Page 27 of Golden Touch
And it does look great. I’ve added shredded cheese and sour cream and a side of corn chips.
“You pulled out all the stops for me.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I snip. “My chili is excellent, and it deserves to be served properly.”
He picks up his spoon and grins. “Yeah, this is a hell of a good sign.”
“For what?”
“That it’s still happening between us. A woman doesn’t make a meal like this for a guy she doesn’t want to bang.”
“This is thank-you chili!” I sputter. “It’s not I-want-to-bang-you chili.”
“Can’t it be both?” He winks. “I can picture it.”
“I can’t,” I lie.
“Need me to draw you an illustration?” he asks. “I’m handy with a sketchbook.”
My younger self would sit right down and flirt with this man. I used to be a fun time, and I used to enjoy the company of men like Nash Giltmaker. But then I grew up and got smarter.
I pull the pizza he brought me last night out of the fridge, and I head for the door. “I’m going to eat lunch at my desk. There’s work I need to do. Don’t forget to lock up.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gives me an appreciative glance before I go.
I still have the warm flutters. And it’sveryinconvenient.
CHAPTER 12
NASH
Livia wasn’t kidding when she warned me about the hordes. By five minutes past two, the tasting room is slammed with customers, and the line is still out the door. They all want a tap beer to drink and a four-pack to take home. I’m pouring pints and making change, and I can’t even see the back of the line.
Never mind making it another two weeks with our stock of Goldenpour. I wonder if we’ll make it two hours.
It’s absolutely too people-y in here. The girl did not lie.
The handy thing is that my dad’s cold storage opens right into the tasting room. Every half hour or so, a brewer enters the walk-in from the brewhouse floor and moves the merchandise closer to where Connor and I can reach it.
It’s a good thing I ate lunch, because the line never quits. I’d already known that Dad was successful. I’d seen pictures of the line wrapping around the building. But until today, I didn’t really understand how fansfeelabout Goldenpour.
“Drove six hours to buy this,” one man says, adjusting the fishing hat on his head.
“Yeah? Well, I drovetwelve,” someone pipes up behind him.
How about that, Dad? You’re a rock star. That’s why it’s such a damn shame that you’re too much of a grouch to enjoy it.
If I’d stayed in Vermont, I could have been a part of all this.
Then again, if I’d stayed, I might hate my life.
My father would make sure of it.
It’s a long afternoon. I hope nobody expects me to do this four times a week—which is exactly how often the tasting room is open.
“You can leave the cleanup to me,” Connor says after the door finally closes after the last customer. “Sure you have better things to do.”
“Nah.” I gather up the last of the dirty glasses. “Not gonna be that guy—the owner’s son who can’t wash a dish.”
