Page 27 of Fly Back to Me
She clasps a few fingers in hers, studying the powder gel polish. “Shit, I’m firing my nail technician. Where did you go?”
“Nail Lovers in Stardust Cove, thank you very much.” I whirl on my heels, scooping my belt bag off the dresser to toss a lip gloss in. “After the coffee shop scandal, I needed to salvage the pleasant morning I actually had in mind.”
Lauren’s boots pad across the carpet, and then I’m treading to the bedroom door with her behind me. “Ugh, fuck that guy,” she grumbles.
My fingers tap the light switch beside the door frame, ascowl drawn on my face as I jerk my head over my shoulder. “I know, right? Fuck him.”
I’m more of a cocktail gal, but sometimes I can hang with the guys and knock back a few beers. I’ll even pretend I like stouts and IPAs, but sours are always my go-to. They’re just fruity enough to satiate my sweet tooth.
Lauren cuts the rumble of the engine, parking a few rows from the large brick building. The foyer entrance is bordered by tall and black multi-paneled windows, the chrome of the brewery’s sign resting at the top. My eyes travel the curve of the sweeping exhaust pipes, and the name of the company is embedded inside—Chrome Pipes Brewing.
On the car ride here, I was told this is the new hot spot for beer lovers. Although this place opened recently, word traveled fast among Lauren’s co-workers. Once she learned it was lowkey and isolated from a busy village, she knew exactly where she wanted to bring me tonight.
It’s definitely a different vibe than I’m used to. Not what you’d expect, but I’m guessing the owner is a car or motorcycle fiend? Maybe this is just what I need. Something to challenge everything I know. Something to help me toss old memories and start anew.
A fresh start.
The crowd is tame at this hour, a dozen empty stools lining the pub-style bar that spans the width of the left wall. An herbal aroma clouds the air, hints of citrus promising a pleasant time for my taste buds.
My Chelsea boots trail Lauren’s path, legs light and quick as our palms cradle each other’s to our destination. I drag a metalstool across the polished concrete, stripping my belt bag and coat off before draping them over the rear of my seat.
Two paper coasters slide in front of us just as we situate ourselves, a cute blond bartender the source of the gesture. “How we doing tonight? What can I get you two?”
“Any recommendations?” I ask, my gaze immediately diving into his blue eyes. “I like sours.”
He half-turns, gesturing to the menu screen bolted to the reclaimed brick. “We have a milkshake IPA, which has a little thicker consistency, but is a blend of strawberry and peach. There’s a sour-fruited gose, which is brewed with marshmallow and passionfruit, and an IPA sour brewed with blueberry and raspberry.” He returns his attention to me, his large palms now lying flat on the bar top. “All of these are very popular amongst the sour fans, so I don’t think you can really go wrong.”
“The sour-fruited gose sounds like a good time,” Lauren interrupts.
I pop my shoulders up. “Okay. Sour-fruited gose it is.”
“Sounds good.” A tiny smirk emerges on his smooth jaw, and he drags his eyes to Lauren. “And for you?”
“I’ll have the chocolate stout, please.”
She tells him to leave the tab open while handing her credit card over, and when he walks away, I wave a hand at her. “No way, I’m getting the next round.”
“You’re already annoying me, and it hasn’t even been five minutes,” she says, pinning me with a deadpan stare.
I roll my eyes, setting my elbow on the bar to snuggle my chin in my palm. “If these beers are terrible, tell your coworkers they should stick to teaching. They’ll be forbidden to give out food and drink recommendations forever. I’m just saying.”
Lauren laughs. “I’ll leave a note in the faculty room and sign it from you. With a heart.”
“No heart. They’d owe me two hours of my life.”
“Enjoy, ladies.” The bartender sets a full beer glass on each coaster, nodding once before peeling away.
We raise our drinks, clinking the glasses before taking the first sip. Sharp bursts of citrus sink into my mouth, the tart flavor living up to my expectations. I happily gulp the generous sip, poking my tongue out to lap the tiny remnants. “Uhm, excuse me? Did I just become a habitual beer drinker?”
“Thank you, Janice,” Lauren coos, referring to her colleague.
I dip my brows, examining the berry-colored liquid. “How do you think they make this beer such a godsend?”
“For one, they probably put him in the distillery tanks.” My head flicks up as Lauren’s is tilted to the side, signaling me to look to my right.
I follow her guidance, my eyes swooping over the invisible trail she paved for me. “What are yo—”
My bottom lip drops as oxygen tangles in my lungs. The rugged vision haunts me as I recognize those dark and short locks instantly. Rolled-up sleeves of a black henley showcase the same corded forearm from this morning. The one that was vigorously scrubbing his hoodie after I’d accidentally decorated it.
