Chapter One

Briar

 

       I hate conflict so much I continued seeing a therapist I disliked for a year before I managed to ghost her after a scheduling mishap. Which is why I’m twitchy as I wait for Cleet and Ross to report to my father’s office at Silver Star Brewery.

       It’s a Sunday, less than three weeks before Christmas, and I’m about to fire them.

Not because I want to, but because my father threatened to fire five employees if I don’t choose two to fire and do the deed myself. I objected to letting anyone go before the holidays, and in retaliation he announced to the already-dissatisfied staff that there would be no holiday bonuses this year and it was all my fault.

       He sounds like a sadist, right?

       He is, and proud of it.

       According to him, his ability to “think beyond others’ feelings” is a key ingredient in his recipe for success.

I suppose he would know. My father is a wildly successful businessman who has developed and sold half a dozen businesses since I was born. Print-on-demand photo albums. Fake chicken he would never eat himself. Kombucha, right on the cusp of it becoming the next big thing. An inappropriate gummy candy he and my mom don’t like talking about.

       My mother thinks so highly of his recipe for success that she had it burned into a slab of maple. It hangs in their dining room.

 

Identify a rising trend +

Think beyond others’ feelings +

Give the people what they want

=Success by any measure

​

       I sit in the literal shadow of my father’s success every week when I have dinner with them, knowing his recipe will never work for me because I don’t have all of the ingredients.

       Which is bad news for me, because I’m the heir apparent for Silver Star Brewery, my dad’s latest success story.  

Silver Star is one of the nation’s few fully organic breweries, and we age all of our sours and some of our saisons in oak barrels in our barrel room. It must be said that my father likes to stand out.

       I’ve loved this brewery from the moment my father sent me photos of the empty warehouse. I couldn’t say why other than that it had good vibes. It seemed to tremble with possibilities. And now it’s a place of literal transformation where grain, yeast, and hops go to become gold…well, golden beer.

       So when my life imploded just under a year ago, my father knew exactly how to reel me back into his world.

       Give the people what they want.

       Instead of patting me on the back and telling me it was going to be okay, he announced he’d give me Silver Star Brewery if I moved back home, worked at the brewery for a year as an “ideal employee,” and attended family dinners every Friday night.

       “You can even bring a guest to dinner,” my father had said as if he were granting me a massive concession.

I’d wanted it badly enough to sign on the dotted line.

       Yes, there was a contract—a long one—and the one-year-period is up in a couple of months.

       But my dad doesn’t give anything to anyone without extracting a price. For the past few months, he’s been putting me through Briar Bootcamp—a series of increasingly obnoxious challenges designed to test my mettle and prepare me to run a business.

       I hate the tests, but my God, I want this brewery.

       So I’ve decided to show him I do have what it takes by firing Cleet and Ross.

       When I told my friend Hannah about the firing challenge, she said I should axe the two least popular staffers, not the worst, but my sense of fairness wouldn’t allow it. So I picked Cleet, who wears the same hoodie every day and stinks of cheap pot, and Ross, who tried to look up my dress last week when I was lifting something off a high shelf.

(He also did not offer to help.)

       Choosing them was the right thing to do. Still, firing two people back to back would destroy my soul, so I asked them both to meet me here, in my dad’s office, so I could do it at the same time.

       I really don’t want to go through with this. I’m tempted to sneak out the back and join my friends at Big Catch Brewing. Hannah’s throwing a holiday party for the staff (and her friends) tonight, and within fifteen minutes, I could be drinking mulled wine and avoiding the mistletoe like it’s poison ivy.

       I can practically see my father shaking his head. “If you weren’t the product of IVF, I’d doubt you were my daughter…”

       I’m still stewing about what to do when Cleet raps his knuckles lazily on the door. He and Ross come in without waiting for a response, trailed by a cloud of pot smell. If it had a color, it would be the purplish gray of ennui.

       I wait until they’re sitting in the visitor chairs and then slip behind my father’s heavy desk. I stay standing, because sitting in my father’s chair would feel like stealing a king’s throne. I’m also worried his asshole aura will rub off.

       “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me,” I tell them. “You guys are great. So great.”
      “We are?” Cleet asks with understandable doubt as he plucks something from his nose and lets it fall onto the floor.

       I try not to cringe as I tug a tissue out of the box near my father’s computer and hand it to him.

He looks at it in confusion. “What’s this for?”

       “You’re great,” I repeat, my tone frantic now. I definitely should have done more yoga this morning. I’m as zen as a Wall Street trader during a market crash.

       “You already said that,” Ross points out, a corner of his mouth hitching up. His gaze rakes over me. “And I’d love nothing better than to show you how great I am, in detail, but what’s this about? Are we getting some kind of raise?”

       “Uh…no.”

       “An award?” Cleet asks, perking up. “I never got an award before.”

       Panicking, I blurt, “No. There’s no easy way to say this, but we’re going to have to let you go.”

Cleet’s mouth gapes open.

       Ross hikes his eyebrows so high they’re lost in his mussed blond hair.

       Before either of them can say anything, I add, “I’ve emailed you a list of open jobs you can apply to. I’m sure you’ll find something in no time. There’s lots of seasonal work, and—”

       “You fired us at the same time, Rapunzel?” Ross says in a mocking voice. I’ve heard plenty of people call me that in whispers, as much because I’m “daddy’s little princess” as for my waist-length blond hair. “Is this the respect you show your staff?” 

       “I’ll give you both positive references,” I continue, falling back on the script I wrote and memorized.  

       “Well la-ti-fucking-dah,” Ross says with a snort. “The princess will give us a positive reference. Did you need any references to get this job, or did your daddy just give it to you?”

