Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103552 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
“I can see where that would burn a little,” he said. “I mean, great to know you made something everyone loves that much, but—”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It was amazing how much everyone loved it, but I not only didn’t have any more, I also don’t know how to make it.”
“Sure you do,” he said. “You made it in the first place, right?”
I took another sip of beer, the familiar flavor bursting over my tongue. “Yeah,” I said, sounding less than confident. “Yeah,” I said again, this time meaning it. “I did. Fuck, I hate how I let him get in my head. You know, they were my recipes.”
“Why’d you hire him anyway?” West asked, looking back at me.
I sighed. “There’s a big gap between brewing beer on a small scale and being able to brew it on a commercial scale. I knew how to brew beer, knew what I liked, knew it tasted good, made enough friends in the business to talk recipes, and experiment with ingredients, but I didn’t know the ins and outs of running a commercial brewery. I needed someone to teach me. He was qualified. He just...” I shook my head.
West finished my thought. “He wanted to be more than just the brewmaster.”
“Yep. He saw me as a way to get his own place. But I don’t want to give up Sawyers Bend Brewing. I don’t want to sell out, and I don’t want to put somebody else in charge. I love what I do, even when it’s long days and my feet hurt. Even when things go wrong.”
“Yeah,” West said. “I know what you mean. This time of year, I wonder, what the hell am I thinking? Police chief of a small town in Western North Carolina seems like an easy gig, except this time of year, when it’s anything but.” He shrugged, rolling his shoulders back, and lifted his chin. “It’s not like I’m dealing with heavy drug trade or a ton of violent crime, but we’ve got a lot of people coming into town. They think it’s like a fairyland. The mountains and rivers are pretty. They’re used to things being safe and packaged, you know? Half the time, the trouble is just tourists drinking a little too much, getting into a fight like the other night, or car accidents, petty larceny, stuff like that. But then we get people who go hiking or tubing, don’t know what they’re getting into. Those aren’t my favorite.”
“Yeah, I bet,” I agreed.
“And the waterfalls,” he said, shaking his head. He didn’t need to go into detail. I knew exactly what he meant. Western North Carolina is chock-full of gorgeous waterfalls—big ones and little ones, all beautiful, most accessible by easily marked hiking trails, and every single one deadly. These days, tourists want to get a selfie at the top of the falls and think, I’ll just climb over this rail that says, “Do not pass. Slippery terrain.” They climb over, take a step too far, lift their phone to get a great pic, and boom—right over the edge.
Sometimes they could be rescued, but at the bottom of waterfalls, you’ve got churning water and sharp rocks, neither of which gently receives a falling body. We tried to educate visitors, but people having fun don’t always like to listen. I knew West had accompanied a body bag out of the rivers more than once every tourist season. Every time, it was heartbreaking.
“Your job is definitely rougher than mine,” I said.
“When it gets bad, yeah,” he said. “Fortunately, most days it’s not. You want to slice the bread?”
“Sure, where is it?” I asked, looking around the kitchen. I could smell it, but I didn’t see it.
“In the oven.”
I grabbed potholders and pulled out the crispy loaf. “Did you stop by Sweetheart Bakery?” I asked.
“I did,” he said.
“Really?” I wondered if there was anything in the fridge for dessert. My brother Royal’s girlfriend Daisy ran the bakery with her grandmother, and those two were geniuses when it came to anything bread or pastry related. My stomach rumbled again, a loud, angry growl. I looked over my shoulder at West. “Sorry, I missed lunch.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “It’s just making me want to feed you more.”
I set the bread on the cutting board. Before I could reach for the knife, his arm snaked around my waist and pulled me back. “Just an appetizer,” he murmured, his lips against my ear. Then I was turning, my face lifting, my arms sliding around his shoulders as if we’d done this a million times. His lips didn’t touch mine. They skimmed the side of my jaw, dipping down to my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
I strained towards him, the kiss in the hospital flooding my brain. West. I wanted West. I turned my head, catching his mouth as he straightened. He tasted just like I remembered, his lips soft but firm. My empty stomach was forgotten. I arched into him, sinking my fingers into his hair, my body flooding with heat. This is what I’d wanted ever since he’d kissed me the first time. My mouth followed his as he stepped back.