Paradise Hops (7 page)

“Okay Brockton, what’s the Plato on the IPA?” Eli’s voice rang out across the brewery floor.

Lori dropped a bit of wort, the unfermented malty water, into the spectrometer, did a quick calculation and rattled off the numbers Eli wanted. She made a few notes in the brewing log, listening as he cussed out the brew boys yet again. The temper tantrum over the fact that one of his seconds had taken an entire batch of one of their most popular amber brews, put the wrong yeast in it and come up with amber
ale
instead of the amber
lager
like he’d intended was fairly epic. She moved through the brewery, confident, unworried, although with a thrill of something she refused to identify whenever he’d direct his angry attention at her.

Thoughts of Garrett were never far from her mind. The pleasant hum of satisfaction when she pictured him made her smile. But the low-grade displeasure at his tendency to take over, to arrange and control everything in his environment, which now included her and her life, had begun to buzz in her ear like a stubborn fly. She stayed over at his place some, but refused to make anything permanent out of it, which bugged him. But she made it clear she wasn’t ready for that step, not yet. She’d been on her own long enough to still treasure her independence. So he indulged her, stayed at her house every now and then, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of just that—being indulged. She frowned.
No man is perfect. But Garrett is within shouting distance of it. Why can’t you stop finding fault with him?

The man had certainly worked miracles at the brewery. Remaining good to his word never letting anyone go, he modernized, updated, and increased efficiency as promised. Her father was thrilled but getting a little nosy about her relationship with him. The miracles continued in the bedroom, as he coaxed more and more from her body and soul. She was grateful for it. She was also mad at herself for continuing to fantasize about the brewmaster. But, at times his efforts felt like just Garrett being Garrett; fixing things, like he was meant to do. Not fair to him. But something that wouldn’t settle in her, let her truly accept what he offered. 

She leaned against the warm metal of the brewing vessel and let the sweet smell of early stage process waft through her senses. It calmed her. But her eyes sought him out—the man who was the polar opposite of Garrett Hunter in so many ways. They were yin and yang physically, emotionally, in every way possible. She caught Eli’s eye at one point, the sharp blue of them sending a shiver down her spine. He frowned. She frowned back.

She recognized her own imperfections and knew she was not easy to live with. Her capacity for emotional distance, and the perverse pleasure she took in thwarting Garrett’s carefully laid plans sometimes made her cringe. Unable to explain to herself why she did it, she kept doing it, causing more than a little friction between them. Especially lately as her brewery rotation wound down and she faced life without the bossy, sexy but utterly wrong brewer up in her grill day after day.

Lori rolled her shoulders and bounded up the platform to check the status of the large batch of IPA. It was their flagship brew, and they spent a lot of time perfecting it and keeping quality consistent. The predictable comforting rhythm of the place, the early start, the daily meeting, and the amazing process and chemistry all soothed her. She loved it. She glanced over at Eli and caught his gaze on her yet again. The intense look in his eyes set a fire in her belly that settled in deep between her legs. She shook her head again and bent to her task.

“You should consider the institute,” Eli declared later, as they shared a pizza, the long day of multiple brews finished. “You’re a natural.” Beethoven poured from the speakers again, soothing and irritating her all at once.

“Wow,” Lori tried to keep her tone light. “Is that a compliment? I may faint.”

“Jesus, don’t.” He shoved half of an entire slice into his mouth, smiling and wiping greasy hands on his jeans. “I don’t do girlie drama.” She flipped him off. He reached up as if to snatch a blown kiss, then pressed it to his crotch, sending zings of pleasure all the way through her. She stood, downing the beer they’d been sharing. His brow furrowed. “Hey, maybe I wanted some of that.”

She shot him a look then finished it off, relishing the rich, hoppy essence of something she’d made with her own hands. He crossed his arms, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he spoke. “I’ve created a monster haven’t I?”

She wandered over to the vat, pulled another pint from it and plunked it down in front of him. “A monster with manners.” The large warm hand over hers transformed the mild tingles she always got when around him into high flames.

“You’ve been amazing, Lori. Really.” Her face flushed. She tried unsuccessfully to banish the images of the hop vine, the memory of his skin under her fingertips to the far corner of her brain.

“Well, I had a great teacher.” The sudden urge to get as far from him as possible burned hot. She stayed put but slipped her hand out from under his. “An amazing teacher.” She sat, rested her chin in her hands. “I want to apply. To the institute, I mean. But, my dad will kill me, then tell me ‘no’.” It felt great to finally admit it to someone. She’d been researching it for weeks, downloading study guides and tossing the idea in and out of the realm of fantasy versus reality.

Eli grinned. “Good.” He grabbed another pepperoni covered slice, folded in half and ate it in three bites. “I’ll help you,” he claimed around chewing.

She stood, checked her phone looking for an excuse to get out of his presence.

“How’s the suit?” Eli plunked his boot-clad feet up on the rough wooden surface that passed for a table.

She glared at him pissed at the change of subject. “None of your business.”

“Fair.” He sucked back the beer she’d poured him. “So, how’s the suit?”

She rolled her eyes. “Great. Thanks. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondered. You guys seemed like a boring married couple already. How will he feel when you decamp to Munich for the better part of two years?”