       “He gave it to me,” I say through a tight throat, “and I’ve done everything I can to earn my place.”

       It’s true. Since moving back to Asheville, I’ve devoted most of my time to learning about beer and breweries. It’s become my special interest, I guess you could say. Even my best friends are connected to the brewery world—Hannah is the daytime floor manager at Big Catch Brewing, and Sophie came up with a new non-alcoholic drink line for Buchanan Brewery.

       And, sure, the real reason I met Hannah and Sophie was because all three of us, plus another woman, were unknowingly dating the same man—Jonah Price—but I’m trying not to dwell on my failures.

       Ross snorts, turning to Cleet, and says, “We’re lucky we’re getting out of this dump. Bubba has it right. If she’s taking over, it’s going to hell in a handbasket.”

       I bite my lip. Bubba is the head brewer. I had a feeling he wasn’t my biggest fan, but I was hoping that was paranoia speaking.

       Truthfully: I’m worried he’s right about the handbasket. My father isn’t a caring boss, but there’s no denying he gets things done. The one time I ran a business—an online jewelry store I started with my then-friend Bria—it was initially successful and then crashed and burned.

       Hannah would probably have toasted marshmallows in the ashes; I’d come home to daddy.

       Ross makes a disgusted sound, but Cleet sniffs and leans forward in his seat. There’s a mystery crust attached to the string of his hoodie. “Now that we’re not working together anymore, maybe you’d like to get a beer with me sometime?”

       “Oh…oh.” My chest feels tight. “I’m so sorry, Cleet, but I don’t date anymore.”

       Ross snorts. “That’s her princess way of saying she’s not interested in your hairy ass, Cleet. Take the hint.”

       “It’s nothing but the truth,” I insist hotly, even though I wouldn’t date either of them if we were the last three people alive. “I’m focusing on work. No more dating until next summer at the earliest.”

       I’d promised myself to stay single for an entire year after the Jonah debacle. One year with dating off the table. It’s been refreshing, honestly, and I have Hannah and Sophie to keep me company. Sure, both of them are newly in love and busy with their own lives and business ventures, but they’re always there when I need them.

       “Can I borrow a pen?” Cleet asks.

       I hand him one, hoping it’ll get him out of here sooner.

       “And a sheet of paper?”

       I grab one from the printer and slide it across the desk, then watch as he slowly and painstakingly writes down a number.

       “That there’s my number,” he says, tapping it with the pen. “I’ll wait for you, Briar. As long as it takes.”

       Ross snorts again, shaking his head at his friend. “You’ll be waiting forever, you fool.”

       Cleet pockets my father’s expensive pen, but I don’t have the heart to call him on it.

       “Uh, thanks,” I say, folding the paper and sliding it into my jeans’ pocket.

       My father forces everyone on staff to relinquish their phone at the beginning of their shift, like a Boomer math teacher on a power trip, so I return Cleet’s and Ross’s phones with a tight smile and then follow them out of the office.

       I’d expected them to take off immediately to pursue job leads—I’d spent five hours compiling that list for them—so I’m surprised and discomfited when they instead bypass the door leading outside and head down the hall toward the two short stairs leading to the door to the tasting room.

       I trail after them, heading through the door, which swings shut behind me. My mouth drops open when they approach the bar.

       “You’re staying?” I ask in disbelief.

       Ross gives me a wounded look. “We just got fired, sweetheart. Of course we want to grab a drink with our friends. Would you begrudge us that?”

       “Of course not,” I stammer, trying to figure out if I’m being unreasonable. “The first one’s on the house.”

       “Thanks, Briar,” Cleet says, beaming at me. “Want to sit with us?”

       I back up so quickly, I nearly bring down a wire display filled with Silver Star stickers. “I have to get back to work.”

       “Must be nice to have a job,” Ross says.

       I don’t have a response for that, so I head into the back, hoping they’ll down their drinks quickly. But I check on them fifteen minutes later, and they’re still sitting in front of beers, talking to the bartender. The guy notices me and gives me a stare of death.

        I feel it then. There’s a goose walking over my proverbial grave.

 

***

 

       An hour and a half later, I peek in, and they’re still there. Hannah would say I’m making this up, but I can feel dark energy leaching into the brewery, filling all the nooks and crannies like a cursed English muffin.

       So I’m not surprised when Bubba interrupts me a few minutes later, while I’m doing inventory, and announces there’s going to be an all-hands-on-deck meeting by the vats. Bubba’s a huge guy, tall and wide and silent, with eyes as dark and full of human kindness as raisins. But compared to the only other brewer I’ve met, Hannah’s brother, Liam, he might as well be a teddy bear.

       Liam is an amateur boxer. He’s tall and broad, and everything about him screams I have a Y-chromosome, and I’m not afraid to use it! He’s always been nice to me, but in a distant, detached way that makes it impossible to read him.

       What I do know about him? His beer is top notch. Worlds better than Bubba’s. Especially the beers Liam brews in his downtime, since everything is standardized at Big Catch.

       I’ve thought about offering him a job once Silver Star is mine, but I’ll have to build up the brewery first. Make it a sweet offer he won’t want to refuse. Someone with his talent wouldn’t work at a place where he’s forced to hand over his cell phone and there are no chairs in the break area.

       “My dad called another meeting?” I ask Bubba, trying not to sound defeated. These meetings have been near constant since Briar Bootcamp started, because everyone knows nothing kills the soul faster than pointless meetings.

       Bubba just grunts and lifts his chin to indicate I should join him.

       I fall in behind him, worried that it doesn’t show good leadership qualities but well aware that it would be worse if I tried to “steal” the lead. He brings me to the open space next to the beer vats.

