Page 26 of Resisting my Roommate

Approaching a door off to the side, he punches in a code before holding it open for me.

“I’m guessing this is where the magic happens,” I remark as I walk inside.

“More or less.”

“This is impressive.” I take in my sterile surroundings, everything gleaming and spotless under the fluorescent lights. “I wouldn’t even know what any of this stuff is for.”

“It took me a while to learn, too.” He chuckles as he leads me toward a walk-in cooler.

But unlike the one behind the bar that’s filled with kegs, this one is lined with rows and rows of bottles, each adorned with the Wicked Hop logo.

“This is a new Vienna lager I’ve been playing around with,” he explains as he grabs two bottles from a six-pack. “I’m planning a limited release to see how it’s received.”

With a flick of his wrist, he pops the top off and hands one to me.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I echo, touching my beer to his before taking a sip.

The flavor is unlike any beer I’ve had before — rich and robust with layers of complexity I can’t quite put my finger on. But what’s even more remarkable than the taste is the fact that Jude brewed this himself. This isn’t just some random hobby oramateur attempt at home brewing. This is a masterful creation that was crafted by his own hands in this very room.

“What do you think?”

“It’s incredible, Jude. All of this…”

I’m filled with awe and admiration as I look around the brewhouse again, seeing Jude in a whole new light.

“How did you get into this?”

He leans against a steel table set against the wall, and I join him. “My dad, actually.”

“Really?”

He nods and sips his beer. I do the same, trying to imagine what it must have been like for Jude to share this passion with his father.

I wouldn’t know what that’s like.

“He also brewed his own beer. Not on this level.” He gestures at the professional-grade equipment filling the room. “But he still had a pretty decent setup. Even turned the garage into a makeshift bar. Whenever he had a fresh brew ready, locals would come over. Dad never charged, but you always knew when he had something new because he’d illuminate a neon sign in the window of the garage that said BEER. He found it at some estate sale and my mom thought he’d lost his mind.”

He laughs to himself, a glint of nostalgia making his eyes shine. It’s obvious from the affection in his tone and expression that he adores his father. But within that affection, there’s a hint of sadness, making me think he may no longer be around.

“Is it the same sign hanging out front?” I ask, recalling seeing a sign exactly as he described in the front window of this taproom. Hell, it was what caught my attention yesterday after I was pulled over.

“It is.” He peers into the distance for several long seconds before clearing his throat. “After a few years of brewing his ownbeer, he decided he needed a better name than just Rowan’s Beer. Rowan was my dad’s name,” he explains.

“I see.”

“Since he’s originally from Boston, he decided to name it?—”

“The Wicked Hop,” I finish.

“Exactly.”

He takes another long sip of beer, his throat working as he swallows. There’s something oddly sexy about the way he casually leans against the table and savors his own creation. With every minute I spend in his presence, I find myself drawn to him in ways I never expected, especially after only knowing him a short period of time.

“He had ALS and died my senior year of high school,” he announces. “Two days before I was supposed to graduate.”

“Oh, Jude…”

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