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  “Dad instinct is a thing, Brynn. If you ever have kids, you’ll understand.” He cuts open the potatoes and plops a very generous slab of butter on one—mine—and a modest, my-daughter-will-rant-about-my-cholesterol amount on the other.

  “Dad,” I deadpan with my hands on my hips that make me look more fourteen-year-old boy than thirty-two-year-old slayer of cocktails.

  “Fine.” He narrows his eyes at me behind his glasses. “Paisley texted me that you were having a night at work and I should expect you.”

  Snake.

  I don’t know how I befriended so many well-meaning snakes.

  “So he showed up again?”

  “Who?” I pull the tongs out of the drawer they’ve been in since I started sneaking them to serve my Play-Doh spaghetti, and put the bare minimum amount of salad on my plate.

  “Brynn.”

  Ughhh. I hate when he says my name like that, like he found out I was failing a class or got caught in the library kissing Blane Jensen . . . not like that ever happened or anything . . .

  “What? I don’t know who you’re talking about.” I avoid looking at him and spoon his homemade rémoulade onto my crab cake.

  “You don’t?” he says in a way I know means he’s going to make me regret walking over here. “So your memory has miraculously erased the man you gave heart eyes to for months until he crushed your dreams by shattering the shelves at your bar? The name Maxwell Lewis no longer rings any bells in that head of yours? You complaining about him sitting in HERS for the last week is no longer on your mind . . . at all?”

  Yup.

  Totally regretting coming over.

  “Okay, fine.” I pull the paper towel from the roll with a little more force than necessary, fighting the urge to throw a tantrum when only the top corner rips off. “Yes, Maxwell came in again today. But this time he talked to me and it didn’t go well.”

  A smug smile that doesn’t look right on my dad’s kind face pulls at the corner of his thin lips. “So, tell me what happened.”

  I sit down at the table like a sullen teenager . . . or a brooding Maxwell . . . and take a bite of the crab cake that, despite my current mood, still tastes like heaven on earth. “Not much, honestly. He said he wanted to apologize, I told him we were square, then I fell on my face.”

  His mouth opens at the same time the spoon he’s holding falls from his fingers and rémoulade splatters all over the marble countertops. “You . . . fell?”

  “I mean, ‘tripped’ is probably more accurate, but I ended up on my butt.” I take another bite of my crab cake, trying to push my embarrassment down with crabby goodness. “And then Maxwell gave Paisley a note to give to me, and now I don’t even get to pretend he’s not coming back.”

  “Why don’t you just call the guy and get it over with?”

  “We never exchanged numbers, for one. And even if I did have it, I don’t care enough to call the guy. He paid for the damage he did to my bar and that’s that. It should be the end of the story, I’m really just fucking annoyed—”

  “Mouth.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m just flipping annoyed that he won’t let it die. At this point, he’s just being a selfish ass . . . sorry, jerk, a selfish jerk. Anyways”—I use my perfected diversionary tactic to deflect the conversation away from me—“Poppy wants to know if you’ll look over the plans they had drawn up for the apartment they’re building above the garage.”

  My dad is a retired architect, but his love for his profession never went away. Poppy asked about the plans a few days ago, but I’ve been holding this card in my pocket for this exact moment.

  “Of course!” His eyes light up, but I’m not sure if it’s because of the architecture help or the fact that if Poppy wasn’t a grown woman, he’d try to adopt her. And, since he’s convinced (accurately so) that I’ll never have kids, Ace is his unofficial grandkid, and he spoils him accordingly. “Tell her to bring them over and if she wants any changes, we can look through all of my Architectural Digests for ideas.”

  “I’ll let her know. She said Ace might tag along, if you don’t mind.” I told Poppy he wouldn’t care, but she still forced me to ask. I think she’s finally starting to come to terms with the fact that we will never be sick of her or her cute-as-fuck family.

  “I never mind! Plus, I found a Messi jersey the other day for him—this way I can give it to him.”