       I glance around, surprised, because everyone on staff is present, even the people who aren’t working today. Not including Dad and me, there are twenty Silver Star employees now that I’ve let Cleet and Ross go.

My father is currently standing in the middle of them, a bemused look on his face.

       “Isn’t anyone in the tasting room?” I ask.

       Bubba gives me a dark look with his raisin eyes. “You know what? Cleet and Ross are out there. So we’re good. They’ll help anyone who shows.”

       Now that goose is tap-dancing across my grave.

       I glance at my father. “What’s all this about, Mr. Sterling?”

       Yes, at Silver Star Brewing, I refer to my father as sir or Mr. Sterling. My request. I get enough disrespect without running around calling for “dad.”

       “Bubba’s the one who called this meeting,” he says pointedly. “So why don’t you tell me?”

       He might as well have said, You want the brewery? It’s your problem.

       I turn to Bubba, who smiles at me for the first time ever and pulls out a cell phone.

       My father grumbles something under his breath, because, yes, technically the phone should be in the tub in his office with the others. But I’m not going to tackle this six-foot-two man and try to steal it.

       Bubba lifts the phone. “We figured we all wanted our phones back. So we sprung them. You know this is the only brewery in town where people are forced to give up their phones?”

       “I missed a dental appointment because of you,” someone calls out from the back, and there are other murmurs of agreement.

       “But we’re done playing by your arbitrary rules,” Bubba says, glancing from me to my father, who looks amused by their rebellion. Probably because he’s already checked out, and it won’t impact his life for better or worse.

Bubba fiddles with his phone, then turns on the song “You better watch out.”

       Giving me an arch look, he says, “Santa’s always watching, Briar. We all know what you did to Cleet and Ross.”

       “I didn’t try to keep it secret.” I can feel my skin flushing. Damn my pale skin and its failure to keep my moods secret.

       “You didn’t even have the decency to fire them one at a time. And this is after you cut our holiday bonuses.”

       The song keeps piping out around us, oddly cheerful, as the staffers nod and mumble their agreement. My father continues to stand there and watch the revolution with interest.

       “And you keep changing the schedule,” someone says from the back of the group.

       “And rejecting time off,” another person yells.

       “You’ve insulted every single Tropical IPA I’ve made over the last six months,” Bubba steams. “And you took away the seating in the break area.”

       I want to point to my father, to say he did all of those things, or I did them on his orders, but he still has another couple of months to yank the brewery from me. If he does that, all of this will have been for nothing.

       So I stay silent.

       “I quit,” Bubba says with a determined nod of his big chin. “And I’ve warned every other brewer in town not to take a job at this dump.” Grinning, he turns and nods to the rest of the group, and I swear to God, they must have choreographed this ahead of time. Because while I stand there, unmoored and incapable of saying anything other than “But you can’t,” they come up to me one by one and quit too.

       The last person, an intern whose name I can’t remember and isn’t on the payroll, throws a bottle cap at my feet as a final insult.

       All the while, “You better watch out” is playing in the background. It finishes and restarts—the insult added to the injury.

       After the intern tosses his bottle cap, the whole staff leaves en masse, pouring out into the cold through the external door.     

       At least they’re not hanging around for beers.

       I look at my father, hoping he’s going to fix this mess he coerced me into making with him. But he gives me a broad smile and pats his belly. “You know what, I’m going to give you the brewery early, honey. We’ll sign the papers tomorrow morning. If you can make it back from this one, I’ll know you’re a real Sterling after all.”

       And then he leaves too, and I’m left a huddling mass of a person. I want to curl into a ball and pretend none of this ever happened. But this problem is mine. This brewery is mine.

       But there’s no brewery without a brewer, and if Bubba has been bad-mouthing me, no brewer will want to work with me. Especially not a talented one like Liam.

       No one will want to work for me, period.

       I stumble into the tasting room, briefly thankful that at least Ross and Cleet have finally left. My only conscious thought is that I need to leave too. I need my friends. I pause only to flip the sign to CLOSED and lock up. Then I head toward Big Catch Brewing, my mind in a haze.

       Unless a miracle happens, I’m screwed.

​

Chapter Two

Liam

 

       “Mr. Miracle?” a gangly curly-haired guy asks me, pointing to my nametag.

       Hi! My name is MR. MIRACLE, and I like to WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW?.

       The new retirement-age floor manager at Big Catch Brewing is friendly with my sister Hannah, but he still needs lessons in lightening up. So I’ve made a habit of messing around with the nametags he forces everyone to wear.

He even brought them out tonight, for a party, so he was basically asking for people to revolt.

       The curly-haired guy raises his eyebrows.

       A grin spreads across my face. “Sure. I also answer to Sir Miracle.”

       “Or asshole will do, too,” suggests Travis, Hannah’s boyfriend.

       My grin stretches wider. I actually like this guy. I hope he doesn’t mess up with Hannah and force me to tear him from limb to limb.

       “A little joke between me and the new evening floor manager,” I explain to the new guy, who isn’t wearing one of the name tags.
      “Oh, you mean my dad,” New Guy says, glancing around the crowded space for his father, one Eugene Peebles.

No shit. It’s a good thing I didn’t say any of the other crap I have on my mind. Like: Big Catch is boring as hell, and we have to make our own fun. Or: I got sick of working here before I started, and that was four years ago.

Four long, tedious years.

       Boring is good, Hannah would tell me, even though she does not think boring is good. None of us Moroneys do. We were born with a wildness at our core that nothing can fully satisfy.

       What Hannah would mean is that boring is good for me.

       I was given this job as a favor to my sister.

       She was working as an evening floor manager at Big Catch at the time, and I’d just lost my job at Mountain Morning Brewing for beating up the owner.

       Trust me when I say he deserved it.

