Page 109 of Rescued by the Single Dad

They made out for another couple of minutes before she eventually broke the lip lock. “My tongue is going to get a cramp,” she whispered, stepping out of his embrace.

“One thing you never have to worry about with me.”

She giggled, and it made his already stiff cock twitch. “Yeah, so far you haven’t cramped once.”

He took her hand in his, but not before she pulled the hood back up over her head. They made their way, carefully, up around the pub.

The kitchen door to the outside was closed now, and there was only one vehicle left in the parking lot. Probably Burke. He was always the first to arrive and the last to leave.

And it wasn’t like Wyatt was a tyrant, forcing the head chef to work from open to close, either. Burke loved his job and was meticulous when it came to cleaning. He was probably in there washing the floor until it was clean enough to eat mashed potatoes off.

“Think it’s safe to show me the brewery?” she whispered, looking up at him with hope. “I’d love to see where you go all day and work your hops and barley magic.”

He snorted at that, but nodded, pulling her toward the furthest door. You could access the brewery from the kitchen, but usually, that door was locked unless Cooper or Clint were on site. Cooper’s motorcycle was gone, so he was home for the night, which meant there was no way Burke could get into the brewery and discover them. Though, if anybody were to discover Brooke, they’d want it to be Burke. He’d absolutely keep her secret.

Clint fished his keys out of his pocket and slid it into the lock.

Brooke kept her head down, but he could tell her senses remained tuned into their surroundings—as were Clint’s—in case Cash Reilly and his stoner friends came back.

He opened the door and reached in around the corner to flick on the big fluorescent lights overhead. The place smelled like cleaner and beer. Cooper always mopped the floors right before he left. Brooke stepped in, squinting as her pupils adjusted from the darkness outside to the blinding retinal assault from the tube lights on the vaulted ceiling.

“I wasn’t sure what I expected,” she said, as Clint closed the door behind her, “but this wasn’t it. This feels industrial. Like, this is no mom and pop shop you have here.”

He chuckled. “No, ma’am. We’re running a real business. It might be a microbrewery, but it’s a mighty microbrewery.” For some reason that prompted him to flex his muscles, pulling a giggle from her. “We have to adhere to all the regulations, get routine inspections and buy our equipment from the same places the big guys do.” He knocked his hand against the big stainless-steel fermenter. He went to the wall where they had a shelf of glasses for tasting. “You want to try what we’re working on right now?”

Her eyes lit up. “Um, yes.”

Smiling at her enthusiastic response, he went to the fermenter, where they still had their latest brew. They’d move it over to the kegs and bottle it in the next week or so. From the spout, he filled up two glasses, then handed her one. It was a rich red color and, as he suspected, Brooke lifted a brow when she held the glass up to the light.

“This almost looks like a frothy wine.”

He grinned. “Pretty weak wine if you can see through it like that.”

That brought a cheeky side eye his way as she brought the rim of the glass to her lips and took a sip. “You can see through white zinfandel.”

“I like my wine dark, rich and full bodied.”

Her coy smile grew as she let the beer slosh around her mouth for a moment.

Even though he knew it was good, he held his breath, waiting for her reaction.

“Mmmm,” she hummed, licking her lips as her eyes opened wide. She took another sip. “That’s really good. Tart and ...” she smacked her lips together, “berry-y. Raspberries?”

She had a keen and observant palate. He liked that. “Yeah. It’s a traditional German sour wheat ale. Dates all the way back to sixteenth century Berlin, actually. And we fermented it with fresh raspberries.”

She took a third sip, which prompted him to finally take a sip of his own. It really was fucking delicious. He wasn’t too humble to admit it. He made good beer.

“What’s this one called?” she asked, having already finished more than half her glass.

His lips twisted. “That’s one of the reasons we haven’t bottled it yet. We can’t come up with a name. Can’t sell it, and have labels printed if we don’t know what to call it.”

“And you’re trying to be punny? Or funny? Or ...”

“Just catchy. It doesn’t have to be goofy. Some of our beers have funny names. Others are straight and to the point. But Raspberry German Sour Ale just sounds long-winded and boring.”

“Hmmmm ...” She tapped her chin with her fingertip. “Raspberry Sour Power?”

He liked the rhyming. Power and sour.

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