Page 55 of Brewing Up a Bad Boy

“Is everything okay with you two?” George asked.

It felt like this was the first time his brother had noticed something was going on with Ali. Other than that time he hulked out at the office, of course, and verbally eviscerated a coworker before punching the wall next to the poor guy’s head.

Things with Poppy had been a really bad bag of dicks. George and Bronte were about to walk down the aisle, and Stephen had pointed out that if his last name weren’t Miller he’d be fired for his poor performance at work. It had been the final straw, and Ali had lost it on Stephen. Not his finest hour, and one that should have served as a red flag, but being who he was, it had taken Alistair a few more months of drinking and drugging before he finally figured that out.

George had been the one to escort him out of the building and tell him to get help.

This was different. His brother sat across from him expectantly. “I’m...” He wasn’t sure he could do this. Open up and tell someone who wasn’t being paid to keep things confidential about his relationship with Poppy. “We’re... Fuck.”

“So that’s a no,” George said. “Bronte left me before Christmas for two weeks. I came home from India, and she was gone. The cat was gone, her clothes were out of the closet, and her mug wasn’t on the counter. I stood in the flat fucking confused for twenty minutes. She wouldn’t return my texts, and I knew better than to call. I had to track her down and wait outside her house like a creeper until she came out to go to work.”

“Why did she leave you?”

George shoved his hand through his hair, walking to the French doors that looked out on the back garden. He shook his head. “I was dictating our marriage and life. She felt strangled by the plan I put in place. When she left...I had to do whatever it took to get her back.”

“What did you do?” Ali asked. George wasn’t like him. His brother was always the smarter one, but they’d been raised by the same parents, who had their own fucked-up relationship, so this made a kind of sense.

“I thought about you and how hard you were working to figure things out to get Poppy back, and I realized it was time I did the same. The thing with how we were raised is that I felt...”

“Superior,” Alistair supplied. “Like we had manners, lifestyle and all that shit nailed.”

“Took Bronte for me to see I didn’t. I have the surface-level stuff, but after that, jack all.”

“I’m still working on me, George. But I had further to go than you. I’m glad you and Bronte are back together, and you two seem good for each other.”

“We are. But it’s a struggle some days. I keep backsliding and spending long hours at the office. I missed her exhibit at the British Library. I can’t do that. But it’s hard to balance being a Miller of Lancaster-Spencer with being her husband.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Probably should have a long time ago. I don’t express myself like you do, but we both bottle everything up. Product of our upbringing, no doubt. Bronte is slowly making me realize that there is a lot more to being a Miller than just running the company. So if you don’t want to come back, I’m not going to make it a condition for getting Poppy the deal she deserves.”

“Great. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that, especially since we’re divorced.”

“What?”

The shocked look on George’s face was oddly satisfying. Ali felt freer than he had in months, if not years. “Yeah. For eighteen months now. You figured out things a lot quicker than I did. I think there’s a chance with Poppy, but not if I slide back into the man I used to be.”

“Okay. So what can I do?”

“Nothing. This is something I have to do for myself. Actually not keeping that a secret is something my therapist has been bugging me about. I don’t have to feel like a failure.”

“You don’t,” George said. “You’re not. So what’s next?”

“I’m going to Birch Lake to curate a summer ale for a festival run by a beer-brewing mate, and I’m going to try to see if I can convince Poppy to give me a real second chance.”

Summer in Birch Lake was all big blue skies and verdant trees. Poppy loved all the seasons, but being British, there was something about a sunny day that drew her outside. She’d slathered on sunscreen before she’d left her house. Leaving her staff to handle the shop for a few moments, she brewed a peach and ginger tea and poured it over ice. It was the perfect thing to cool her down on this warm day.

Most days, she took her break in the shop’s backroom. Sometimes she sat at the picnic table behind the shop that Liberty’s mom had given them, but today she needed to walk. And think. Thinking was paramount to whatever was going to come next.

Lily at the bakery had let her know that Alistair was back in Birch Lake—her boyfriend was one of the owners of the tavern. Lily had made a joke about how surely Poppy didn’t know everyone in England, but a potentially familiar British guy was helping curate the ales for the summer beer festival they were running.

Oh, she knew that British guy. She’d thought he would let her know if he was coming, but they’d left things so open...she didn’t blame him for not saying a word.

Returning to England with Alastair had been eye-opening in so many ways. The man she’d demonized after their separation had turned out to be a shadowy image of Alistair and not who he really was. The other big bad in her life, Howard Miller, had seemed to respect her when she stood up and drew a line that she wouldn’t cross.

She’d grown in that short week in England, learning lessons she thought she already had. Her mum had quipped,Welcome to adulthood, when Poppy told her. Which was a joke they shared. Poppy often told her mum the same thing when her mum went on about the rise in council tax.

Sitting on the bench that overlooked the park, she closed her eyes, tipping her head back toward the sun.

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