       I got arrested and condemned to a year of probation and a round of anger management classes. In all likelihood, that’s what I deserved, although it would have made it hard for me to find a job if Hannah hadn’t spoken for me.

       Can’t say the classes did much.

I met my buddy Mick at one of them, though, and he introduced me to boxing—the one activity in life where punching people is allowed and even encouraged. He owns a crappy little gym that I’ve started going to several times a week.

       It’s boxing that’s helped keep me find an even keel. Boxing, and having Hannah working here at the same brewery. We’re used to keeping an eye on each other. We’ve been doing it our whole lives, ever since we were kids.

       The curly-haired guy is still looking at me, and I realize I must have zoned out mid-conversation. So I give him a nod. “And you are?”

       “I’m Cormac, Sir Miracle.” He nods to Travis. “And not to be creepy, or whatever, but I know who you are.”

       I laugh. Travis laughs. Cormac laughs.

       It’s a pretty feel-good moment, truth be told. We’re all picking up on the energy in the room, which is infectious compared to the way this place has felt for the last few months. For me, it has nothing to do with the holiday decorations or the free-flowing beer.

       Hannah quit in late summer, which was my fault, but she’s finally back. I still hate this place, but I hate it a hell of a lot less than I did while she was gone.

       “I know who you are too,” Travis says pointedly, waving a finger in the direction of Eugene. “My girlfriend’s the one who set up your dad and—” His eyes widen, and he turns away. “And—”

       “And the woman my sixty-six-year-old father is making out with within full view of everyone,” Cormac says wryly. “Yeah, I noticed that too.”

       Damn. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the high of having Hannah back at the brewery again, but I like this guy, too. That’s gotta be a record for me.

       Travis laughs and then looks for Hannah in the crowd, a lovesick expression stealing over his face when she blows a kiss at him. “She’s pretty proud of the way he’s embraced public displays of affection.”

       “Don’t take a page from his book,” I warn, hiking an eyebrow up. “I might know you’re sleeping with my sister, but I don’t want the evidence shoved in my face. There’s only so much a man can take.”

       Travis lifts both his hands, and Cormac snorts a laugh. “Actually, though, I know your band,” he says, smiling at Travis. “Garbage Fire.”

       Travis’s smile gets strained. I pat him on the back before saying, “Sore subject right now.”

       Travis’s friend, the bassist in the band, stabbed him in the back. They had to boot him. They’d already been looking for a new rhythm guitarist to replace a guy who’d moved out of town, so they were left with just Travis on the drums and his pal Rob as the lead singer and only guitarist.

       Two people do not a band make.

       I offered to play with them for a while as the rhythm guitarist, but I’m not interested in sticking around. I’m not what you might call a team player, and I’ve already been talking to Mick about taking my place. He can be a bit of a dick—we both came by those anger management classes honestly—but he’s good people. He’ll do right by them.

       Cormac makes a face he probably thinks is sympathetic. “Yeah, I know. Actually…I was wondering if you were maybe looking for a new bassist.”

       He’s acting aw-shucks embarrassed, which is hilarious. Travis and Rob have had to cancel a bunch of shows after losing the old guy. They would happily invite a serial killer to be their bassist at this point, so long as he could lay it down with his guitar.

       “You’re a bassist?” Travis asks, his face lighting up.

       Cormac nods, but says quickly, “I haven’t been in a band before, though. I play alone.”

       A weird instrument to play alone, if you ask me, but no one did, so I just grunt.

       As predicted, Travis doesn’t seem to care about the hows and whys. He looks around wildly. “Wait a sec.” He disappears, presumably to find Rob or light a candle to whatever deity he believes in in the hopes this’ll work out.

       Cormac rolls on his heels a couple of times as if trying to find the optimal standing position, then says, “What’s your biggest problem as a brewer?”

       No need to think that one through. “Talking to people.”

       He surprises me by laughing. “That’s my biggest problem as a person. I’m told you’re supposed to ask questions to form a dialogue.”

       “Silence is good too. Silence is underrated.” I’m just giving him shit, though. He’s funny, this son of Eugene’s. Maybe he doesn’t mean to be, but I’m willing to accept him at face value.

       He smiles at me. “It would be a stretch of the imagination to call this silence.”

       That makes me laugh, because we’re surrounded by bustle, people talking, and the low hum of Christmas music. The song that’s playing right now, ironically, is “Silent Night.”

       A few seconds later, Travis comes back. Twisting his mouth to the side, he says, “I can’t find Rob. But he’ll want to have a conversation.”

       While we wait, we talk music.

       Cormac knows his shit, and it’s obvious Travis is excited.

       I’m pumped, too, because once Travis and Rob get him settled in, presuming he can play anywhere near as good as he talks about playing, I can bow out and leave them to it.

       The front door opens to admit a late arrival, and I glance over—

       And feel like I’ve been frozen in spot from the cold air drifting in.

       It’s a woman with long blonde hair, down past her waist, wearing only a T-shirt and jeans despite the cold. For a second, my eyes linger on that hair. Feet and feet of it, the shiny gold of a perfect lager, catching the low lights and radiating them back. Then my gaze finds her face.

       Her eyes are big and light brown and full of misery. She looks like one of those princesses in the movies my sister’s friends liked to watch, growing up. The ones that always made Hannah roll her eyes.

       I takes me half a second to register that this is Briar, one of Hannah’s new friends.

       I don’t really know Briar, although I know the story of how Hannah met her and Sophie. The three of them, plus another woman, were all unknowingly sleeping with the same guy—Jonah, a spineless piece of shit whose brother, Rob, is the frontman of Garbage Fire.

