Page 11 of Some Like It Hops

“I’m willing to bet that you also know that money talks.” I pause for a second, then add, “I’m prepared to give you more than what you’ve agreed to pay for that warehouse. Quite a bit more, actually.”

I wait, but the silence drags on. I take a long pull of my latest Citra IPA.Come on, Charlie.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lane. The answer is no.”

Interesting. I never told her who I am. Gallagher must have warned her I’d be calling. But if she knows who I am, knows anything about Griffin Lane or Fast Lane Brewing, chances are she knows I don’t fuck around. “I’m prepared to sweeten the deal.”

“The warehouse is not for sale.”

“Everythingis for sale.”

She doesn’t respond, just lets the silence drag on again, which is infuriating as hell.

“Are you aware of the numbers, Charlie?”

“You may call me Ms. Harper.”

I close my eyes on a long blink. “Are you aware of the numbers,Ms. Harper? Do you know the success rate of new breweries?” I glance at the business card and roll my eyes at the design again. “How many nosedive before they even get off the ground?”

She snorts. “I’m well aware of the obstacles I’ll face, Mr. Lane.”

“And, being a woman”—I pause, shaking my head—“I can only imagine the extra hurdles you may face in what is, sadly, still very much a man’s world.” It’s a sexist, low blow, but I’m not above hitting below the belt to get what I want.

“I’m sure that whole ‘man’s world’ notion has worked well for you, Mr. Lane, with your peacock of a brewery and your fancy black car you probably can’t even pronounce the name of…”

Hold up. Did she just accuse me of peacocking? I can’t fight the smile this brings to my face. There’s a first for everything, I guess. I open my laptop as she rants, pulling up the search engine and typing her name into the search bar. Call me crazy, but I like the way she talks to me. Time to put a face to that smart mouth.

“…the true artistry of craft brewing takes more than a pretty face, a tailored suit, and a fat wallet…”

A pretty face, huh? Noted. The first few links that pop up are dead ends—old Myspace accounts and a LinkedIn profile lacking a photo—but the fourth link is promising, an article published recently about Charlie Harper, the face behind Pops & Hops.

“Last chance, Ms. Harper,” I say, interrupting her rant. “Accept my offer. Sell the warehouse. The craft brewery business isn’t an easy one.”

I click on the link and familiar, dark brown eyes stare back at me.

“…let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Lane. Not everyone can be bought…”

I stare at her gorgeous face on the screen as she lays into me, smiling because I’m no longer annoyed by her. On the contrary, I’m quite fucking intrigued. I have been since I laid eyes on Charlie at Evans’ Brewing this afternoon.

“…think it’s a man’s world, Mr. Lane? That a little lady like me can’t handle my own? Well, I’ve got news for you, bucko—”

Bucko?I bite back a laugh.

“—I’ve been working in breweries all my life. I’ve poured blood, sweat, and tears into this industry, which is more than I can say for someone who just opens their wallet andbuysthe things they want.”

I lean back in my chair. “Is that what you think of me?”

“Yep.”

“Interesting.” I rub my hand over my beard stubble. “You really think you can make it in the craft brewing industry, Ms. Harper?”

“You did.”

“Indeed.” And then some.

She huffs. “Anything you can do, I can dobleeding. And you can shove your offer right up your ass.” She ends the call and I set the phone down, grinning as I continue scanning the article. No one has ever spoken to me like that. Certainly not a woman.

Fuck the warehouse. I wantCharlie.

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