Page 43 of Any Luck at All

His office? That had her intrigued, but for some reason, it also made her think of Jack. Maybe because Lee had found out about him in their father’s office.

What had that phone call been about, anyway? It was none of her business, but it had her worried. What did she really know about him other than that he was a bar manager in Chicago and half of his DNA belonged to her father, which wasn’t exactly a positive tick in the character column? Still, she’d gotten the impression he was fairly trustworthy, albeit slightly intense. She’d only just met him the day before, but it was obvious something had upset him. She wasn’t surprised he hadn’t opened up to her. He barely knew her, and on top of that she was a full-fledged Buchanan kid. He probably resented the hell out of her.

“I keep wondering about Jack’s phone call,” she said as she followed River through the door across from the bathroom. When he’d called it his office, she’d imagined a desk with a computer, but instead she found a futon pushed against a wall with a window and a wall of shelving on the opposite side. The wooden shelves were lined with bottles and tubing, and all sorts of equipment that looked like it belonged in a laboratory instead of a spare bedroom, as well as multiple containers of grains and pellets, all neatly labeled.

“I’m sure he’s okay,” River said, his eyes focused on her. Hops made a little sound as if in agreement, or maybe support.

The tension in her shoulders eased at the tenderness in River’s voice, and she made herself take a mental step back. A romantic entanglement with him was a very bad idea, professional reasons aside. He was the person who inherited the brewery if it failed. It was hard enough to keep that secret without the added guilt that would come with dating him.

“Yeah,” she said, breaking eye contact. She gestured to the shelving with her free hand. “This looks like serious business.”

“I suppose it is,” he said as he stood next to her. “Like I said, I made most of my test brews at Big Catch, but it wasn’t uncommon for me to work on some here. Blue Whale was created in my kitchen, and it’s one of our biggest sellers.” His smile dimmed some. “I guess it’s notoursanymore.” Then he seemed to shake it off. “Sincewe’llbe working on an autumn line, we’ll need to incorporate flavors associated with the season. What comes to mind?” he asked, grabbing a giant pot from the shelf.

“Pumpkin. Apples.”

He nodded in approval. “We could make a hard apple cider. Beau never branched outside of beer, so if you’re looking to freshen up the brand, a limited fall cider might be good to throw into the mix.”

She liked the sound of that. “Yeah. That sounds great.”

“We can start on something basic. Maybe an East Coast IPA? Beau’s never had one on his menu. IPAs are usually more hop-heavy, so it might seem fitting given our new friend here.” Grinning, he shot a glance at the puffball still cradled in her arms. “But the hops make IPAs bitter. Given your scorecard I think you’d like an East Coast IPA. They’re fruity and have a slight kick of bitterness at the end. They use less hops and rely on yeast for a good portion of their flavor.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said, nodding her head. “You’re the genius, River. You do whatever you think is best.”

“We’ll work on it together,” he said cheerfully as he opened a double closet door and revealed multiple glass carboys on shelves, a couple of which were filled with dark brown liquid. “We’ll focus on a few varieties of malt I know work well together, and then we’ll play with variations of hops. We’ll finish it off with a British yeast.”

“Okay.”

She set the puppy down and helped him carry all their equipment and containers of grain into the kitchen. First River told her the importance of sanitizing every part they would use, starting with the stockpot. Next he weighed the grains on a scale and put them into a cheesecloth bag, then measured out multiple pellets and put them into small glass bowls, explaining why he chose those specific blends and amounts to create a subtle play of flavors. “I went a little heavier on dry hops with Big Catch’s East Coast IPA, but if we tweak it enough, hopefully it will be different enough to be distinctive. I hope it’ll be even better. But we’ll try several different versions so we can see which one we like best.”

“It’s like black magic,” she said in awe.

“More like years and years of experience. I’ve made literally hundreds of batches. Some more successful than others.” He laughed. “When I was a kid, Beau always encouraged me to experiment. He let me have free rein, even when he knew the outcome in advance. He was always a firm believer in learning from experience.”

Was that what Beau had intended? For River to gain experience running the brewery for a year, then gain financial control? But Beau could have had no way of knowing she’d hire River as their brewmaster. That part was pure coincidence. Still, while Georgie hadn’t gotten a decent look at the pots and equipment, River had said it was going to need updating. The brewery was cash poor, and it would have to be closed for who knew how many months, which meant Georgie would have to use her own money to keep it running. And if they lost the business, her money would be lost too.

But losing the brewery wasn’t an option. Georgie was a Buchanan, and Buchanans didn’t lose. Ever. She was going to give this her all, and if they survived after the Brewfest Competition, she’d buy Lee and Adalia out so she could offer River a third of the ownership, something that had been lacking in his collaboration with Finn.

Feeling better about her decision, Georgie grabbed her notebook and pen from her purse. “Okay, start from the beginning, because I want to learneverything.”

His eyes twinkled. “There’s that pen again. I’ve been waiting.”

Chapter Sixteen

They’d made three batches of IPA, each with subtle differences to the grain ratio. The first time Georgie had just watched him, the second time she’d helped with the measurements, and the third time he’d let her do it all on her own.

He’d liked watching her work. She’d had a determined look on her face the whole time, a nice change from whatever dark emotions she’d been left with after Jack’s disappearing act. She had indeed taken notes while watching him earlier, extensive notes, and she’d referred to them at least a dozen times, a tiny line appearing between her eyebrows.

There was no denying Georgie Buchanan was a force to be reckoned with. Still, she knew how to cut loose when she let herself. He’d told her she could pick the music while she brewed, and straight-faced as could be, she’d turned on a ’90s boy band, and proceeded to laugh hysterically at his attempted politeness.

God, he loved seeing her in his apartment, all the more so because she was making beer, his beer. The pull he felt toward her was more powerful than ever. But he wasn’t going to push her. She’d had enough people pushing her every which way. He would have denied it until he was blue in the face, but Aunt Dottie had him indoctrinated just enough for him to hope that maybe the pink crystalhadmeant something. If waiting was what it took, he could wait. Hewouldwait.

“All right,” he said after they poured the water in—okay, so he’d helped with that part—“time for the capping. Feels like there should be a ceremony or something.”

She looked up at him with shining eyes, her hair pulled back again to avoid getting anything in the brew.

“It kind of does. I can’t believe I made beer. I mean, I know it has to sit for weeks, and then carbonate for weeks, but still. This is pretty awesome.”

“Enjoy your drumroll,” he said, tapping against the kitchen counter. “It’ll have to suffice.”

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