       Rob and Jonah don’t get along, which is good, because once I found out what Jonah was pulling with my sister, I threatened to kill him and hide his body if he ever came near her again.

       Now, Hannah, Sophie, and Briar are friends.

       Sophie’s with Rob, and Hannah’s with Travis, and Briar…well, I don’t know much about Briar other than that she works for her rich father’s brewery, which is supposedly one-hundred-percent organic. A pointless gimmick, if you ask me, but there are enough breweries in this town that you’ve got to stand out somehow. Might as well stand out for something stupid, I suppose.

       I’ve only seen Briar a few times, exchanged probably two dozen words with her, at least three of them hello, but usually she’s more put together. Aloof. A princess in a tower. Tonight, she looks desperate and on edge—a different kind of princess entirely.

       My instinct is to stride over and ask who did this to her so I can punch them. Or, if it’s a woman, hand the situation over to my sister. But I made a promise to Hannah that holds me back.

       The reason my sister left Big Catch this summer is that I started casually sleeping with one of her friends, Margaret, who was also on staff. We’d agreed to no-strings sex—a way to scratch an itch—but after a few weeks, Margaret asked when she could move a toothbrush into my apartment.

       The only toothbrush that’s ever going to be in my apartment is mine. When I told her so, she accused me of being emotionally unavailable.

       After what happened to me, yes, abso-fucking-lutley.

       Next, she accused me of cheating.

       We’d never agreed to be exclusive, but I wasn’t seeing anyone else. I’d never had any interest in juggling women.

       Didn’t matter. She was pissed, and she threw all of my boxing gear into one of the vats at Big Catch. Which meant all the beer had to be thrown out.

       It was a thousands-of-dollars hit, and Hannah had to fire her friend, which led to my sister losing most of her other friends.

       She was pissed enough to temporarily quit Big Catch, even though she’d been here longer than me and actually liked her job, but last month she agreed to forgive me for my screwup—on one condition.

       I had to promise not to fuck around with any of her other friends, and also to grant her two favors. Anything she wants, any time she asks. Quickest agreement I’ve ever made.

Hannah’s already come to me for one favor: helping Travis out of a bind.

       The second is yet to be determined.

       But I meant what I said. I’m never going near any of her other friends. Because being at odds with my sister or our little brother is unacceptable to me.

       So I just stand there, ignoring the magnet-pull of Briar as she stands in the doorway, looking lost and beautiful and cold.

       Fuck, she’s cold.

       I’m about to stride forward so I can at least offer her someone’s coat—there’s a rack full of them by the door—when my sister and Sophie hurry through the crowd and flock around Briar.

       I’m surprised by how relieved I feel, and more so by a hint of disappointment that I didn’t get to be the one to help her.

       Seconds later, Rob comes over to us, and Travis wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Cormac is a bass player,” he says, acting like a zealot who worships at an altar with a bass guitar on top.

       “No shit,” Rob says, his gaze following the group of women as Hannah and Sophie hurry Briar away from the door. No doubt he’s interested too. Sophie is his girlfriend.

       “What’s going on there?” I ask, nodding toward the front.

       “Don’t know,” he says, shoving his hands into his pants pockets. “But I’ve got a feeling Hannah and Sophie are about to find out.”

       This makes me laugh, even if it doesn’t lift any of the uneasiness pressing down on my chest.

       We slip into talking about music again, and then I break away from the others to check in with Eugene and make sure we don’t need to tap another keg yet. There’s a metaphysical itch at the back of my neck. A need to find out just what the fuck is going on with Briar, but I remind myself it’s not my problem. Hannah will deal with her friend.

When I come back, Rob and Travis are God knows where, and Cormac is watching a woman with a short-dark bob and a no-nonsense expression.

       “Creeping on someone else, Eugene Junior?” I ask.

       I meant it as a joke, but he jolts as if I’d slapped him.

       “Oh, no. That’s Nora. I don’t like her.”

       The name rings a bell, and I realize I know who this woman is. She’s the brewer at The Ginger Station, and old Jonah’s fourth secret girlfriend.

       Well, damn.

       This town is big enough, but at certain moments it feels as small as the one in Andy Griffith.

       Except with more secret dating and old grudges.

       I whistle through my teeth. “Tell me how you really feel.”

       Cormac adjusts his glasses on the bridge of her nose. “You know my dad’s girlfriend? That’s her daughter. She probably doesn’t even remember me, but we went to school together.”

       “No shit.” My sister’s going to have a field day with this one, no doubt. “She uptight?” I ask sympathetically.

       “Something like that. She ruined my science project our senior year.”

       I laugh again, finding this guy plenty entertaining. “Must have been a hell of a science project if you’re still pissed about it.”

       “It was. But that was twelve years ago. She probably doesn’t remember.”

       “But you do.”

       He shrugs. “I put a lot of work into it. It was one of my first inventions.”

       “You’re an inventor?”

       He looks uncomfortable, like I just gave him a wedgie. “It’s a grandiose word, but yeah, I guess. I like taking things apart and putting them back together better. And building things to solve problems. But my day job is in coding.”

       “Solving problems. I like that. You might have just solved one of ours.” I cock my head to study him. “Say, why’d you take up bass guitar if you mostly play alone?”
      “The bass is what holds the music together. It’s the backbone. You wouldn’t get very far without a backbone.”
      I nod, liking the analogy. “Damn straight.”

       “And then there’s the way it feels. You can feel the vibration inside of you.”

       “You sound like Travis when he’s talking about his drums.”

       There’s an officious tap on my shoulder, and I turn to see Hannah and Travis. She’s practically buzzing with energy, the way she gets when she sucks down too much sugar or is high on an idea that will either make or destroy someone.

       “What’s up?” I ask, my mind flitting to Briar. “Something wrong with your friend?”

