Page 31 of Grumpy Ex-Military Brewmaster’s Secret

"Now we stop retreating. Both of us. No more speeches about professionalism, no more silences that stretch on for days, no more pretending the whole thing didn't happen." She holds my eyes, steady. "If you want this, you say so. Out loud. Not in a checklist. Not in a rehearsed apology. Just say it."

"I want this. I want you, and I'm terrified of it, and I'd rather be terrified and honest than safe and lying to both of us."

"That's better."

"I've had practice failing at the first version."

"Noted." She picks her pen back up, but she's still watching me, and there's something new in the set of her mouth I haven't seen from her before, something that looks a lot like relief with the edges still rough.

I stand there a second longer, aware that I've got a business to run, inventory to finish, and about six things on today's list that aren't this. None of them feel like they matter as much as the next thing I'm about to say.

"Have dinner with me."

It comes out rougher than I plan, low, like the words cost more to produce than I expected them to, which they do. I haven't asked anyone to dinner in more years than I care to count, and every rehearsed version I ever built for this moment evaporated the second I actually needed it.

"Are you asking me on a date, Rafe Montgomery?"

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

"Took you long enough."

"I had a rule to break first."

"How's that going?"

"Better than expected." I glance toward the window, toward the lot where a truck's still parked crooked from the last time it got stuck, and something in my chest that's been braced since the storm finally lets go. "I don't have a plan for what comes next. Not a real one. First time in years I haven't had one, and I'm not hating it as much as I thought I would."

"That's progress."

"Terrifying is more like it."

"Can be both." She stands, closes the gap between us, close enough that I catch the smell of coffee and printer ink and something warmer underneath both. "Pick me up at seven."

"Seven," I repeat, filing it away like an order I actually want to follow, and for the first time in four days, standing fifteen feet from where I started, it actually feels true.

15

JENNA

Getting out the door for a first date turns out to require clearing a gauntlet I didn't know I'd built until my own son is standing on the porch with a piece of notebook paper, blocking the exit like a one-man checkpoint.

"Before you take my mom anywhere," Eli says, reading off the paper with the gravity of a man administering an oath, "I need to ask you some questions."

"Okay." Rafe stands very still, hands at his sides, the same posture he uses when a keg line's about to blow. "Go ahead."

"Where did you get this list?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

"The internet." Eli doesn't look up. "There's a whole website about it. Question one. What are your intentions with my mother?"

"To take her to dinner. Treat her well. Bring her home at a reasonable hour." Rafe answers like he's reciting coordinates, no hesitation in it anywhere, and something about the total sincerity of it lands harder than if he'd laughed the question off the way most adults would.

"Question two. What would you do if she needed help in the middle of the night?"

"Whatever she needed. I've driven eleven miles in the dark before for less."

Eli glances at Josie, who's perched on the porch railing critiquing Rafe's shirt with her arms crossed, and some silent twin communication passes between them that I'm not invited to.

"Question three," Eli continues. "If you had to choose between saving my mom or saving your dog, who would you save?"