She calls you because she’s got a crush and because you always remember her grandchildren’s names,” he says, a sly smile starting to take over his face. “Do you know I once overheard her talking about the things she’d do to you if she were twenty years younger?”

FWEEEEEEP! sounds a sudden, ear-splitting whistle, and Daniel and I both step back.

“Boys!” Catherine says, sternly.

“Does she know we could fire her?” I mutter to Daniel.

“Good luck with that,” Catherine laughs. “She’s in the big room, are you gonna go —”

“Yes, I’ll go see the fancy blonde,” I say, and start walking. “What is this, a Hitchcock movie? If she wants me to help her kill her husband, I am out.”

The big room is just what we call the brewery’s main public space. It’s got a bar along one wall, dartboards along another, windows along a third. The side without the dartboards has three long wooden tables running the length of the room, all made by Daniel’s wife Charlie.

All in all, it’s pleasant, slightly stylish, a little cozy, and a very nice place to hang out with friends on a Saturday afternoon.

I head toward it between the colonnades of big steel tanks, past our offices, running through a list in my head. I’ve still got a few invoices to pay, including the one that Cloverdale Organics finally corrected, I’ve got to figure out why Iris’s direct deposit didn’t go through yesterday, and then my other brother Eli will be here because tonight is the soft opening —

The moment I get to the doorway, I stop. It’s only for an instant, but my mind empties out and all I can hear is the single thud of my heart, the slow surge of blood through my veins, the whisper of adrenaline as it pricks over the back of my neck.

Delilah’s standing there.

She’s in the center of the big room, all red hair and freckles. She’s wearing a long black wool coat, her hands in her pockets. She’s talking to her stepmother Vera, laughing.

I’m derailed, all thoughts of direct deposit and my brother Eli gone, like Delilah’s the copper penny on the tracks and I’m the train unfortunate enough to run it over, the one-in-a-million that crashes because of such a simple, lovely thing.

I take my right foot off the floor, remind myself of each individual movement of my legs that comprise the action walking, and I move forward.

“Hi there,” I call out. “I heard you were in need of beer assistance?”

I cross the room toward them, a smile on my face. As if there’s nothing at all interesting about this.

“Seth,” says Vera, who is both fancy and blonde. “Thank you so much for taking time out of your day to help me out.”