       “Yes,” she says. “You and I are having a super-secret meeting in the storeroom. Right away.”

       “What about Travis?”

       “He’s coming as my Emotional Support Travis.”

       “Are you good with that emasculating description?” I ask him, trying to break the tension. Maybe get a hint of what they’re up to.

       “Yup,” he says, squeezing her close. Her curly hair must be tickling his nose, but he shows no sign of discomfort.

       “Well, by all means. Let’s pack into a tiny space together, because that’s not at all suspicious.”

       Travis laughs, and Hannah jabs him playfully with her elbow and says, “Just be cool, and it’ll be fine. If anyone asks, we’ll say someone puked in the bathroom and we’re getting supplies to clean it.”

       I nod to Cormac. “You good?”

       “Yeah,” he says, “I think I’m going to head out.” He gives Travis a hopeful look. “But I’ll be in touch about the band?”

      “Yes, please,” Travis says, giving him a fist bump.

      Then Hannah’s shuttling both of us toward the storeroom. She’s five foot two, and we’re both over six feet, but no one can say my sister doesn’t have hustle.

       A couple of minutes later, we’re all sealed into the small space together, Hannah still radiating nervous, excited energy. I feel the buzz of it in my own veins. Hannah’s like that, capable of giving her excitement to others. It’s a gift you have to accept, like it or not.

       “What is it?” I ask.

       “That other favor you promised me,” she says slowly, nearly breathless. “You meant it, didn’t you?”

       My heart beats harder in my chest. “You know I did.”

       She looks to Travis, a silent communication passing between them.

       “Hannah?” I say, never much of a patient guy. “I didn’t come in here to watch you make out with your boyfriend. Aren’t you going to tell me what this is all about?”

       Then my sister looks me dead in the eye and says, “I’m calling that other favor in.”

 

Chapter Three

Briar

      

       “It’s going to be okay,” Sophie says, her voice upbeat, her smile fixed. “Hannah has a plan. I know she’s not usually a planner, but she really seemed to be on to something this time. She had that look she gets in her eyes.”

       Sophie and I are sitting on a couple of chairs in the big warehouse space at the back of Big Catch Brewing—no decorations, no food, just a bunch of kegs, a few scattered chairs, and the muted sound of other people’s fun. Hannah and Sophie pulled me back here, dressed me in a sweatshirt Hannah pulled off a shelf in the merch section up front, and sat me down to tell them my sob story through chattering teeth. Every word made me feel more pathetic, reminding me of how little I’ve changed since I was first sent to boarding school as a six-year-old.

       The second week of first grade, another girl, Melly, stole my American Girl Felicity doll, and instead of demanding that she return her to me, I’d watched in silent misery as she gave Felicity haircuts and had tea parties with her. The worst part was that Melly was supposed to be my best friend. My mother and father had told me to stick close to her like glue, because she was the daughter of one of their best friends, a real estate developer who always gave dad the “good deals.”

       Good people, my mother said. I know they raised her right.

       The only reason I got my doll back is because my house mother finally figured out what was going on and forced Melly to return the doll and apologize. She did—reluctantly—but my relationship with Felicity never recovered. I’d always seen accusation in her hollow green eyes.

       I’ve tried to work on myself for years. There’s been yoga, therapy, meditation, and art. But at my core I’m still that frightened little girl who wasn’t daring enough to ask for her doll back.

       I know without asking that Hannah would have punched Melly in the face, or maybe stolen her teddy bear to give her a taste of her own medicine.

       I want to be strong like that, but I feel my father’s recipe looming over my head—always poised to crush me. Now, the weight of the brewery is on my shoulders too.

       I have the building. The supplies. The beer. The profits. But I have nothing else.      

       If you can make it back from this one, I’ll know you’re a real Sterling.

       But I’m not a real Sterling in any way that matters.

       I’m a thirty-one-year-old failure, who’s tried to play the game, several times, and only gotten through the first few rounds.

       Sophie starts rubbing my back again. “You’ll see. Hannah seemed really confident.”

       She’s right.

       After dressing me and snaking my story out, Hannah practically launched herself out of the room, insisting she was going to hire more staff for me.

       Tonight.

       She must have been talking about Liam, right?

       I hope to God she was, because the only thing that will save me is if I find a brewer good enough to pull everything together.

       I also hope she wasn’t talking about Liam, because if Hannah convinces her brother to work for me, I’ll be a nepo baby twice over—my father gave me the brewery, and my best friend gave me—

       “I can’t let her give me her brother,” I cry out, tears tracking down my cheeks.

       Sophie cocks her head, and I feel my tell-tale cheeks flush again. “I mean…she obviously can’t give him to me…he’s a grown man. He’s six-foot-four. Maybe even six-foot-five. But he’d do anything for her, you know he would. What if she asks him to come work for me, and he only does it because she made him, and then the brewery is a huge failure—”

       “No one can make anyone do anything,” Sophie says firmly. “Let’s do more of that yoga breathing.”

We’ve been doing it off and on since Hannah left the room.

       My great aunt Sky is probably the only reason I made it through childhood. I stayed with her in her cabin in Georgia for a month every summer. We used to pick wildflowers and do yoga together, and she’d take me to her collective art studio so I could learn from the different artists.

       She’d also helped with my anxiety. I can practically hear her whispering to me in her soft musical voice: inhale deeply into your belly, then ribcage, then chest, and exhale in the opposite order.

       She’d insisted Dirga breathing was magic, and as I follow the instructions in my head, I feel the weight on my shoulder lessen.

       The snick of the door opening at the back of the space catches my attention. It lets in a spurt of noise from the staff party—someone laughing, followed by a snatch of that hateful song “You’d better watch out.”

