By the time he had exited the bar area and made his way into the brewery still redolent with the odors of their last brew, it had been nearly twenty minutes. Blake hoped she hadn’t given up on him. He put his hands in his pockets and tried to appear nonchalant as if there were something to check out in the currently dormant production facility. When Dani stepped out from the door of the adjacent fermentation cellar, he stopped.

"Hey." She held a large brown bottle, unlabeled, and two brandy snifter-style glasses.

"Hey, yourself," he said, leaning on one of the tall stainless steel vessels where beer was creating itself, the fermentation bucket bubbling away on the floor next to his feet. "I’ll have to admit, I’m not terribly sophisticated about sour beers ..." His voice drifted off. She remained silent, head tilted to the side, seemingly taking him in from head to toe. He let her have her little appraisal, crossed his arms over his chest, trying to keep the pounding of his heart under control.

"Here," she said, thrusting the bottle and glasses into his hands. She started to walk away, and Blake followed her, assuming that was the right move. The sway of her hips set her black skirt swirling around her calves, and her fit upper back and shoulders gave him quite the view as he gripped the stuff she’d given him. Stopping at a tall stack of pallets, she looked around a minute, then her eyes lit on the bags of malt nearby. She turned and took the bottle and glasses from him. "Heave a couple of those up there." She indicated to the nearly six-foot pile of wooden pallets one of his employees had created earlier in the day. He shrugged, pulled a couple of them over the stand then grabbed a third to toss up onto the stack. "Nice," she said. "One more."

"Are we gonna have a picnic up there?" he asked, adding the bag before stepping back down to the floor.

"Something like that." She stood up on his malt-bag step stool and stretched up to place the bottle and glasses on the top. "C’mon," she said, before grasping the platform and climbing up. Her strong legs were revealed with every step.

Blake shook his head at his nearly erect self. Damn. This woman was something else so far. He was even willing to suffer through what, in his experience, would be beer sour enough to pucker your lips for days, if what he remembered from lambics rang true. The two he’d had were the closest thing he’d come to drinking straight vinegar.
 

Lisa leaned on the bar. He winced as his body reacted to her proximity. Her long blonde hair was loose, wavy, like he liked it. Her skirt was short, high-heeled boots a soft-looking tan leather. Her blue eyes held him speechless and frozen in place. So help him, he could take her right now. But the connection, deeper than physical, he'd been experiencing terrified him. He **simply could not go this fast. It was…a mistake. Or the most amazing woman he could ever hope for. He suppressed a groan of frustration at himself.

"So." She grabbed his drink and helped herself to it before she said, "You must know me well enough by now to realize I won't let you simply walk away without some kind of decent explanation." She slammed his nearly empty glass onto the bar, loud enough to draw glances. "I'm not the kind of girl you can ignore, Trent Franklin. And I don't mean that in a high-maintenance way, either, so don't start making excuses."

He signaled for the bartender to bring him another. He had no answer for her, at least not one that made any sense. What could he say? "I love you already so I gotta get the fuck away from you?" Or how about "You are perfect for me so I'm out of here?" Or maybe "I can't sleep at night from thinking about your body next to mine and am pondering happily-ever-after **with you, so I'm ignoring you. Go away?" Holy shit, it sounds idiotic to my own ears. His heart pounded as he took a sip of his fresh drink.

"You know, I think it's too much too soon," he said, not looking at her. He could feel her incredulous gaze burning holes in his skull. He closed his eyes to keep from contradicting himself by kissing her—the one thing he wanted to do right now more than anything. "A break, like we said, right?" He turned to her then, thinking himself under control.

She gave him an inscrutable look, slowly reached for his drink, and poured it over his head. "Break this, you colossal asshole," she declared. "You cannot talk to me like you did two weeks ago in my bed and then turn into this...this...fucking Peter-Pan-syndrome-lame-ass jerk!" She put the empty glass down on the bar, gave him a peck on a cheek that was now dripping with vodka and tonic water, and breezed past him on her way out the door. "Don't call me," she threw over her shoulder. Trent watched her go. Made no moves to clean up the alcohol rolling down his face and onto his shirt.

Owen appeared at his elbow, perched on a barstool, and indicated he should do the same. The bartender silently handed Trent a dry towel. He wiped himself off, knowing he deserved everything she said.
 

Jeff grabbed her arm to steady her and put his lips near her ear. "So, hire me, right now."

His whisper sent goose bumps over her entire body and brought her solidly back to the present. She jerked her head back and glared at him. The nerve of this kid.

Of all the things she'd expected from Jeff, she'd never thought he'd be this bold.

"I moved here from a perfectly great gig at Anchor in California when I read about your place." Jeff maneuvered her towards the back of the VIP tent. He loosened his grip on her and slid an arm around her waist. She leaned into him in spite of herself. He didn’t flinch away. If anything, he tightened his hold, practically cuddling her next to him. His mouth brushed against her hair, his breath teasing her ear again. "Let me brew for you."

Erin shuddered. Her entire body reacted to his seductive tone. The man was whispering to her as if he were about to…oh Christ. She sighed. She was vulnerable, and he must know it. Typical man.

Well, he needed to remember who was the boss.

"Hey, Erin." She jumped as Jeff’s voice came rocketing through the brewery doors. "Could you come look at this…?"

Erin stood up from the bar stool still staring at the spreadsheet she’d been studying for the last hour, intending to see what Jeff needed but was then distracted by a ding from her computer. She tucked her hair up into a loose ponytail and glanced at her laptop screen.

Landon: Hey, I’m giving a talk at the Industry writer’s Conference next week. Why don’t you come out?

Erin pictured the man she’d formed such a virtual bond with—his social networking profile was far reaching and lots of photos of him abounded especially among journalist groups. Tall and intent-looking, with dark eyes and clean-shaven head, he was one of the most respected industry writers around. He had written the seminal book on starting a brewery, one that had graced her own bookshelf from the beginning. The guy was smart, good looking, and seemingly impressed with what Erin had done with her little Mid-west brewery. Why not go meet him? She had managed to mess everything up here. Maybe a break would help.

Erin sighed. How in the world she had managed to get herself here, caught between men like this—she had no idea. Her chest tightened as she pictured Owen’s face, his eyes dark with anger the last time they spoke. His remarkable ability to bring out the best in her, but then to ignore her when he couldn’t deal with his feelings was maddening. At least with Jeff she knew exactly where she stood. Her thighs clenched at the thought of him.

"Yo, you coming?" The object of her lustful fascination called her again from the other room. "And lock the front door," his low voice teased. "We’re closed."