Page 73 of Any Luck at All

He sat down at the table and looked up at her, feeling for all the world like that kid again.

“You were sick?” he asked.

She blew a few stray hairs out of her face and sat opposite him. Took a swig of the coffee that probably burned her tongue. “Ifeltsick, but maybe I kind of, sort of exaggerated.”

“I know I was harsh last week,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t because of anything you did. It just felt like the world was against me.” He paused, swallowed. “Or at least against me and Georgie.”

She must have heard something in his voice, because her eyes softened even more, the sympathy there a welcome balm.

“And I should have listened a lot better,” she said. She paused, then added, “I guess I’ve just never seen you go this gaga over anyone before. I was worried—Iamworried—and I didn’t know what to do. But I’m ready to listen now if you want to talk.”

And he was, and he did. Of course, he didn’t say anything more about his night with Georgie. Maisie knew, sort of, and the details were between him and Georgie. He also didn’t mention the noncompete or the addendum to the handbook. Midway through the telling, Tyrion padded over to the table and sat, his posture regal, to listen too.

“The party’s Saturday,” he finished. “You’ll come, right?”

“Maybe,” she said, popping the last piece of muffin. “It’s been a bit of a nightmare around here. We’re short on funding, again, and we need to put in another big push this weekend. I’ll be there if I can. And by there, I mean at Dottie’s after-party.” She grinned. “I’m no fool. I know where the real fun’s at.”

“Of course,” he said, a return grin tugging at his face. “And if you need any help with the fundraising, just let me know. Maybe we can do some sort of event or drive for you once the brewery reopens. I’ll talk to Georgie about it.”

“Thanks. And while we’re talking about Georgie…” Maisie leaned over, giving Tyrion a pat, and didn’t look at him. “I know it’s hard, but maybe she’s right. It sounds like you work well together, and it would be a shame to mess with that for something as unsure as a relationship. Especially since—”

He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. Especially since I’ve never had a long one. But Maisie, this is different. Georgie’s different.”

“Yeah,” she said, “I can see that. But all you can do is wait. Sometimes that’s all a person can do.” The way she said it almost held a note of bitterness. He was about to ask her if she was okay, but someone knocked on the door.

“Maisie,” the volunteer from earlier called. “One of the foster families is calling. Adonis needs to go to the vet.”

Genuine worry flashed on Maisie’s face. “He has a heart condition,” she explained. “I’ve got to take this, but maybe we can get lunch sometime soon.” She wagged a finger in his face like a schoolmarm. “I still need that computer.”

Ithadbeen ruined, along with a lot of other stuff. The house was still a bit of a mess, but Georgie, with her siblings’ approval, had brought in contractors to update it while they fixed the damage. He couldn’t help but wonder if the others did anything beyond order her around and okay her choices.

She’d shown him pictures of the downstairs in one of those rare moments they’d been alone together. Her hand had grazed his as he took her phone, sending a rush of sensation through him, and she’d kept it like that—their hands touching—for longer than needed. Their eyes had met as he handed it back, and she’d opened her mouth to say something—

Only for the video app to ring with a call from Jack.

Jack was great at getting in the way, even from Chicago, although perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair.

“You got it,” he said, giving Tyrion a pat as Maisie led him out of the room.

He headed back to his car, feeling restless, and found himself driving somewhere unexpected. The cemetery. Beau had a nice spot, beneath a large oak tree, and someone—he suspected Aunt Dottie—had left a bouquet of hops.

He felt a little uncomfortable being there, like it was maybe stupid of him to try talking to a dead man, communing with one. A quick glance told him no one was around, and he sat at the base of the grave and looked up at the sky, as if to see Beau’s view from down below.

“I think I love her, Beau,” he whispered, worried even now that someone might hear him. “I haven’t told anyone else, not even Aunt Dottie, although she probably knows. I know it’s too early to think that way, but I can’t help it. You’d understand. You must have seen what I see, because there’s something about Georgie that just sparkles.”

He swallowed thickly. “We’re trying to do right by you,” he said. “I think you’d be proud of the direction we’re taking with the brewery, and these parties on Saturday? They’ll be a celebration of everything you did. Of who you were.” A grin split his face. “Right down to that statue you must have modeled for.”

He fidgeted a little, fighting the sudden hotness behind his eyes. “I didn’t know it was going to be this hard. I feel a little lost again, Beau, and I’m not sure what to do. I’m worried if I do anything, I’ll push her away.”

He sat there for several minutes, feeling the sun on the back of his neck. It started to feel a little stupid, waiting here, as if he thought he’d get an answer if he stayed long enough, when someone cleared their throat behind him, and he turned and saw Georgie.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Georgie’s breath caught when she saw River sitting in front of Beau’s grave, warmth spreading through her at the sight of him, just like it did every time she’d seen him since…when? Their night together? No, it had been longer than that. Since the first night at Beau’s.

Why had she gone and hired him? If she’d found another brewer, she could still be sleeping with him…yet she knew that wasn’t completely true. She probably would have closed the door on him forever after that night, because what she felt for him scared the crap out of her.

For the first time in her life, Georgie had found a man she was sure she could love, and the only acceptable course of action was to run. The way she’d been thinking about him—what he was doing, what he was thinking—was almost…not obsessive, exactly, but it was the kind of fixed attention she’d never given to another person. By design. She was haunted by the pain on her mother’s face every time Prescott Buchanan had ignored her or demeaned her, even if Georgie hadn’t understood it when she was younger…

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