       Oh, I’ll never listen to that song again without thinking about Bubba’s hateful raisin eyes.

       I was expecting Hannah, but Liam walks in, shutting the door behind him.

       Yeah, he’s definitely six-foot-five, with broad shoulders and thick arms. He has auburn hair and a short, trimmed beard that gleams red and gold and brown depending on the lighting. His eyes are brown, not a dancing green like Hannah’s, and even though they’re light—the color of our amber ale—they’re not warm and welcoming. They remind me of a wolf’s eyes.

       He nods a greeting as he walks over, his movements brimming with confidence. There’s something tucked under his arm, but my overloaded brain can’t make sense of it. My heart starts racing like a scared rabbit’s. It’s that confidence of his…that swagger. He walks like he owns the world.

       I nearly gasp when he comes to a stop in front of us, because there’s a sticker on his shirt that says “Hello, I’m MR. MIRACLE.”

       I needed a miracle, and I came here. It feels an awful lot like a sign…

       “We have to talk privately,” he says, his words giving me an electric jolt.

       “Why can’t we talk here?”

       He raises his eyebrows. “Hannah said you want to poach me. You’ve got some pretty big balls if you want to discuss it at my place of employment.”

       My cheeks burn as I get to my feet, needing to show some agency, even if I’m suddenly very aware of my tear-stained face and mussed hair. I’d had it up earlier, but somewhere in the middle of my crisis the scrunchie must have slipped off.

       I search his face but can’t tell whether he’s pissed, annoyed, or bored. I can’t read him at all, other than his confidence. If Hannah’s an open book, he’s a closed one. Actually, he’s like one of those diaries every girl is given at some point, with the key that gets lost after a week.

       It’s hard to imagine two more different siblings.

       “Where’s Hannah?”

       “I don’t want her anywhere near this,” he insists. “She works here too. People don’t look kindly on poaching employees.”

       It feels like he just punched a hole in my chest with a rusty office implement. Hannah’s risking her job for me.

If she asked Liam to quit, and their boss finds out…

       “Okay,” I say. “We’ll go to Silver Star. No one’s there.”

       Those words nearly pull another sob from my chest, but I hold it back by pure force of will.

       “People are going to find out about the mass walkout,” he says gruffly. “I can’t be seen at your brewery until we get this settled.”

       I swallow down fresh panic. “Okay. Then maybe—”

       My mind whirrs. Other than Silver Star, the tea shop my friends and I love, what do I have? What places in this town are mine?      

       My apartment. But I can’t take him there. It would feel too…intimate, and my cat, Karma, hates everyone, sometimes even me.

       “I have someplace private we can talk.” He gestures to the back door. “Let’s leave out the back.”

Sophie gives me an encouraging smile. “Good, this is good! Let’s meet at the teashop tomorrow to run through everything. I’m sure Dottie will have tons of ideas.”

       Dottie is the sweet older woman who runs Tea of Fortune. She has this huge extended family of people she’s adopted, and even though there are dozens of people already under her wings, she found space for us. She reminds me of my great aunt. Her aura of kindness ripples outward, touching everyone in her presence. Just being around her makes you feel like you’re getting a warm hug.

       “Am I invited?” Liam asks. The only sign that he’s teasing is the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, maybe two millimeters.

       “Of course,” Sophie says. “But we all know you’re not going to come.”

       He laughs, the sound low and deep, almost like the growl of a wild animal. “No,” he admits. “Not really my scene.”

I give Sophie a quick hug, then pull the sweatshirt closer around me as I follow Liam to the back door of the warehouse.

       “It’s good that I didn’t take the bike today,” he says conversationally as we reach the back door. “I don’t have an extra helmet.”

       “You ride a bicycle to work?” I ask, bracing myself for the burst of freezing air.

       He gives me an incredulous look, his lip curling, and I feel like an idiot. “A lot of people do.”

       “A lot of people are idiots,” he replies. He tries to hand me the thing he’s been wearing under his arm, and I realize it’s a coat. “Put it on, and let’s go.”

       Offering me a coat is thoughtful, but he’s being condescending. I decide I don’t want to go anywhere with him, Mr. Miracle or not. I’m so tired of being treated like a pretty idiot.

       “I’m not stupid,” I say heatedly.

       He takes a step toward me, and suddenly we’re standing inches apart, both of us right next to the worn wood. I can feel heat radiating from him. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black shirt that clings to his thick arms and makes him look even more intimidating as he peers down to meet my eyes. “You would be if you rode a bicycle in the dark in twenty degree weather with ice on the roads.”

       I consider this for a moment and then nod. The adrenaline in my veins takes me on an unexpected left turn toward fight. “Yeah, that would be pretty stupid. Kind of like considering leaving your job of four years so you can work for a woman whose entire staff just quit for no better reason than that your sister asked.”

To my surprise, he laughs again, this one crinkling his eyes. “Yeah, but you’re the one who said you’re not stupid. I never made that claim about myself.”

       He holds out the coat again. “If you give me that, you won’t have one.”

       “And I’ve got probably a hundred pounds on you. I’ll be fine.”

       I can tell he’s not going outside with me unless I put on the coat, so I do, my hands trembling slightly. It smells a little spicy and is warmer than the hoodie. Once I’ve got it on, he opens the door again and leads the way to an old blue-green truck that looks like it won’t run.

       His mouth inches up as he unlocks it, using the key, not an automatic lock, and opens the passenger side door for me. “It’s all yours, Princess.”

       The nickname puts a bitter taste in my mouth, but I climb in without comment. He gets into the driver’s side and puts the truck into drive, leaving Big Catch behind and maneuvering through the crowded streets of downtown Asheville. Cursing liberally as people weave in front of the car casually without waiting for the cross lights.

