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One brew day would produce enough beer to fill one set of orders, but not any follow-up ones. She was already dealing with a town that expected her to flake out. There was no way she’d prove them right. Not to mention that her real job and real promotion hung in the balance. They had to find a way.
“So what does that mean for us? Will we be able to get any?” Miranda held her breath while Sean consulted with an invisible force on the tin ceiling.
After a minute of clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth and tugging on his short beard, he shrugged. “Possible.”
“You’re killing me with these cryptic one-word responses. Come on, Sean, give me something to work with.”
He eyeballed her for a second, his soft brown eyes narrowing, then shrugged. “I have connections. I can ask around and see if any of the other breweries have extra stock they’re willing to sell.”
If that was their best chance. She was going to grab ahold of it with both hands and beat it into submission. “Great, let’s get that in motion.”
“It’ll be expensive.”
Of course it would. Why should anything to do with this damn brewery be simple and easy or—God forbid—cheap? “Can we make do with the hops we have?”
“Not after the next brew.”
Without hops, they wouldn’t be able to make more beer. Without beer, they couldn’t meet demand, and her plan would fail. There really wasn’t a choice to be made. She had to get more hops.
“How much?”
Sean passed her a piece of paper containing a figure that just about gave her a heart attack. Ignoring the palpitations, Miranda ran the numbers in her head. They’d have enough in the current budget to cover the cost of the hops, but it only heightened the need for additional money.
“Then I guess we don’t have a choice but to give them both arms and a leg.” Maybe she could persuade the seller to accept Carl’s arms and leg. The sledgehammer in her head went into overdrive, the vibrations shaking her spine. “At least the day can’t get any worse.”
Sean nodded toward the front windows. “Company.”
It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the brightness outside compared to the doom and gloom that had taken over the tasting room. When she did, she realized God really was not looking down favorably on her today. And judging by the way Logan Martin slammed the door of his red Chevy truck, neither was he.
Gravel crunched under Logan’s feet as he crossed the Sweet Salvation Brewery parking lot, loud but not powerful enough to drown out the self-recriminations of retreading a poisoned path. Almost kissing Miranda Sweet? What the fuck had he been thinking?
He hadn’t. Logan’s little head had taken over as soon as he’d seen Miranda, specifically her mind-boggling tits on display in her barely-there lace bra.
He’d almost kissed her. And damn it, he couldn’t tell if he was more pissed off because he hadn’t or that he’d wanted to so fucking bad. Shit, he still wanted to even after the shit storm she stirred up by barging into the meeting at The Kitchen Sink.
Get it straight, Martin, it won’t ever happen again.
He wasn’t about to let the Sweets ruin this opportunity for Salvation—especially not Miranda Sweet. He knew too well how she liked to cut and run. He couldn’t let her do that to Salvation. The industrial park would be a shot in the arm for not only the town’s but the region’s economy. He couldn’t afford to become blinded to that because of a pair of sinfully long legs or an ass that should be a world wonder. Several brewery employees were clumped around the front door. They eyeballed him with surly glares and puffed out their chests.
The possibility of a testosterone-fueled pissing match centered the energy running wild through his body, and his hands curled into fists. He hadn’t been in a fight since college, but he’d never forgotten the visceral rage and power that had pumped through his veins right before he returned that first punch. Aggression buzzed like a killer wasp in his gut, angry and ready for release.
“You here to give her that loan she needs?” One of the men practically snarled the question before letting loose a stream of tea-colored tobacco juice.
“Hell no.”
That negative response elicited a yellow-stained smile from the man. “Well then, by all means, welcome to the Sweet Salvation Brewery.”
Logan yanked open the door and stomped inside, righteous vengeance propelling him forward. He spotted his prey standing by the bar. A worried divot crinkled her forehead. Good. She had every reason to worry.
“Barging in on a private meeting and pitching a hissy fit is low, even for a Sweet,” he snarled.
The mountain man beside her took a step forward, but she stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “Sean, go touch base with your contacts about the hops. I can handle him on my own.” She spun on one heel and marched out of the tasting room, pausing only at the hallway entrance where she looked back over one shoulder. “You coming?”
Shit, it wasn’t like he was going to make an ass out himself by yelling at her back as she strolled away. Grumbling under his breath, he followed her down the hall, doing his best to ignore the swing of her hips and the way her jeans fit snug against her round ass.
Her office was a complete pit. Papers and boxes were piled all over the small space. Even with her narrow frame, she had to turn sideways to get around one stack just to get to the chair behind her desk. There was no place for him to sit, which was for the best. It made it easier for him to keep the psychological advantage of height.
As cool as a snow cone in January, Miranda settled into her seat and gazed at him expectantly.