  See? Pseudo-Grandpa.

  And just like that, all conversations about Maxwell Lewis are long forgotten and instead, my dad fills me in on his plans to camp out at a soccer field for Ace’s tournament this weekend.

  Something I barely hear, because my mind is still stuck on the note, and my stomach flips at the thought that Maxwell will be back . . . and soon.

  Five

  The windows on my Land Rover are down, the weather too perfect to even think about using my air-conditioning. The crisp air is tinted with just the barest hint of marijuana from the strip of dispensaries I just drove by. My old *NSYNC CD is blasting from my speakers, blessing those I pass with the vocals of a young JC Chasez, who was really the star of the band. Don’t @ me. I’ve already been honked at a few times because I accidentally swerved into another lane when the urge to do the “Bye Bye Bye” dance moves was too strong to resist.

  I make a left onto a one-way street, navigating my way through the grid of downtown Denver to the local brewery I’m planning on ordering next month’s beer for HERS from. It’s barely even noon as I pass the Pedal Hopper full of people pedaling and chugging beers. I still can’t decide if I want to do that or not—I feel like it might be too much work for me. I’d definitely place myself in the “lazy drinker” category.

  It’s still so crazy for me to think that I went out of state for college when there’s so much to do here now.

  I thought Colorado was “too slow.” I wanted excitement and something new, so I applied only to out-of-state colleges. I ended up at the University of Texas.

  I lasted a year.

  It was too hot. There weren’t enough seasons. I decided I hated barbecue and Tex-Mex.

  My sophomore year I attended the University of Colorado.

  Now, besides the very rare vacation, I don’t ever want to leave again. I’m a firm believer that there is no place better than Denver, and any native will agree.

  I circle the block for longer than socially acceptable seeking out a metered parking spot, but after the car in front of me snags a spot, sending me to the brink of insanity, I accept defeat and park in the expensive-ass lot around the corner from Barley Remix. After I pay the astronomical fee to let my car sit unattended for a couple hours on cracked pavement, I reach for my phone and send a text to Charli letting her know I’m here. After the stress of final cuts, Charli couldn’t say yes to day drinking fast enough.

  My best friend, Naia, moved to New York for college and unlike me, she never came back. I was so focused on work and not becoming my mom that my lack of a social life never bothered me. Naia and I talk when we have a free second to chat, and whenever she visits, we have the best time, but it wasn’t until Marlee showed up in my bar that I realized how lonely I’d been. Then Marlee moved and I came to terms with all of my friends leaving me for the Big Apple. But then Poppy came, and along with her, she brought me an entire crew.

  I talk shit about the Lady Mustangs, but the truth is, I adore most of those women.

  I push through the heavy iron-and-glass door of Barley Remix, and after a quick glance tells me I beat Charli, I take a seat at the bar.

  The bartender, a redheaded hipster with a beard I know Poppy would appreciate, greets me, sizing me up behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses before he reaches me. “Hey, can I help you? Or are you waiting for a boyfriend?”

  This is why all of my employees are women.

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Not because he’s picking me up. He
’s not. He just doesn’t think a woman would ever go to a brewery on her own. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with this. For some reason, people seem to think women don’t drink beer and we don’t know how to order anything that doesn’t come with an umbrella or sugar-coated rim. It’s a common misconception. I’ve found working at HERS that women love beer just as much as men do, but we have better taste. We like good beer and won’t chug pee juice out of a can for shits and giggles.

  “Yeah, I’m Brynn Sterling. I set up a tasting with Darren so I can place an order for my bar.”

  His glasses act as a magnifier as his eyes triple in size. “You’re Brynn? Not sure why, but I thought you’d be a dude.”

  “Misogyny.” I shrug.

  “I—wha—ummm,” he stutters, color rising in his face, his skin nearly matching his red beard. “Sorry.”

  I ignore the apology, even though I do take an immense amount of pleasure at his discomfort. “A friend is joining me, so I’ll need two sets of the tasting flights, thanks.” I dismiss him and grab my phone when a text lights up the screen.