       I expected Liam would want to talk business once we were in the car, but he doesn’t say anything—he just turns on the radio, finds Christmas music on two of the stations, and then turns it off with another curse.

I’m the one who breaks the silence, finally. “I have lots of ideas for the brewery.”

       “That’s great,” he says. “Do you want to keep it organic?”

       “Yes. It’s one of the main draws.”

       He whistles through his teeth. “If that’s the main draw, you’ve got a problem on your hands

       “There aren’t many fully organic breweries.”

       “Because it’s BS, and most people know it. There are better ways to stand out.”

       “Like what?” I turn in my seat to look at him, not entirely convinced he’s not trying to piss me off. 

       He gives an easy shrug with one of his big shoulders. “We’ll talk about it some other time. Once we come to an agreement.”

       “If you don’t want to know what my plans are for the future, what do you want to know?”

       “Let’s talk business when we get there.”

       I want to ask where, but something tells me he wants me to ask so he can be withholding. I’ve been through enough turmoil for one day so I don’t say anything. We just sit in strained silence—strained on my part, at least. He seems perfectly at ease. I look out the window at the lights we’re drifting past, trying to comb my hair with my fingers without looking like I care about my appearance.

       Finally, after pulling onto the highway and then off on Tunnel Road, he parks in the lot of a dark brick building with no lights on inside.

       Turning toward me, his profile illuminated in a way that makes me half-tempted to trace my finger down the bridge of his nose—slightly off-center, suggesting it’s been broken at least once—he says, “We’re here.”

       “We could have just talked in the car,” I point out.

       “Not the way I prefer to do business.”

       He gets out of the truck, and I do the same, following him to the front door of the building. There’s a weathered sign above the door that reads Ring Your Bell Boxing Gym. It looks like a brisk wind would send it flying.

       “Why are we at your boxing gym?” I ask in confusion.

       But Liam just busies himself with unlocking the door, which unleashes another question in my mind—why does he have a key?

       Inside, he flicks on the light by the door. The interior space smells musty and a bit like feet. There’s an ugly red and gold pattered carpet on the floor and a front desk with an old desktop computer parked on top of it. Several award plaques hang on the wall behind the desk, and a couple of old, doughy looking armchairs sit in the corner. They might have been white once, but now they’re slightly beige.

       I shrug the coat off and hang it from a tilting coat rack.

       “We can sit in those chairs,” I suggest, gesturing to them. Immediately hoping he says no, because they look like they could be the source of the smell.

       He shakes his head and walks to the opening behind the desk, flicking on another fluorescent light as he goes.

       “You don’t believe in open communication, do you?”

       He glances over his shoulder with a smirk. “Is that important to you in an employee?”

       “Yes.”

       I’m surprised by how hard my voice is, but my former business partner’s betrayal cut deep. I’d had plans then, too, and my life had been blown apart by her choices.

       I follow him down a short hallway that opens into a large room with a couple of boxing rings and big, long hanging bags. Blue mats line the floor, and there are smaller speed bags mounted to the back wall. He pauses in front of a floor-to-ceiling rack stacked with worn-looking gloves, then surprises me by taking my hand. A shiver of awareness leaves me shaken as he traces the shape and then carelessly drops it. He frowns and then pulls a pair of gloves off the bottom shelf.

       “Here,” he says, trying to hand them to me. “These are probably still too big, but they’ll have to do.”

       “Do for what?” I ask, not taking them.

       My voice is harsh and loud in the open space, and to my surprise, Liam smiles.

       “I know what a person looks like when they need to hit something. You, Princess, need to hit something.”

       I gape at him. “No, I’m not angry. I’m…”

       Sad. Defeated. Broken.

       He plops the gloves into my hand. “Maybe you should be angry.”

        “Anger is a dark emotion.” I shove the gloves back at him. “I don’t want any part of it.”

       “It’s only a dark emotion if you let it take root inside of you.” He pushes the gloves back at me. The corner of his mouth hitches up. “Look at that, you just got six months of anger management classes for free. You’re welcome.”

       “You took anger management classes?”

       His half-smile widens. “I’m surprised my sister didn’t tell you the whole story. She loves giving me shit.”

       “All she told me is that she loves you, you’re the best brewer in town, and you’re an asshole.”

       Not entirely true. She also said he’s emotionally unavailable and never dates a woman for longer than a few weeks. She made Sophie and me promise never to date him, particularly since his casual relationship with one of her former friends imploded in a messy way.

       But I don’t think he’d appreciate it if I brought any of that up.

       “Well, there you go.” He’s full-on smiling now. “I am an asshole. That’s why I took anger management classes.”

       “And they told you to punch someone?”

       “The best way to avoid blowups is to let it out. I have a feeling you’ve been carrying everything in here.” He pounds his chest with one hand, holding the gloves with the other, and my gaze follows the movement, transfixed. He has so much more physicality than anyone else I know. He’s all hard edges and muscle. “My sister told me what Bubba and the others did to you at Big Catch. How they humiliated you. Your father watched and did nothing to stand up for you. Doesn’t that piss you off?”

       Tears burn in my eyes. “You are an asshole.”

       “Can’t say you weren’t warned,” he replies, his smile softer as he offers me the gloves again.

       I ignore them. “Will you stop messing around and tell me if you’re really willing to consider working at Silver Star? We’ve been turning a healthy profit, but I know Big Catch offers better benefits. I was thinking I could offer you—”

       “I’ll take the job because my sister asked.” All the humor has dopped from his face. “I don’t need another reason. But if you show me you’ve got some fight in you, then I’ll be a hell of a lot less pissed off about being told what to do.”

​

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