Page 36 of Golden Touch
The day flies by in a blur of work. I spend my morning on the canning line. It’s very satisfying to see a finished batch of Meadow Gold roll off the conveyor belt, each can labeled and grouped into four-packs.
Between batches, I find myself sketching a more efficient, two-track canning setup with a better oxygen reduction system. Just because a beer is handcrafted doesn’t mean the canning process has to be so damn slow.
For lunch, I eat a BLT with avocado that Livia made for me. I find it in the fridge with my name on it.
It’s thoughtful, and also tasty. Just like Livia. On my way to the tasting room for another grueling shift behind the counter, I poke my head into the office and find her seated at her desk, bent over one of my father’s ledgers.
“Hey, girl.”
Livia startles, drops her pen, and pushes her chair back from the desk. It’s the office-worker’s version of fight or flight. Not until her wide eyes find me in the doorway does she relax a little. “H-hey,” she says. “Problem?”
I shove my hands into my pockets and take her in. She’s wearing a kickass top in a wine color that accentuates her chest, and her hair is swept into a silver clip. She looks phenomenal, butI know her well enough to see the stress she’s trying to hide. “I came by to thank you for the sandwich. That was really nice of you.”
“Oh.” She clears her throat. “You’re welcome. Thanks for buying groceries, roomie.”
Roomie. That little joke is her way of keeping me at a distance. It won’t work forever, though. I saw the way she looked at me during our little movie night, and it’s not the way roommates look at each other.
But that’s not our issue right now. I stalk into the room and park my ass against the side of the desk. “You want to tell me what’s got you so jumpy?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly. “I’m fine. Your hops delivery arrived, by the way. I checked the bags myself. And your father is all set to call you tomorrow morning at seven. He’d like you to arrive in the brewhouse by then.”
“Yeah, okay.” But I noticed that abrupt change of subject. And now she’s fidgeting with her pen. “Anything else?”
She shrugs guiltily. “Morgan called in sick. He was supposed to refill the walk-in during your shift in the tasting room. So I guess I’ll grab a jacket and fill in for him. Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
“No, ma’am,” I say. “We need somebody back there.”
“I know.” She rises from her seat and walks past me toward the door. “I’m on it.”
“Livia?”
She turns expectantly. “Yes?”
“I can’t make you tell me what’s got you buggin’ out. But I’m here if you want to talk. And if you don’t, I’m also really good at stress relief.”
For a second her eyes darken. But then she shakes her head, and her lips quirk as she tries not to smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She strolls out of the room, swinging her hips as she goes.
The tasting room is the usual madhouse. Beer enthusiasts in a line out the door.
I’ve made the executive decision to stop selling Goldenpour in cases so I can hoard the last of our supply to serve it a glass at a time to the tasting-room customers.
Scarcity is part of the brand’s image, but I don’t want people driving all the way up here next week to taste the most celebrated beer in America, only to leave without “seeing the face of God,” as one journalist described his first taste of Goldenpour.
There are some grumbles, but I don’t get too much pushback. Judging by how often I have to reach into the cooler, the fans are buying up our seasonal brews instead.
Bonus—half the time I turn toward the refrigerator, I get a glimpse of Livia through the glass doors, hustling to restock the beer so that Connor and I can reach it. She’s wearing a puffer coat, and the chill has pinked up her cheeks.
It’s not a glamorous job, but Livia doesn’t complain. And whenever fate conspires to put us nose to nose in the refrigerator, she gives me a little smile before shoving a four-pack of beer onto the shelf in front of my face.
I’m just ringing up another four-pack of our spring brew when a familiar voice rasps my name.
“Nash Giltmaker! I got a bone to pick with you.”
I look up to find Poppy, an old friend from high school. We’ve known each other for twenty-five years, and she looks much the same in her thirties as she did as a school girl—dark-blond curls, blue eyes, and a big smile. Plus, a husky voice that was weird on a little girl but is just plain sexy now.
“Hey girl!” I lean forward to clasp her shoulder.
She actually hops up onto the counter and flings her arms open. “Where is my hug? More crucially, where is my text message telling me you’re in town? Wait—is your phone broken?”
