"Than watch you squirm? Not really." Lake checks his watch. "But I do need to go check on that delivery at the loading dock. The new glasses for the tasting room should be here."
He heads toward the back exit, pausing at the door. "For what it's worth... I get it. She's hot, smart, and drives you crazy."
"We're not discussing this." And I bristle at Lake calling Wrenhot.When the fuck has he looked at her?
"Whatever you say, boss." He disappears through the door, leaving me alone with the steady hum of the brewing equipment and my unreasonably jealous thoughts.
I force myself to focus, and before I know it, two hours have passed. I'm feeling almost normal again. The wort is cooling, ready to be transferred to the fermenter. I put Lake in the tasting room to help with the afternoon rush because I didn’t want to deal with his shit, and I’ve been hiding out in the brewing area. It’s quiet back here and the repetitive work has cleared my head. It’s had the added bonus of pushing any and all thoughts of Wren to the background where they belong.
Until I glance out the front window and see a familiar van parked across the street, the Cascade Craft Distribution logo big and bright on its side.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I mutter.
I watch as one of Wren's delivery guys unloads kegs at The Hop Yard, a bar that opened just last month. A bar I've beentrying to get Timber into since before they even opened their doors. A bar whose owner assured me last week they were still "considering their options."
My jaw clenches as it feels like snakes coil in my stomach. Before I can think better of it, I'm pulling off my brewing gloves and heading for the door.
The spring air is cool against my skin after the warmth of my brewery. I cross the street without bothering to check for traffic, my focus locked on the Cascade van and the guy lifting kegs onto a dolly.
"Hey," I call out, my voice sharper than I mean for it to be.
The delivery guy looks up, confusion crossing his face when he sees me. "Can I help you?"
"When did The Hop Yard sign with Cascade?" I demand.
"Uh..." He glances at his clipboard. "Last week, I think? Today’s the first delivery."
Last week. While I was still waiting for Tom Hayes to 'consider his options,' Wren had already locked down the account. The familiar frustration rises, made worse by the knowledge that we've been avoiding each other for weeks. After that text exchange when I first got back to Portland—setting up a coffee meeting I never showed up for—neither of us has reached out again.
Things are too awkward and I don’t want to face her as much as I imagine she doesn’t want to face me.
She’s good at pissing me off from afar, though. Always has been.
Now when I need to confront her about business, I can't even do that without dragging up Vegas and inevitably her questions about when we’re going to file the divorce papers I can’t bring myself to fill out.
"Everything okay, man?" The delivery guy is eyeing me warily now.
I force myself to take a breath. "Yeah. Fine." I turn and head back to the brewery, hands clenched at my sides.
Seeing her company logo, knowing she's expanding her reach right in my own backyard, sets something off inside me. It's like she's deliberately trying to get under my skin.
Back in the safety of Timber, I lean against the wall, taking deep breaths. This is why I need to file those divorce papers. I need to move the fuck on. Forget I ever saw what Wren Callan looks like first thing in the morning, soft and rumpled and more beautiful than she has any right to be.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull out my phone and scroll to the contact I'd saved and had to stop myself from texting every single fucking day. The one labeled simply "Pink." My thumb hovers for a second before I type:
The Hop Yard? Really?
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it. Almost immediately, three dots appear. She's typing back.
Yes, really. Why? Did you lick them and they’re yours?
I can practically hear her voice, sarcastic and bitchy and why thefuckis my dick chubbing up? My thumb hovers over the screen for a long moment before I reply. I consider bringing up what else I licked that’s now mine but think better of it. Instead, I type:
We need to talk about Vegas.
Her response comes almost immediately:
Wren: Four weeks of silence and now you want to talk? No thanks.
