Love, Chocolate, and Beer (Cactus Creek) (35 page)

“I know, I know. A hopeless romantic. Lately though, you make it sound less like a complaint and more like a compliment.” He looked into her eyes as he slid his hands down her body, tantalizingly close but still too far from any of the good parts. “Want me to stop?”

“No,” she whispered. “Never stop.”

He laid a long, possessive kiss on her lips and beat the world record for getting on a condom, for sure. Though the sex was always white-hot, tonight it was different. Synced on a whole new level. Every kiss felt deeper, every touch more sensitive, and every sound sweeter.

He only just barely held himself back until she came. And when she did, his own release hurtled him into a sea of emotions that tumbled him until he didn’t know which way was up.

Then she cuddled into him and all at once, he felt grounded again.

God, this was what he wanted. This right here and so much more.

He wanted the dream.

As he lay holding her as she slept, loving her beyond belief, he felt the panic begin to set in. But for good reason. Even when he’d asked her to dream of a future together with him, he’d felt her holding back, unwilling to commit the words to become an actual dream, which was still miles away from a plan, and an eternity away from a true future.

Then she’d done the scariest thing of all. She’d uttered the word that has been his own urban legend for years now with every confirmed case in his past relationships—hear the word ‘maybe’ five times uttered by the woman he loved and the boogey man would snatch her away.

He knew without a doubt that Dani was the one he was truly meant to spend his life with, have that forever love with. And amazingly, she wanted the dream too.

Maybe.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DANI’S HAND
collided with a foreign object on Luke’s side of the bed. Prying her sleepy eyes open, she saw he’d left something for her on the center of his pillow. A gift.

Recklessly happy, she rolled over and slid the Valentine card out from under the square gift box, tearing it open immediately. Though Valentine’s Day was long over and no one carried the greeting cards anymore, somehow Luke found a way to have a new and unique one for each of his gifts and gestures. The hopeless romantic. Goofy smile already launched, she read the card:

To my beautiful sleeping Valentine:

Happy 16th Valentine’s Day. I tried to find something as dainty as you are but I’m afraid such a thing did not exist. So I had this custom made—something you can keep on you that’ll hopefully make you smile whenever you look at it.

Dani didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when she saw the delicate little silver anklet with its gorgeous dangling charms of juniper and hops. It was stunning. These weren’t generic charms either. They were exact replicas of the design she’d had carved into the photo frame she’d given him. He must have paid a jeweler to handcraft each of the intricate charms.

Smiling, she slipped it on and secured the tiny silver clasp. She’d never worn an anklet before—it was so dainty and feminine against her skin.

She loved it.

“
SHIT!
” CURSED DANI
, spitting out the small sip of almost fully aged beer she’d just tasted. It wasn’t horrendous. But it wasn’t exactly beer either.

Mike, her main brew manager, cringed. “I tried to tell you. I think something happened to it during the fermenting stage. It came out way too fruity—totally bizarre since I’ve been keeping tabs on the heat throughout. I didn’t think it was going to turn like that.”

Granted, the little brew system they used for recipe experimentation, lovingly named the Baby D system by her dad, wasn’t equipped with the temperature regulators their newer, bigger fermenters had. Still, the beer shouldn’t have turned out this odd.
This
was Dobson-curse odd. Dani glowered at her tasting cup and dumped the rest of the pale liquid down the drain. “I just don’t get it. The flavors should’ve balanced out nicely in this recipe.”

“Maybe it’s the water?”

Dani shook her head. “I researched the brew logs at an old California brewery for a similar recipe, a rare non-cider European pear brew I tasted once.” She checked her notebook to confirm. “Yep. I added the right salt and gypsum formula to the water to match.”

Jim, her other brew man, came up behind them. “Dobson curse strike again?” he asked sympathetically when he saw Dani’s befuddled expression. He reached over and filled a tasting cup to see the damage. A reluctant swallow later, he grimaced. “That’s like a bad wine cooler.”

Dani let out a frustrated breath. “I shouldn’t have used Asian pears—too subtle a flavor. I could have another run at white nectarines...” The men exchanged pained looks, which caused Dani to flop her head back dejectedly. “You’re right. That one was worse.” Blowing her hair out of her face with a disgruntled huff, she shut the cooling tank down. “Back to the drawing board, boys.” She scribbled some notes in her notebook. “So no-go on the pears. Hmmm, I did hear of a new berry that’s supposed to fruit late in the spring…” Her narrowed gaze looked right through the two men as her brain ran through the few spring fruits left she had to experiment with.

Mike patted his bear paw of a hand on her shoulder. “Man, I haven’t seen this stubborn look since your dad brewed that crazy recipe he tried back when we did the brewery extension. Remember that one, Jim? Horrible spring beer, just awful. But later that year, he did a one-eighty and made a double red IPA instead.” He smacked his lips. “Now
that
was one tasty brew.”

Dani’s shoulders slumped at the memory. Yet another inexplicable case that could only be explained by the Dobson curse.

Jim nodded at her. “Is that it? You aiming to break the curse this year, baby girl?”

“There is no curse!” She crossed her arms mulishly. When the two brewers—lifelong uncles by beer, not blood—said not a word, she leaned against the wall with a weary grunt.

Mike’s brows stitched together sympathetically. “Okay, say we ignore all the damning evidence that points to a curse. Could it be that the
kind
of beer you and your dad always try to make in the spring just isn’t a good fit?”

She looked up. “What do you mean? There isn’t a specific ‘kind.’ Dad and I have tried all different recipes in the spring. None of them worked.”

Jim and Mike exchanged another look. “Baby girl,” said Jim pulling her brew notebook from her hands to flip through some old recipes. “Lookit your notes there. Sure the ingredients may change, but you two have always tried for some sorta new fruity pale lager.”