Lori stared at him. She’d not even considered it. Having lived her entire life on her own, but for a brief period back at her father’s house after the attack, she’d gotten used to making decisions for herself. And something in her had resisted telling Garrett—that perverse need to circumvent his tidy planning, she guessed. The smirk on the head brewer’s face sent a bright shaft of anger through her. She simultaneously felt an urge to defend Garrett.
God, you are pathetic Lori.

“That really is none of your business.” He shrugged, finished the beer and stared at her. Something about his look made her relax. “I don’t know. I haven’t exactly told him yet.”

Eli snorted, ran a hand through his long hair. “Well, you might should, eh Brockton? I mean, the guy you’re practically married to deserves to know your plans pretty much include moving overseas.”

She put her head down on her arms, overwhelmed by the whole thing and her part in making it worse.
Why hadn’t she told him?
A warm hand touched her neck, bringing an odd sense of comfort and contentment. She kept her head down as Eli kneaded her sore shoulders, making her groan with relief. “Ready yet, Lori?” The lips so close to her ear made her gasp. She leaned into him, yearning for an actual connection. The music hit its amazing, perfect, simple climax, and then receded, leaving her breathless.

His hand slipped to her waist, her hips, setting her skin on fire everywhere he touched. He had not so much as laid a hand on her for weeks. Not after their odd encounter in his office. Why the hell was he doing this now?

She closed her eyes, moved her arm, enabling him, needing more. When he reached up and cupped her breast, it brought instant moisture to her panties. The other hand threaded in her hair, clutched hard, as his lips moved along the back of her neck. His voice tickled her ear. “I think you might be.”

She stretched her arms out on the rough-hewn table, moved her legs apart, welcoming his touch even further as he cupped her sex, pressed against the warm moisture her body had created as a direct result of his touch.

 “Damn you are hot.” His voice poured like rich honey into her soul.

She forced the voice in her brain to shut up, the one that reminded her how happy she was with Garrett, as the man she continuously fantasized about ran his rough palm down her thigh, nibbled her neck. A door slammed shut. She jumped and he stepped away.

“Lori?” Garrett’s deep voice chilled her spine. Eli chuckled and moved between the fermenters like a ghost, or better still, a demon, determined to ruin her for his own selfish pleasure. She gritted her teeth.

“Back here,” She stood, tossed the empty pizza box in the trash and started towards him, let him hold her close, taking deep breaths of his familiar combination of smells—wool, leather, starched shirts, the subtle hint of cologne. “Let’s go.” He grinned and kissed her as he ran his hands up and down her body.

Aggravation rose in her chest. She had to get out of here, now. “Not here, Garrett. Okay?” He put an arm around her shoulders without a word and guided her out.

Chapter Six

“What’s wrong?” Garrett kept his voice light, but she heard the genuine worry in it.

“Nothing.” She stared out the window cursing herself to hell and back for being such an indecisive lame ass.

He didn’t press the issue and by the time they pulled into his tidy garage, she’d let released of the stress. She began to ease back into that place she’d found, the place where Garrett took care of her, where she was happy. They put their stuff away in the alcove between garage and hall, Lori marveling yet again at the extreme neatness of Garrett’s life. She understood that he did it on purpose. To establish control over potential chaos. But sometimes she wondered how her own messy circumstances could ever fit with his apparent perfection. She watched him head upstairs to change, and realized she really could set a clock by the man, he was that predictable.

When visions of Eli’s tattoo swirled in her brain and the very recent memory of his voice in her ear made her shiver, she stomped into the kitchen and poured herself a large glass of wine. Her phone buzzed with an incoming email but she ignored it in favor of trying to force her brewer’s thick blond hair and snapping blue eyes out of her head.

“Hey, c’mere a second, would you?” She rose and stretched at the sound of Garrett’s voice, contemplating a shower as she made her way out into the great room. Garrett had bought the house from the builder, but had it modified to suit his needs including knocking out walls between formal and informal living room, creating a huge, beautiful space with a giant fireplace, a matching gargantuan flat screen television and…she put a hand to her throat. “What do you think?” He was standing by a gleaming, deep chestnut baby grand piano. Lori’s heart pounded so loud she could hardly hear him.

“Uh, are you taking up lessons?” She slid into a nearby chair, no longer confident her knees would hold her up. The sight of a once beloved instrument—something that represented her “before” life that she’d banned forever in some kind of purge she still didn’t understand made her blink back tears. “Because otherwise that thing will just be furniture you have to dust.”

“No. I’m not.” He walked to her, his firm, familiar body clad in soft jeans and un-tucked light blue dress shirt. She forced herself not to stand. “Don’t be obtuse. It’s unattractive.” She looked away, ugly words forming behind her lips. She bit them back.

She kept her tone neutral. “Garrett, I appreciate what you’re doing, but you can’t, I mean, I’m not going to—” she stood and strode back into the kitchen. He left her alone for nearly fifteen minutes, then wandered in and filled a glass with water for himself. She stared down at the countertop as she spoke. “I don’t want to play. Ever again. Who told you anyway, I mean,” she stopped and sipped, knowing the answer. This man and her father were as thick as thieves. Fury blinded her. What the hell was he thinking, forcing this on her? The fucking nerve of him.