Page 5 of Some Like It Hops

“Ten-four, boss.”

Chapter Three

Charlie

Jo glances at her phone and sends a quick reply, then guides the Highlander onto the westbound freeway, heading in the opposite direction of home.

I watch the cars heading in the right direction for a few seconds, then stare at the side of her face. “Did you forget where we live?”

She rolls her eyes and shows me her phone screen. There are a few texts from an unknown number, so I quickly scan the conversation. “You’re meeting a client right now?” I whine, glancing down at the doggie bag between my feet full of leftovers for Pops.

“Potentialclient. And it’s at a brewery, so you’ll be entertained.” She winks. “And it’s on me. Or, well, on the firm. Obviously.”

“Fine.” I shrug. It’s my day off anyway, and it’s not like I had plans after our celebratory lunch date; I just like to be a pain in Jo’s ass sometimes—payback for all those sleepovers when she talked all night and never let me sleep. And let’s be honest, Pops will be stoked on leftover chicken regardless of how fresh it is. Besides, who can say no to continuing this celebration? After our little impromptu meeting with the seller yesterday, my offer on the warehouse was approved.

Dog people really are the best people.

“You didn’t even ask which brewery we’re headed to.”

I freeze. It better not be Fast Lane. There are just certain places I won’t go, even if Jo’s paying. I reach for her phone again and reread the messages. Evans Brewing. That was a close one. “Wait. Why does this say he’ll be wearing a black suit with a blue shirt?”

Jo gives me an incredulous look. “So I’ll know who he is?”

“Will he be holding a single red rose as well?” I waggle my eyebrows.

“Hush. The right suit can tell you everything you need to know about a man.”

I doubt that. I’ve never really been into the whole suit thing. Give me a guy in faded Levi’s and a snug t-shirt who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, and I’m in. “So I’ll just drink beer while you schmooze?” I’ve had worse offers.

She side-eyes me quickly as she pulls over to the offramp. “That’s probably best.”

Looking down at my nicest pair of black jeans and my favorite gray t-shirt, I laugh. “This isn’t professional enough for you?”

Josephine shakes her head. “You’re wearing jeans.”

“Blackjeans.”

“Still jeans.”

I frown. “I didn’t even wear the ripped ones for our fancy lunch date.”

Josie chuckles. “I know, babe.” She pats my thigh. Josie’s dressed in an ivory power suit worthy of Blake Lively.Dressing downfor Jo means wedges instead of stilettos. She pulls into the Evans Brewing parking lot and finds a spot toward the far end of the building.

“So, who’s this potential client?” I climb out of the car.

“No idea.” She meets me at the trunk. “How do I look?” Straightening, she shakes her auburn waves off her shoulders and flashes me her megawatt smile.

“Like a kickass real estate agent who just found me my dream location.”

“Good. If I wave you over, be ready to gush about what a find it was and how I’m the best commercial agent you’ve ever worked with.”

“Of course.” She’s theonlycommercial agent I’ve ever worked with, but I’ll keep that to myself.

“And don’t mention how you’re only working with me because we’ve been friends since second grade.”

“Duh.”

We step into the brewery and Josie heads upstairs to meet her client while I pop my head into the kettle room to see if Stephen’s working. The microbrew community is a tight one, and most of us have brewed together at various breweries throughout the area. The exception to this rule, of course, is Fast Lane, which would be like Amazon trying to cozy up to the indie bookstores of the world. It just isn’t going to happen.

---