  I’m so sorry to bail so late, I have a migraine from hell. But I sent someone to meet you. Don’t hate me. Love you!

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

  I know a setup when I see one.

  And not only because I’ve been the mastermind of more than one. But because I’m friends with a bunch of sneaky snakes who are dead set on setting me up with a Mustangs player so I can officially be a Lady Mustang . . . something I’ve never, ever wanted to be. I text Charli back, resisting the urge to fill the screen with middle finger emojis.

  You are all on my shit list for the foreseeable future.

  So when a gust of warm air hits me as the door opens behind me and Misogynist Mike’s eyes glaze over with the childlike joy only a professional athlete can bring forth in grown men, I know who is sliding into the seat next to me before he gets there.

  The hairs on the back of neck stand, and goose bumps pepper my arms with recognition. My brain might not be his biggest fan, but my body is clearly not in accord.

  I school my face to my most uninterested look as he fills my peripheral vision.

  “Brynn.” His rich timbre caresses my name in a way where I swear I can feel his tongue wrapping around every letter.

  “Maxwell.” I turn and glare, but despite my effort to loathe him, a giddy thrill still shoots through me when my eyes land on his fine self.

  If he were fug, this would be so much easier. But instead, the guy is sex on a stick. Flawless deep brown skin that looks like it feels like silk. His eyes are a whiskey brown (what? I’m a bartender! I compare anything I can to booze), and his eyelashes are so thick and dark it makes the color pop even more. His short hair always looks as if he just left the barber, the edges cut almost as sharp as his jaw and cheekbones. His barely there beard is perfectly trimmed to frame his full lips.

  He raises his hands in the air, you know, the way you’d approach a rabid dog about to attack. “I’d just like to say that this was not my idea,” he tells me, as if that makes this situation any better.

  “So they forced you at gunpoint to come here?” I ask, clutching annoyance and anger so that I don’t accidentally fall onto his mouth. “Don’t you have work or something?”

  “We get out early on Fridays, and you know your girls. They all showed up at the facility and wouldn’t let me into my car until I promised to come here instead of my house.”

  Fucking Lady Mustangs! They must not understand my superior grudge-holding abilities.

  “Well, you showed, you can leave now.” I turn to the still-starstruck bartender and wave him over.

  He comes over, but all of his attention is directed at Maxwell. “Holy shit. Maxwell Lewis! I’m a huge fan.”

  Oh for fuck’s sake.

  “Focus, Mike,” I snap. “I only need tasting for one, Mr. Lewis is on his way out.”

  His eyebrows furrow and he looks at me. “Umm . . . my name is Jake.”

  “Yeah, sure, Mike. My beers, please?”

  Maxwell starts to laugh beside me. I pretend the sound doesn’t warm my insides and make my heart grow like the Grinch’s.

  “And I’ll have mine as well, thanks,” Maxwell tells Mike, even though I want him gone . . . like five minutes ago. At least I can switch our beer flights because I’m not positive Mike isn’t going to add something extra to mine.

  “No problem, Mr. Lewis.” Mike damn near salutes before scurrying away either to (a) escape the crazy woman who keeps calling him Mike or (b) hurry and fulfill the request of the football god sitting at his bar.

  Maybe it’s because Gavin and TK are practically my brothers now, but I just do not understand the whole athlete worship thing.

  Even though, before Maxwell went full Hulk on me and I was just going off my football pants rating, I wouldn’t have minded worshipping a certain part of him.

  I shake my head, trying to clear the mental picture of a naked Maxwell in my bed . . . or even in my office at HERS. What? I just wanted a night of fun, not to marry the guy. And desk sex always seems like such a fantastic idea.

  A loud phone chimes and even though my ringer is always off, I still check my phone. Not surprisingly, there’s nothing there. Maxwell, however, grabs his and swipes open his screen. His eyes narrow a smidge at whatever he sees. Probably Vonnie telling him to stay away after they all forced him to come.

