That's my first thought when Wren Callan walks into my brewery at exactly seven oh one, looking like she's marching to her own execution.
It's been a habit since my mom died—marking major life shifts with permanent ink. And seeing Wren standing there, pink hair pulled back in a ponytail, gray eyes filled with something that looks a whole hell of a lot like fear, I can feel it in my bones. Whatever she's about to say is tattoo-worthy.
"Hey." My voice comes out rough and I clear my throat as I set down my pencil. The label design I've been working on—a Northwest IPA with hints of pine and citrus—is half finished on the page in front of me.
Wren doesn't say anything. She stands in the doorway, taking everything in like she’s never been here before. I've been sketching beer labels at the corner table of the empty tasting room, the long wooden bar stretching along one wall, brewing tanks visible through the glass partition behind it. She studies the scattered pages of my designs, the charcoal pencils, the half-empty coffee mug beside my work, before her gaze finally lands on me. The intensity of it hits me square in the chest.
It’s been both too long and not long enough since I last saw her.
I almost forgot how life-destroyingly beautiful she is.
She walks over, drops her bag on the chair across from me, and stays standing.
"We need to talk," she says, and even though I'm the one who's been texting her that exact phrase for weeks, hearing it from her lips makes my stomach clench. You know it’s never a good thing when a woman says those dreaded four words.
"That's what I've been saying." I stand, wiping charcoal-stained fingers on my jeans. "Want a beer? Or?—"
"No beer." She cuts me off sharply, then seems to catch herself. "I can't—I mean, no thanks."
I cock my head at her. Wren never turns down the chance to critique my brewing. Half our arguments start with her telling me what's wrong with my latest release.
"Water? Coffee?" I offer instead, gesturing toward the bar.
"I'm fine." She crosses her arms over her chest. Those perky tits that I’ve?—
Nah, I’m not going there. I force my eyes to stay on her face and that’s when I notice the shadows under her eyes, the paleness of her skin. She looks exhausted in a way I've never seen before.
"You don't look fine," I say before I can stop myself.
Her jaw tightens. "Thanks."
"That's not what I—" I exhale heavily, running a hand through my hair. "You wanted to talk. So talk."
For a second, I think she might turn around and walk out. I wouldn't blame her. We've never been good at this—the whole civil conversation thing. We're better at fighting, at pushing each other's buttons until something explosive happens.
Like in Vegas.
And that’s when the memory hits me—Wren in that black dress, her pink hair loose around her shoulders, eyes bright with challenge as she debated the merits of traditional versus experimental brewing techniques. How the argument somehowturned into her pressed against the elevator wall, my hand gripping her thigh, hers in my hair, her mouth hot and desperate against mine.
"Are you even listening to me?" Wren's irritated voice snaps me back to the present.
"Sorry, what?" Shit. I was so lost in the memory that I missed whatever she just said.
She makes a frustrated sound. "I said, I saw the paperwork isn't filed yet. Why?"
Right. The divorce papers. The ones sitting on my desk at home, half-filled out and untouched for weeks.
"I’ve been busy," I mutter, gesturing vaguely to the brewery around us. "Trying to convince new breweries to go direct-to-bar after you locked down MacIntyre and Henderson. Not to mention poaching The Hop Yard right across the street from us."
"I didn't 'poach' anything," she fires back, andhere we fucking go. "I made better offers. That's business."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Pink."
Her eyes narrow at the nickname, and I wait for the usual verbal backhand. She never lets me get away with calling her that. Normally she'd tell me exactly where I could shove my condescending nickname, maybe threaten to cut my balls off if I ever used it again. But instead, she just stands there, gripping the chair back so hard her knuckles go white.
And are her hands shaking?
Something's off. She's not fighting back like she always does, not bitching at me about how my direct-to-bar model is outdated or how my stubbornness is killing my business. Instead, she's standing there looking like she might either throw up or run at any second.
