Page 4 of Better Luck Next Time

“You and me both,” he muttered.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m aware you’ve had your own…difficulties, so I’ll cut straight to the point. We’re hoping to hire you as a consultant. We need a community liaison. Someone who can help us improve our image and reclaim a space in the local beer community.”

Finn actually laughed at that, genuine, unfiltered laughter. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. “You want to hiremeto rehabyourimage?”

“Yes, I can see why you might find that amusing,” she said. “We don’t want to necessarily publicize the fact that you’re the one helping us. But you built Big Catch, Finn. You know business. You found your niche in that community as an outsider. You can help us strategize.”

Somewhere in the middle of her pep talk, Finn felt his no turn into a yes. It wouldn’t take up much of his time, and what the hell else was he doing with his life? He’d been hoping for the next big thing, the idea that would help him find success a second time and not be a flash in the pan, but instead he’d become a hermit. If anyone knew how he spent his days, they’d stage an intervention. Besides, if he agreed, he’d be helping the community too, wouldn’t he? Rehabbing the brewery’s image would involve raising charity dollars, for sure. His old employees would benefit as well. He didn’t like to think people might hold a grudge against them for decisions he’d made.

“I’ll do it.”

He hadn’t really intended to take Dottie up on her offer of tea, but after talking to Gretchen, he felt the need to share his news with someone who wouldn’t judge him off the bat. So he showered and got dressed in real clothes—a button-down short-sleeve shirt and khakis—and found Dottie’s number on his phone’s contact list. While he knew Dottie shared River’s distaste for big corporations, his friend’s aunt wasn’t judgmental. She wouldn’t hate him for it.

Can I take you up on tea?he texted.

Her answer was almost immediate:I’d already set out another cup for you.

He suspected that was just Dottie trying to sound mystical, but it still gave him the chills.

As he drove to her house, he found himself whistling, feeling pepped up.

When he got to Dottie’s place, her car wasn’t in the drive, but there was a real clunker in its place—the kind of car that looked like it wouldn’t get you to the gas station. It might be a faded yellow, or perhaps it was just a really dirty white, the kind where the dirt had seeped into the paint and could no longer be cleaned off. The bumper was secured in one corner with mechanical tape. He would have wondered if her car was in the shop, but this wasn’t the kind of vehicle a rental place would give out. Did she have other guests? She hadn’t mentioned anything, but Dottie was notorious for holding impromptu gatherings.

He got out and knocked on the front door, grinning a little as he took in the bright yellow trim. God, his mother would hate that, but he liked the look. It was sunny, and it screamed that the person inside didn’t care about convention.

No one answered, so he tried the knob. It opened.

“Dottie?” he called.

Still nothing. He let himself in, shutting the door behind him, and made his way to the kitchen. Two empty teacups sat across from each other on the table, but there was no sign of Dottie. She’d left a short note.Help yourself, dear. I’ll be back shortly. I ran out of cream, so I walked to the corner store.

So much for Dottie being psychic. But the note didn’t mention anything about the other car.

Someone screamed in the back yard, and Finn flinched as if he’d been struck. Was it Dottie? Had someone maybe, what, mugged her? The thought didn’t fit—both because Dottie was the kind to befriend muggers rather than scream at them and because the sound was so angry.

He walked to the closest window and looked out at the back yard. No one was there, so he left the house and circled around. A fluttering scarf caught his eye from the door of Dottie’s studio. Then he saw that the door was cracked open. The cry must have come from inside.

Maybe he should mind his own business, but he’d never been particularly good at that. Besides, for all he knew, the driver of that whacked-out car could be trying to carry off Dottie’s art. He didn’t pause to think about it. He was already moving.

He opened the door a few more inches, but he didn’t get any farther, because the person inside wasn’t a stranger. It was Adalia Buchanan. She was always pretty, with those bouncy curls he wanted to touch, but right now she was magnificent. Her hair had been swept back into a messy bun that barely contained it, her cheeks were streaked with paint, and she had a ferocious look in her eyes that reminded him of a Valkyrie. It took a moment for him to notice what she was working on.

Finn wasn’t an art connoisseur, but he hadn’t been a beer connoisseur either. He’d known genius when he’d tasted River’s home brews, and he knew it now, looking at that canvas in front of Adalia. He didn’t recognize any of the shapes as objects or people. But the bright colors slashed and swirled together in a way that expertly conveyed a mood. Sadness. Despair. Anger. So much anger.

Seeing her with that painting, it felt like an awakening. Like he’d finally found something else worth getting behind. Worth fighting for. So he wasn’t prepared for what he saw next. She pulled a utility knife from the pocket of her cargo pants and slashed the painting, wet paint staining her fingers and the drop cloths spread out beneath her. The anger had faded from her, and even though she attacked the painting with violence, a deep, deep sadness had permeated her gaze.

He wanted to stop her, to take the knife from her fingers, to soothe her, but he felt immobilized. He couldn’t do anything but stand there and watch her in the grip of whatever powerful emotions had made her destroy something she’d made. Something beautiful. It would feel wrong to interrupt such a private moment.

But he must have shifted or something because the next thing he knew, she turned toward him, her eyes wild, that knife still in her hand. She saw his eyes on it and dropped her hand, her expression that of a woman who’d been caught naked by a Peeping Tom.

And he was the pervert in this scenario.

“I…I’m sorry,” he blabbered. “Dottie invited me over for tea, but she wasn’t inside, and I heard you scream. I worried there might be a burglar out here stealing her art or—”

“Get out,” she said, her voice ice cold. He wouldn’t have known she was embarrassed, that she was affected by what had just happened, if not for the slight flush of her cheeks. Part of Finn knew he should just leave, but he felt the need to say something else, if only to help himself process what he’d seen.

“Why would you destroy it?” he said softly. “Your work is magnificent, Adalia. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Something flickered in her eyes, and for a moment he thought she was pleased, that his words had moved her, but then she grabbed the slashed canvas from its stand and handed it to him, the wet paint slopping on his fingers. “Then you keep it.”

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