By the time the MacIntyre team leaves, contracts signed and handshakes exchanged, I've almost convinced myself that everything that happened this weekend was some kind of weird fever dream.
But then my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: we need to talk
And just like that, reality comes crashing back and ruins my good mood. I stare at the message while my heart gallops away. I know exactly who it's from, even without a name.
Kasen James.
My husband.
Four weeks later…
I swear I see fucking pink hair everywhere.
It's been a month since Vegas, and I still can't get the image of Wren Callan sprawled across those hotel sheets out of my head. Every time I close my eyes, there she is with all her curves and attitude and that goddamn hair fanned out against the white pillowcase.
The divorce paperwork sits half done on my desk at home. I've filled out my portion, but I keep finding reasons not to file it. Either I’m too busy or I need to double-check something. Maybe the courthouse closes early on Fridays. They’re bullshit excuses, and I know it.
Ask me if I care.
"The wort's about to boil over," Lake's voice drags me back to reality. "You planning to add those hops sometime today, or should we just brew a different beer altogether?"
I blink, suddenly aware of the weight of the measured hops in my hand and the rolling boil of the wort in front of me. The rich, malty aroma fills the brewery and I inhale. This, at least, makes sense.
"Shit. Sorry." I dump the hops into the kettle, watching the green cones disappear into the bubbling liquid.
"That's the third time you've zoned out this morning." Lake leans against the brewing tank, arms crossed over his chest. His blonde hair is messy and his septum ring catches the light as he tilts his head. "What's going on with you?"
"Nothing." The word comes out too fast.
"Bullshit." Lake's eyebrow quirks up. "This about Cascade again?"
My jaw tightens at the mention. "What about them?"
"Oh, I don't know." Lake checks the temperature gauge, making a note on his clipboard. "Maybe the fact that you've been obsessed with beating ‘Princess Pink’—" he makes air quotes with his fingers,"—ever since she swiped the airport contract from under us."
"Don’t remind me." I grab the long paddle and stir the wort more aggressively than necessary. "She undercut us, knowing we couldn't match her price without taking a loss."
"And that's bad business... how, exactly?" Lake reaches over to adjust the heat. "Careful, you're going to scorch it."
I ease up on the stirring, focusing on the repetitive motion to calm the irritation bubbling up inside me. It’s the same feeling I get every time I think about Wren and her vicious business tactics. Or her mouth. Or how she looked in that black dress in Vegas before it ended up hanging from a lampshade in my hotel room.
"It was a dick move," I mutter.
"Says the guy who's been trying to convince every new brewery in Portland to bypass distributors altogether." Lake snorts. "Face it, man. You're just pissed because she's good at what she does."
I shoot him a glare. "Whose side are you on?"
"The side of not watching you being a moody bastard over the same woman for the last year." He checks his watch. "Timer's up. Whirlpool hops go in now."
I flip him off, then reach for the next addition, carefully measuring the hops that will give our new seasonal its signature finish. My hands work automatically while my brain keeps circling back to Vegas. To waking up with a wedding ring on my finger and Wren Callan naked in my bed.
The brewery door swings open and the chime pulls me back to reality. Because I got lost in memories ofher. Again.
Lake glances over my shoulder and grins. "Speaking of women who terrify you—hey, Clover!"
I turn to see my sister making her way through the brewery, baby carrier in one hand, diaper bag slung across her body. Her black hair is piled in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes, but she's smiling. My nephew, Noble, is in the carrier, out cold.
