Page 2 of Grumpy Ex-Military Brewmaster’s Secret

"I'm so sorry." I get a hand on each small shoulder, more to reassure myself than to contain them. "They got away from me. We were just parking. I have an interview at four, I'm early, I didn't mean to just... come charging in like this."

He doesn't say anything. He keeps looking at the twins like he's not sure what to do with them, somewhere between alarmed and confused.

"You're not supposed to be back here," he says finally, to them, not to me. His voice is low and rough, like it doesn't get much use.

"Sorry," Eli says, entirely unbothered. "It smells really good in here. Is that beer?"

"It is."

"Can I have some?"

"No."

"Can I have a job?"

That gets the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, gone almost before I catch it. "How old are you?"

"Eight."

"No."

"What about her?" Eli jerks a thumb at his sister, who has gone unusually still, which is never a good sign with Josie. She's staring up at him with the particular focus she gets right before she does something that mortifies me, and I open my mouth to intervene approximately half a second too late.

She pulls a dandelion out of her jacket pocket, slightly crushed from the drive, and holds it out to him with both hands like she's presenting a medal.

"This is for you," she says. "Because you look sad."

The room goes very quiet. I brace myself for him to say something sharp, because that's what my brain has been trained to expect from a man this size with that kind of stillness in his shoulders, and I hate myself a little for the flinch that's already starting behind my ribs. Instead he crouches down, slow, like he's approaching something that might spook, and takes the flower from her with two fingers like it's made of glass.

"Thank you," he says, and his voice has changed completely, gone low and gentle. "Nobody's given me a flower in a while."

"You're welcome." Josie beams at him like she's just fixed something. In her mind, she probably has.

He straightens back up, looks at the dandelion in his hand for a second too long, and then looks at me like he's just remembered I'm standing there.

"You're the four o'clock."

"Jenna Walsh." I stick out my hand, praying it isn't shaking as visibly as it feels. "And I promise I don't usually bring an entourage."

He shakes it. His hand swallows mine entirely, calloused, warm, and the handshake itself is careful in a way that doesn't match anything else about him, like he's used to holding back more strength than he needs to.

"Rafe Montgomery." He pauses for a beat. "You're early."

"The twins had other plans."

"I noticed."

There's an office off the side of the brewhouse, more of a converted supply closet with a desk crammed into it, and he waves me toward it while Eli and Josie trail behind us like they've decided this is now their building too. He doesn't tell them to wait outside. I notice that, and I file it away without knowing yet what to do with it.

The desk is a disaster. Stacks of paper leaning at angles that violate several laws of physics, an ancient desktop computer with a Post-it note stuck to the screen that just says CALL BACK in block capitals, and what appears to be an actual literal shoebox sitting open with receipts spilling out of it.

"That's the filing system," he says, following my eyes. "I'm aware of how it looks."

"This is a crime scene."

"It's not far off. My last office manager quit three months ago. Didn't tell me. Just stopped showing up one morning, and I found out when the state sent a letter asking why I hadn't filed quarterly taxes."

"Isn't that illegal? The vanishing part, I mean."