Real Men Will (Donovan Brothers Brewery 3)
She had no idea what to say to that. Sometimes her mom was a little off. Or a lot. “Is anything going on? Are you both feeling good?”
“We’re wonderful, sweetie. We’re ready for some cool weather, though. It’s been so hot here.”
“Turn your air conditioner up, Mom.”
“You know your father hates it when I use it in September.”
“Tell him you’re a delicate Anglo and you can’t handle the heat. And September or not, it’s still hot as hell.”
Her mom giggled, even as she chided Beth for her language. Poor Mom. She’d probably drop dead if she heard her baby talking cock rings and anal plugs with customers. Or maybe she wouldn’t even understand what was being discussed.
“I love you, Mom.” Beth hung up with the same mix of frustration and comfort she always did. Her parents had provided her with love and a safe home and plenty of emotional support. But they couldn’t support the choices she’d made. They just couldn’t. There were lines they couldn’t cross, and she’d found that out the hard way.
But they still loved her, and that was a hell of a lot more than some of her friends had. So Beth chose to feel a little stronger as she walked into the front room and turned on all the lights.
The room blinked to life and she looked over it with pride. Fuck Eric Donovan. He was lucky she’d remembered his fake name, much less bothered to find out his real one.
She wasn’t going to let him make her back into the girl she’d once been. No chance in hell.
ERIC HAD BRIEFLY CONSIDERED calling in sick today. After all, he felt sick. He hadn’t gotten one damn hour of sleep the night before.
He’d known better than to lie, but he’d still done it, and look what he’d done to Beth. And to his newly forged relationship with Jamie.
In the spirit of punishing himself, Eric had dragged himself from bed and hauled his ass into work. Jamie had been there to greet Eric with a glare as soon as he’d walked in. Luckily, they’d spent the first half hour in separate areas of the brewery, so Jamie’s anger hadn’t yet burned a hole in Eric’s skull.
But once Eric had the mechanic settled in, he had no excuse to lurk in the bottling room and oversee the work. When he stepped back into the tank room, Wallace grabbed his elbow in one meaty paw.
“The new stout,” he said, as if that explained his tight grip on Eric’s arm.
“Yeah?”
“It’s ready.”
Oh, that was why Wallace’s eyes glinted with worry. The last batch hadn’t worked out, and Wallace had been frustrated, to say the least. Eric had thought he’d been thinking about Faron again, but maybe he was already fully recovered.
“Come on,” Wallace growled. “You and Jamie can taste it at the same time.”
Eric opened his mouth to say no, but even he couldn’t justify that kind of immature answer. He couldn’t bring himself to say yes, either, so he just waited for Wallace to grab the glass of stout, and followed him into the kitchen.
Jamie was already there, an uncharacteristic frown on his face when he glanced up from examining the pizza oven. He jerked his chin up. “Hey, Wallace.”
“It’s time,” Wallace said ominously.
“Time for what?” Jamie asked.
“The chocolate stout.”
Jamie stood and wiped his hands on the rag he’d thrown over his shoulder. “The Devil’s Cock?”
Eric shook his head. “We haven’t decided on that name yet.”
Jamie ignored him completely and nodded toward the glass in Wallace’s hand. “Let’s do it.”
Wallace gathered up three small sample glasses and poured. The dark brown brew looked solid and crisp, the head a nice cream color.
“This is the new cocoa, right? The Mexican?”
Wallace grunted as they each took a glass. “Yeah. And the chipotle peppers.” There was a reason they were considering the name Devil’s Cock. This stout was the darkest of dark, accented with chocolate and a kick of heat. It smelled black and wicked.