Page 7 of Melting the Grump
"Local brewery," Scott says. "Family-owned for three generations."
"Of course it is." I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. "Everything in this town seems to have history behind it."
"Not everything," Scott counters, his blue eyes meeting mine. "You're new."
Something in his tone, warmer than our previous interactions, makes me pause. For a moment, neither of us speaks, and I'm suddenly aware of the space between us, of the way the tavern's ambient noise seems to fade around the edges of our conversation.
Clearing my throat, I gesture to the empty stool between us. "May I?"
He nods, and I slide over, narrowing the gap. Up close, I notice the faint stubble along his jaw, the small scar near his temple, the way his henley sleeves are pushed up to reveal strong forearms. It's ridiculous how attractive I find him, especially considering how frustrating our interactions have been.
"So," I say, curling my fingers around my mug, "does the town's resident safety inspector ever take a night off? Or are you mentally calculating fire hazards even now?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I'm multi-talented. I can enjoy a drink and worry about code violations simultaneously."
"Impressive."
"It's a gift," he deadpans, and I laugh again, surprised by this glimpse of dry humor beneath his serious exterior.
From across the room, someone calls Scott's name, and he raises his glass in acknowledgment. I follow his gaze to a table where a group of construction workers are playing cards. One of them makes a gesture that might be an invitation to join, but Scott shakes his head slightly.
"Your crew?" I ask.
"Some of them." He takes a sip of his drink. "Good men. Hard workers."
"They respect you." I've seen how people defer to Scott around town, not out of fear but genuine regard.
He shrugs, uncomfortable with the observation. "I pay fair wages and don't ask them to do anything I wouldn't do myself."
Scott doesn't seem the type to stand back while others work.
"Is that why you're skeptical about the festival?" I ask, genuinely curious. "You think I won't be getting my hands dirty?"
His eyes meet mine, searching. "I've seen you hauling hay bales and climbing questionable ladders. That's not my concern."
"Then what is?"
He's quiet for a moment, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. The fireplace crackles in the background, sending shadows dancing across the brick walls. When he speaks, his voice is lower, meant only for me.
"My father was on the town council twenty years ago. He pushed for a similar festival—not fall, but winter. Ice sculptures, sleigh rides, the works." Scott's gaze fixes on something distant. "He convinced local businesses to invest. My family put up most of our savings."
I can feel where this is going, a tightness forming in my chest. "What happened?"
"Blizzard hit the weekend of the festival. No one came. Insurance didn't cover the losses because he'd cut corners on the policy." Scott's jaw tightens. "We nearly lost our house. My mother took extra shifts at the diner for years to make up for it."
The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard.
"I'm sorry," I say softly. "That must have been hard to watch."
"It taught me to look for what can go wrong before getting excited about what might go right."
Something clicks into place, his thoroughness, his questions about budget and contingencies. They're not arbitrary obstacles, they're protective instincts forged in difficult experience.
"Thank you for telling me that," I say, resisting the urge to touch his hand. "It helps me understand your perspective better."
He looks surprised, as if he expected argument rather than empathy. "Most people just think I'm being difficult."
"Oh, you are," I counter with a smile. "But now I know why."
