I hope to keep them far away from me.
I see the host gesture to the bar and have to bite back my sigh. Of course.
They take three stools with their bodies angled outward toward the room rather than the taps. Their eyes go everywhere first—the chalkboard, the crowd, the window—before they land on me. I know that look. It’s the look of people who think they’re better than you for whatever reason they can summon up on a given day.
I’ve seen that look before.
“What can I get you?” I ask.
“Three of the Hoffman,” says Seed Cap. He doesn’t use the second word. Something about the way he cuts it makes the hair on my arms stand up.
“Hoffman Heritage?” I confirm, because clarity is my friend.
“Sure,” he says, like he’s agreed to something beneath him.
I pour. The amber runs clean and bright, a glow that still hits me. The smell kicks up—caramel, a toasted edge, that whisper of spice when the yeast throws just right. I set the pints down in a neat line.
Belt Buckle takes a sip, sets the glass down, and looks at it like he’s never seen one before. “Huh,” he says.
“Problem?” I ask, still neutral.
He turns the glass by a quarter-inch, eyes on the logo. “Just familiar, that’s all.”
I wait. He doesn’t say more.
Belt Buckle lets the silence stretch like he wants the whole place to feel it. Then he lifts his chin at the chalkboard where I’ve lettered HOFFMAN HERITAGE in block caps like I always do.
“‘Heritage,’” he reads, mouth flattening around the word. “Big word.”
“Bigger than your manners,” Charlotte mutters under her breath as she passes. I make a small motion with my hand. I’m good. I’ve got it. Stay in your lane.
Short Sleeves is studying me the way a person studies a bug on the windowsill—curious, a little mean.
“Where’d you get it?” he asks.
“The beer?” I say.
“The name,” he says, and his mouth smiles while his eyes don’t. “The story. The… brand.” He makes a little swirl with his hand that lands somewhere between polite and obscene.
“It’s my grandfather’s,” I say, because it’s the simple truth I’ve always told. “William Hoffman. He brewed in Paducah a long time ago. A family thing.”
The man studies me for two slow beats. “Family,” he says softly. He takes a drink, swallows, sets the glass down with precise care, and then turns to Belt Buckle. “We’re going to need a fresh pull on these.”
“They’re fresh,” I say. “Keg went on at 10:00.”
“Then this one’s off,” Seed Cap says. “Too sweet. Watery.” He taps the side. “Maybe you’re cutting it.”
Mark laughs, a single clean note. “We don’t cut beer, partner. This isn’t Prohibition.”
Short Sleeves smiles without any humor. “We’ll try three more,” he says. “On the house. Since the first round’s not right.”
“Okay,” Mark says, voice still bright but with a new undertow. “That’s enough.”
I hold up a hand to him—let me. I look at the men.
“Mind telling me what’s wrong with it?” I say tightly.
“Tastes like a sham,” he says.
