The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(9)

I don’t like thinking of Winnie treating me the same way she treats her brother. Not even a little bit. And I definitely don't want to examine exactly why the idea bothers me so much.

“Winnie will do a great job as far as the work goes. She just might drive you to drink along the way. Guess it’s a good thing you own a brewery.” He chuckles. “Speaking of—need my help tomorrow? I can swing by in the afternoon. Winnie said you were clearing out the warehouse.”

Oh, did she, now?

My fists clench reflexively. I don’t know what came over me when I asked Winnie to help tomorrow. I’ve regretted it all day. And now she’s inviting other people?

“She asked you to come?” I do my best to hide the irritation in my tone but clearly don’t succeed.

Chevy laughs again. “She’ll do that too—insert herself in your life. Especially in places you don’t want her to be. Like a splinter you can’t ever dig out.” He winks. “So, tomorrow? You need a few extra hands? I really don’t mind.”

I almost tell Chevy no—that’s how much I hate accepting help, even when freely offered. But the warehouse still has a bunch of junk I’d really like cleared out. More hands means quicker work, even though the idea of other people traipsing through the property makes me twitchy. I could have asked my family, but Pat’s gone, Tank is helping with Jo, and Harper, Chase, and Collin all have jobs in Austin. Even if I were better about asking for help, it’s abundantly clear that Dark Horse’s success rests on one set of shoulders—mine.

“That’d be great.” Chevy raises an eyebrow at my tone, which admittedly doesn’t sound enthusiastic. “Thanks,” I add.

Big Mo slides a second piece of cake in front of me. I hadn’t realized I finished the first. Usually I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but I’m not mad at this cake. Not at all.

“Is this a new recipe, Mo?” Chevy licks icing from the tines of his fork with a groan. “It’s delicious. And a little spicy.”

“I’m working on variations for the festival. This is chocolate cayenne with a milk stout chocolate ganache,” Big Mo says, his smile bright in contrast to his long, dark beard. “In honor of our brewmaster here.”

I lift my eyebrows. “That’s—wow.” That’s more trouble than anyone should go to for me. Especially a man I hardly know. Mo and I have only had brief conversations, usually when I’m picking up food from the diner. “Thanks. It’s the best cake I’ve eaten.”

“I hope so. I used your milk stout.” Mo’s grin widens, and I rear back in surprise at his thoughtfulness.

My beer is only sold on tap at a few bars in Austin, which means it’s not easy to come by. I’d be willing to bet Tank brought him some from my private collection. I started brewing a few years ago out of a shed at the back of Tank’s property. Pat jokingly calls it my she shed, and unfortunately, that name stuck—with my family anyway. To me, it’s my me shed.

The fifteen-gallon brewing system I purchased does everything within one tank from the mash to the fermentation, saving space and making the process pretty simple. Because I don’t have a system for bottling, almost everything goes straight into kegs. Bottles are done by hand and reserved for my family. And now, Big Mo.

Honestly, with icing this good, I’d happily supply him with more.

I take another bite, trying to pick up on the flavor—my flavor—I should have recognized. There it is. Subtle, but present.

“What’s milk stout?” Jo asks, climbing up on the stool next to me. Chevy reaches around my back to give her a fist bump.

“Nothing you’ll like yet,” Big Mo says. “But I’ve got a special one just for you.” He hands her a cupcake with white icing and sprinkles.

“Funfetti!” she says and quickly goes silent as she takes a big bite, icing going everywhere. Jo is so well-spoken and so brilliant that she usually seems far older than her age. And then there are times like this, where she is absolutely a typical five-year-old, stuffing a cupcake in her face.

Collin appears behind me, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Tell us when you want to open presents, birthday boy.”

“I don’t need presents.”

Collin rolls his eyes. “Birthday presents are not about need. Come on—can’t you put the grouch back in his trash can for just one night?”

I turn to snap at him, but as the bells over the door chime and Winnie strides into the diner, I forget my response. I forget Collin exists altogether.

What’s she doing here? And does she have … a gift?

Her eyes meet mine, just before Tank reaches her and wraps her in a hug.

Now my dad is on hugging terms with Winnie? Her brother was right—she really is a splinter.

Chevy stands and stretches, then gives me a hearty slap on the back. “Happy birthday, man. I better get back out there. See you tomorrow at the warehouse.”

“What’s happening tomorrow?” Collin asks.

Great. I hadn’t mentioned the workday to my family. Mostly, they “help” by way of unsolicited advice. It’s the hands-off, noses-in approach. Harper bugs me about proper bookkeeping. Collin likes to give me business startup advice, as though opening a gym is anything like a brewery. Pat—well, I never know what will come out of his mouth, only that it’s usually not helpful. And Tank asks the kinds of probing parental questions that never fail to make me feel like a teenager caught sneaking out halfway through the window.