  He shakes his head, putting his phone on the counter without replying. “So what’s up with the beer tasting?” Maxwell asks, his foot relentlessly tapping on the barstool.

  “I try to switch up the beer HERS has on tap every few months with local breweries,” I explain. My irritation with his presence starts to fade as I slide into one of my favorite topics: work. “HERS has had a pretty solid customer base for a while now and I know how hard it is to be successful in this industry, so I do what I can to help other small businesses. And people love a good beer, so it’s important to me that we offer quality instead of some junk big brand.”

  “So you’re kind of like a beer connoisseur?” he asks, a smile in his voice.

  My temper flares. I’m so over being laughed at or doubted because I’m a woman. I look to Maxwell, prepared to tell him off. But when we make eye contact, I don’t see humor, I see awe. Like me knowing about beer is somehow the most glorious and magical quality a person could possess.

  “I—uhhh—” I stutter a bit, not prepared to say anything other than what a jerk he is. “I wouldn’t say that. I just know what I like and I have an idea of what most of my customers enjoy. I can never identify the different notes or anything like that. I just pick four or five different beers to give a decent selection, dark, light, fruity, that kind of thing.”

  “No wonder HERS is thriving.” His gentle tone and kind words shift my insides. “You really didn’t forget any details in creating it.”

  “Thanks.” I laugh, trying to downplay his compliment. “You should have been there when I had to pick out the chairs. I never knew there were that many choices. Picking out the chairs was insane.”

  “Chairs?” Maxwell asks.

  “Chairs,” I confirm, then let the silence take over.

  I turn my head like I’m looking for Mike, but I’m really just trying to hide the furious blush that has my face burning. I mean chairs? Really?

  I half expect Maxwell to ask another question to fill the silence, but I’m not surprised when he doesn’t. I peek out of the corner of my eye to see him lean back in his metal and wood barstool, his hands folded together on the bar top.

  It’s the thing that first drew me to Maxwell . . . I mean, after his ass, tatted arms, and smoldering eyes. He’s quiet. And I’m sure that doesn’t sound impressive or like a turn-on at all. But after spending the last however many years surrounded by NFL players, I learned they all have one thing in comm
on: a massive fucking ego.

  Then I started noticing Maxwell when I’d go to Ace’s soccer games or to a barbecue at Poppy’s house. And when he wasn’t talking to me, he seemed like he was this quiet and shy and unassuming guy. He was almost passive to a fault, always offering to pick up the bill, smiling for pictures when he very obviously wanted a night of not being bothered, never jabbing back and forth after TK put him in the center of his comedy routine. He never once mentioned the game he just played in, even the time where he had a record-setting six interceptions and three pick-sixes (an interception that’s run back for a touchdown). He actually seems embarrassed when people bring up his career.

  It was intriguing and I became a little obsessive about watching him interact with other people and comparing that person to who he was when he got stuck being around just me. I knew there was something I was missing.

  Turned out, the surprise was his crazy-ass temper.

  “You know, I really am sorry, Brynn.” The words are so quiet that I almost don’t hear him. “That phone call . . . it was bad. It was like I blacked out. I didn’t even realize what had happened until TK dragged me outside.”

  The self-loathing in his words is familiar on a level that I have to pretend I don’t relate to. The rasp that’s usually not apparent in his smooth-as-chocolate voice pulls on my heartstrings. Lord knows I’ve made many a rash decision in my day.

  I don’t say anything, but I do turn my attention to him.

  He drops his gaze to the floor, like he’s undeserving of eye contact. “It’s not an excuse. I fucked up and my behavior was unacceptable.”

  “What happened?” I ask before I can stop myself. Something really bad must’ve happened to cause a reaction like that in a person like Maxwell.

  He just shakes his head and I shove the hurt that he won’t confide in me back down. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been the most understanding person in the world, I can’t necessarily blame him for not wanting to share his secrets with me.