Really
? Why had she never noticed that before? “Well, it
is
for spring.” She shrugged. “A fruit beer is a logical choice.” The sentence came out more question than not.

Mike tilted his head. “Remember the other year, how you wouldn’t even listen to me when I said you should try to make a barleywine beer with the fruit instead?”

“It wouldn’t have been good for the spring. Too intense,” she insisted. Suddenly, Dani flinched at a flashback of her mother making the exact same assertion, only it’d been in reference to the deeper bocks they brewed year-round. She rolled her eyes. Her mother had never liked their darker brews. Come to think of it, her mother hadn’t been a fan of their pale beers either, though she tolerated them better. She’d been a wine person through and through, just like Derek.

Dani blinked in surprise. How weird. She couldn’t believe she even remembered all that. How many ten-year-olds knew their parents’ drinking preferences that well? Then again, a Dobson kid wasn’t just any ten-year-old. Everyone used to say her father had more beer than blood in his veins. Looked like she was born the same way.

“You’ve never tried a fruit lambic,” added Jim, silently challenging her to explain why.

She gave him a narrow look. “Not our style,” she bit out. If memory served, the lambic was the only beer her mother had ever said anything good about. Figured it wasn’t one they brewed.

“Okay, how about fruit
ales
then?” he tossed back at her, his voice nearing exasperation.

Her lips quirked. He had her there. The hearty complexities of ales with their warm top fermenting process—the opposite of lagers—was theoretically a better match for fruits. But, for some reason, her dad
had
been determined to create a fruit beer with the clean, smooth crispness of a pale lager. She never remembered why though; he’d been an ale drinker like she was.

Huh, maybe she
had
inherited her dad’s mysterious fruit lager mission without realizing it...

“Hey wait,” she recalled triumphantly, “we tried an ale with prickly pear cactus once.”

“You did okay by that one, I guess.” Jim lifted a non-committal shoulder. “But it was barely an ale, and more citrus than fruit. Plus, don’t be forgettin’ that beer came after the prickly pear cactus
lager
batch y’all near-poisoned us with,” he pointed out, grinning smugly when her cheeks flushed in remembrance. He waved his hand at the brew vessels all around, mostly filled with ales, bocks, and stouts. “Face it, you just ain’t the light and fruity lager brewer. Not in your genes, honey. The Dobsons brew beer you have to have
balls
to appreciate, to stick with.”

Mike nodded in agreement. “He’s right. We all love the funky flavor combinations you try out, and all the different beer styles you make are interesting and all, but you know that your deeper brews are where you shine. The darker ones with lots of mellow layers, hidden strong flavors that come at you later. That’s more you. Not all our customers go for it but the ones who do sure are happy they did. It might not hit the spot on a hot day in an obvious way like a light beer, but it’s more complex, more satisfying.” He thumped Jim in the chest. “Hey, what was it that contest judge said once? A night of deep lovin’ versus a quick sexy nooner?”

Jim arched an eyebrow tellingly. “If there’s a Dobson curse, that’s it. Yours just ain’t the people-pleasin’ style of beer that folks will grab to tailgate with. To love your beers, a man’s gotta have faith, gotta know what he sees ain’t what he’s gonna get. Then he’s gotta get past all that intensity at the get-go and really let it sink in. Once he does though”—Jim whistled—“ain’t no other beer that’ll ever do.” He nodded over at the small brew tank in the far corner. “I reckon you have the right idea with that secret chocolate batch you’ve been workin’ so dang hard on.”

Dani followed his gaze over to the still-fermenting beer she’d been quietly trying to perfect—the unique chocolate ale that her very un-Dobson Hail Mary plan to help Luke’s business through the lease-increase hinged on. Figured Jim was the one to find her out—the man had the nose of a bloodhound.

Jim winked and chucked her under the chin. “Don’t try to change, baby girl.”

Dani just stood there blinking while the two men went off on their merry ways.

Leave it to brewers to give her life and love lessons using beer metaphors.

* * * * *

DEAN HENESSEY
shot a nervous glance around Ocotillos and then tried to make his glare penetrate the menu across the table, behind which, his wife Claire was sitting carefree as can be. “Luke is going to kill us when he finds out we’re spying on his girlfriend! I can’t believe you talked me into this,” he grumbled, shoving a hand through his salt and pepper hair worriedly.

Claire sniffed. “It’s not spying. We’re just eating a late lunch next to my son’s chocolate shop in Cactus Creek. It would’ve happened eventually on one of our visits. Besides, she’ll never know we’re Luke’s parents since he kept his father’s name.”

“Well, I doubt she’ll ever learn our names but yeah, I guess you have a point.”

“Why that’s silly. If we can, we should definitely introduce ourselves. Oh, that reminds me.” Claire reached in her bag and pulled out one of their pick-your-own-crops postcard invitations. “I’m going to leave an invitation to the farm here for her as well.”

“What?” he hissed.

“
Shhh
!” she quieted him as a waitress came over. Polite as can be, Claire asked about the beer selections she wasn’t familiar with before ordering a glass of IPA with the vegetarian paella.

Dean put in his order of the pistachio-crusted salmon over swiss chards and leeks with a glass of porter, and then tried to gently shoo the waitress away quickly after. But Claire, being Claire, began charming the young lady with the gentle grandmother way that worked equally well on lulling their crops as it did on people. Soon, the waitress was singing like a canary, answering all sorts of questions about Ocotillos—and more importantly, the owner, Dani.

“Darling, why don’t you let this nice young lady get back to work?”

“Oh, of course,” replied Claire. “I’m sure you’re very busy. Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to an old bat like me.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“It’s just not every day I get to hear about a female brewmaster. I’m fascinated is all. Do you think I’ll get a chance to meet her?” she asked the waitress innocently.