Page 8 of Icy Pour

He snorts. “Original. I like it. Sad to hear about that other bar bein’ torn down. It sounds like it was a great place. Everyone needs a home away from home. You know”—he turns to face me—“I think Walt’s on Water could be a place like that.”

I try to hide the smile creeping up, but it’s no use. The words fill my chest with a warmth I haven’t felt in a long time. Probably since the last summer I spent in Gramp’s bar.

“I think so too.”

“Well then,” he throws the towel over his shoulder. “We’re all prepped for the day except for one last thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve got to learn how to pour a proper beer.”

I shake my head with a smirk. “Isn’t that what I’m paying you to do?”

He glares at me, and fuck, if it doesn’t dart right through my chest.

“Yes. But as the owner of a bar, you should know how to pour a beer correctly. And if we get slammed, it’ll help if you can handle the drafts and leave me to the cocktails.”

Shit. The blood drains from my face. He’s right.

“Okay, show me. How hard can it be to pour a beer?”

CHAPTER 5

WALT

Turns out it’s fucking hard to pour a beer with a man this attractive standing so close his breath is a whisper on my neck and his fingers on the glass next to mine. It takes every ounce of my willpower to keep my hand from shaking uncontrollably or shattering it with my grip.

Jesus Christ, Walt…focus.

“You want to start at a forty-five-degree angle like this,” he instructs, tipping the glass we’re holding forward, his fingers touching the edge of mine, “then pull the tap and let the beer flow.”

Sweat beads on my forehead like there’s a goddamn furnace burning in my chest. Why am I so nervous?

“It’s not brain surgery, boss. It’s just a beer. No need to work up a sweat,” he jokes, lightening the mood, but now I’m on alert because he can sense the bundle of nerves I’m dealing with.

“Excuse me, but I was heckled by a customer the last time I did this.”

He snorts. “I’ll give you shit about something else later. For now though? Let’s pour you a beer.”

My tongue wets my lips as I pull the paddle back and let the amber liquid and foam fill the glass halfway.

“Just like that! You’re doing great,” he reassures me, his words calming the slight shake in my hand. “Now, this is a lager, so you want about an inch of head at the top.”

I swallow hard. I know he’s talking about beer. I know it. So why the hell does the warmth pooling in my gut make me wonder if he’s talking about something else?

“Now tip the glass fully upright and let back on the tap slowly and…look at that. There ya go! Perfect pour.”

My hand is partly chilled by the lager, but more by the absence of his touch as he steps away.

“Now, you do one on your own. This time the wheat beer. These need more head, maybe another inch or so⁠—”

“Can you call it foam, please?” I squeak, interrupting him.

He bites his lip, clearly forcing back a laugh.

“Just…shit…just tell me if I’m doing it wrong, okay? I don’t need all these technical terms.”

He sucks his teeth, his eyes alight with barely concealed laughter. “Whatever you want, boss.”