Page 42 of Keepsakes and Kismet

I run my fingers through my hair, overshooting the ends and awkwardly clawing onto the air behind my neck. Damn you and your junk drawer scissors, Clover.

Sighing, I rub my chin. “Sorry. Am I supposed to pretend that I don’t want to spend time with you? Just tell me how long of a wait is normal, and I’ll call you then.”

“No, don’t be sorry.” She grins. “Tomorrow’s great. I actually have a job at a brewery about an hour north in Michigan. They’re launching a new hard cider for fall, and they want thirty-somethings in the art scene to start ordering it. Management hired a live indie band popular with that crowd, and they’ve hired me to talk the drink up. The owners mentioned I could bring anyone I wanted—the more the merrier. Do you want to come along?”

I rub my thumb along the stitching in the leather of my seat. “Yes. But with the meds I take, I don’t drink, so I might not be very supportive with helping you sell the product. Is that okay?”

“I don’t mix my meds with alcohol, either. And I’d never drink on the job, even if I could, to be honest. I just hold it in my hand and promote it. No one ever notices. We can fool them together.” Peyton winks.

Playfulness, with that mischievous edge, drenches her features, and an eyelash falls on her cheek. My hand twitches, wanting to brush it off her face, but I keep my fingers glued to my lap.

She adjusts her visor. “We should probably get back to the group.”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t worry about it. They were all going to go look at Johnny’s new Rolls-Royce before heading into the clubhouse. The flattery alone will take them at least thirty minutes.”

She laughs. “Thanks for being here with me. I’ve really liked doing this together.”

When it comes to Peyton Moore, I think I’m going to really like doing anything together.

Chapter 10

Callum

Unplayed Voicemails: (13)

Hi, Cal, it’s Tammy and Jeff. We just got back from Ellis Hall. The school did a good job. The ceremony was really… organized. We looked for you afterward, because we were hoping to get a picture of you in your cap and gown. But your name wasn’t called. Sorry—it’s allergy season, so I’m, uh, constantly stuffed up. You know how it goes.

Anyway, we saw Sarah on our way out, and she said that you’re still, um, going through it. And we… Gosh, we hate to hear that, Cal.

So we were thinking. We have a copy of the program, and—the picture’s a little grainy—but, they said we could give them any one we wanted, and we actually chose the photo of you two in your uniforms. Maybe, if you’re open to it, we could bring it over? In case you wanted to see it. Or, us. We’d love to—sorry for the long pause. Just thought I was going to sneeze. These damn allergies. I was trying to say that we’d love to see you. Happy Graduation Day, bud. We’re so incredibly proud of you.

* * *

The large steel tanks with copper tops are visible through the floor to ceiling windows outside the brewery, but I can’t see behind them to get a feel for the number of patrons inside. Based on the number of cars in the parking lot, I assume it’s a packed house.

Peyton turns toward me on the sidewalk out front, tightening the belt around her wool coat. “Thank goodness the bill tonight was to dress autumn chic and not clubwear. It’s so chilly.”

I didn’t really get the chance to look at Peyton earlier, as she braved the cold and rushed into my truck, so my eyes quickly appraise her—except there’s nothing quick about it. My gaze lingers longer than it should. It’s like she carries all of my focus in the palm of her hand.

“Peyton. You look really, really nice.”

She holds up her gloves, her green eyes peering over her thick scarf. “You can’t even see me.”

She’s not wrong. There’s not much of her that’s visible underneath her winter wear, though I can’t imagine a scenario where she doesn’t look really, really nice.

Instead of saying all of that to my new woman-friend, I hold open the door for her.

The smell of malt and hops hits me as soon as we cross the threshold. It’s a little sweet but more on the earthier side. Once we get farther into the brewery, the scent of mulled wine and cider is more pronounced. Given the restaurant/brewery combo, I’m not surprised to see some small kids near the back eating food, but most of the adults are gathered near the bar area. It looks clean. Tidy counters, towels hanging over the correct bars⁠—

I shake my head. I’m not here to inspect.

Peyton takes off her winter coat and scarf, hanging them up on a coat rack. I lied when I told her she looked “really, really nice” earlier, because, in actuality, she’s a walking daydream in a long, flowy, sage dress. It’s fitted up top—some sort of corset—with painted maroon flowers around her waist. The billowy sleeves make her appear so soft. Standing next to Peyton, all I feel is happiness. When I’m with her, I just move in her orbit while she spills sunlight. Light that I get to bathe in, too, just by being close.

“I spy the manager near the kitchen.” Peyton cranes her neck to get a better view. “I’m going to let her know I’m here and find out if there are any last minute changes. Be right back.”

“Sounds good. I’ll hang out near the bar,” I reply, checking out a poster on the wall advertising a Halloween bash later this week.

Servers weave through the guests, holding trays of delicious looking appetizers. Peyton mentioned she didn’t have a ton to eat before we left, and I wonder which bites will be her favorite. Hopefully not the tray of steak tartare on toast I spot in the corner. I don’t care how carefully they prepared it—it’s still a risk.