Page 26 of On Tap for the Bear
The morning light slants through the tavern's windows, turning the wood floors honey-gold. It's early—barely nine—and the place is empty except for Eli behind the bar, wiping down glasses that already look clean. He glances up when I walk in, and surprise flickers across his face, followed quickly by pleasure.
"Quinn." He sets down the glass. "Didn't expect you this early."
"I have questions." I cross to the bar, my notebook clutched in one hand like a shield. "About your beer."
His eyebrows rise. "Questions."
"There's something different about it." The words come out more accusatory than I intend, but I can't help it. Three days. Three days of tasting nothing, of food turning to ash in my mouth, of wondering if I'd ever experience flavor again. And then his beer—hisbeer—woke everything up. "I need to know what you're doing differently."
Eli studies me for a long moment, his face giving nothing away. Then he nods toward the back of the tavern. "Come on. I'll show you the brewery."
I hesitate. This feels dangerous somehow, following him into the back rooms of his tavern when I barely know him, when my body still remembers the warmth of his skin when I kissed his cheek, the tension in his shoulder beneath my palm. But I'm a journalist. I need answers.
"Lead the way," I say.
He takes me through the kitchen—industrial and spotless, the smell of yeast and malt heavy in the air—and stops at a heavy wooden door. "The cellar's down here. Watch your step."
The stairs are stone, worn smooth in the centers from years of use. The temperature drops as we descend, and the air changes too. It crackles with energy, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. My skin prickles with awareness.
"You okay?" Eli glances back at me.
"Fine." But I'm not fine. There's a hum in my bones I can't explain. "What is that?"
"What's what?"
"That... feeling." I press a hand to my chest, trying to ground myself. "Like static electricity, but warmer."
Eli stops at the bottom of the stairs and turns to face me. In the dim light of the cellar, his eyes look darker, more intense. "You can feel it?"
"Feel what?"
He's quiet for a moment, watching me with an expression I can't quite read—part surprise, part recognition. He gestures to the cellar around us. "The land. This whole area has properties that affect everything that grows here. The water, the soil."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I can give you right now." He moves deeper into the cellar, and I follow because what else can I do? "This is where the magic happens."
The cellar is beautiful in an industrial way—copper pipes catching the light, oak barrels stacked against stone walls, the rich smell of fermenting beer filling the space. Eli moves through it with easy familiarity, explaining his process as he goes.
"Small batches," he says, running his hand along one of the barrels. "I never brew more than I can personally oversee. Every step matters—the temperature, the timing, the ingredients." He opens a barrel, and the scent of honey and lavender drifts out. "This is the one you tried the other night. Honey-lavender ale. I've been working on it for weeks."
"It's perfect." The words slip out before I can stop them.
"It is now." He closes the barrel carefully. "It wasn't, before. The conditions weren't right. But they settled overnight, and suddenly everything came together."
I step closer to the barrel, drawn by an instinct I can't name. The hum in my bones intensifies, and I press my palm against the cool wood. "What conditions?"
"That's complicated."
"Try me. I'm a journalist. I deal with complicated."
Eli moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "The land here is special. The watercomes from a spring that runs through unique geology. It affects the flavor of everything—the hops I grow, the barley I source locally, even the yeast." He places his hand on the barrel next to mine, not quite touching but close. "I don't fight it. I work with it. Pay attention to what the land is telling me."
"That sounds very mystical for a brewer."
"Maybe." His voice drops lower. "Or maybe I just know my craft better than most."
The air between us crackles. Not just from that strange hum—from us. Professional distance would be smart. Remembering that I came here for answers about his beer, not to stand in a dim cellar feeling hypersensitive to his proximity, would be even smarter.
