Chapter Six
Bec studied the instructions she’d written out for Wyatt’s next task, then took a deep breath. Abe Parsons. She’d gone through school with Abe Parsons, although he was a couple of grades ahead of her. He’d played ball with Liam. His dad had taken deliveries from her dad. From her seat in the clarinet section of the band, she’d watched him walk across the stage to get his diploma. They were friends.
Once upon a time they had been, anyway.
Now, he probably wasn’t speaking to her. God only knew what he’d put Wyatt through when he got to the mill. She didn’t think Abe would make him crack the grain himself, but she wouldn’t entirely put it past him.
She dropped the sheets back onto her desk, wishing there was a way to do this that would make everybody feel good again. That would make them all friends again. But it was too late for that, thanks to Colin, thanks to Liam, thanks—oh yes, thanks indeed—to her.
Damn you, Colin Brooks. You and your lying heart.
She barely heard the knock on the brewery door—she really needed to install a bell if she was going to keep the place locked up. Wyatt stood on her front step, just as he had the day before. At least he was persistent. Also cute, if she was being honest.
Do not think about his cuteness or hotness or anything along those lines. Do not be an idiot. You’ve learned your lesson, remember?
She headed back inside, motioning for him to follow, then stopped at the desk.
He raised a golden eyebrow, smiling faintly. “What’s up for today? More on-the-job training?”
“I hope not.” She picked up the sheet of instructions again, handing it to him. “Today you order the grain. It may not be on hand, but Abe will be able to get the varieties we need.”
Assuming Abe was willing to sell him anything. “Abe Parsons does the malting and the cracking.”
Wyatt frowned down at the instructions in his hand. “More than one variety again?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Shouldn’t be a problem.” She felt like crossing her fingers, but that might be a little obvious.
Wyatt folded the instructions and tucked them into the pocket of his jeans. “Am I still supposed to keep quiet about your involvement here?”
She blew out a breath. “Hopefully, yeah.”
He shook his head. “You know that’s probably not going to fly, right? I mean, Cooper figured out within five minutes that you were behind this. Isn’t this guy Parsons likely to do the same thing?”
Why yes, now that you mention it. She gritted her teeth. “It may not come to that.”
“What if it does?” He folded his arms across his chest, frowning again. His golden hair was slightly mussed, as if he’d walked over.
Focus, damn it.
“I don’t know. Tell him…” She paused, trying to think what she’d say to Abe if she had it to do over again. “Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I’ll pay him the rest of the money we owe him when we sell this batch of beer.” She bit her lip. “Tell him I’m an asshole.”
Although he probably already knew that much.
Wyatt gave her a slightly dry smile, brown eyes surprisingly warm. “You might want to give yourself a break eventually.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. But you might actually get a lot further with Abe if you level with him. He’s a pretty straightforward guy. I guess if you want to tell him you’re working with me, go ahead.”
“I’ll play it by ear.” He gave her a questioning look. “Will this stuff fit in my pickup?”
“Not a chance. Tell Abe I’ll take delivery whenever it’s ready.” And maybe, with any luck, she could talk Liam into finding her a delivery truck. Surely he owed her that much.
“I’ll see what we can work out. Maybe he’d take some free tickets for the next Broncos game—or front row center at Quaff for Monday Night Football.”
Bec stared at him. “What the hell is Quaff?”
“My place. My gastropub.” He looked slightly offended.
“Quaff.” She shook her head. “Sorry. I didn’t know what you called it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t like it?”
“I’m sure it’s fine.” She just hoped he didn’t mention the name to anybody in Antero. They might be inclined to snicker. Antero bars were usually called bars.
“Right.” He looked like he wanted to argue about the name but thought better of it. “I should get going. See you this evening?”
She nodded. “I’ll be here.”
She scowled as she watched him head toward the parking lot. Quaff.
As long as he gets you the ingredients, he can call the place anything he likes, including Just Another Pretentious Bar.
At the moment, Wyatt seemed to be her best chance for resurrection.
For the first time in at least a month, she was whistling as she headed off to work.
…
At least Abe Parsons’s grain mill wasn’t thirty miles away like Harlan Cooper’s farm had been. In fact, it seemed to be inside the Antero city limits—or close to it. Wyatt pulled into the parking lot. He could see a lot of pickup trucks parked around the building, along with some delivery vans and one or two farm trailers. Parsons’s business seemed a lot more active currently than Cooper’s.
Wyatt headed for the door that appeared to lead into a suite of offices rather than the side where the malting business was being carried out, based on the noise. He’d seen large-scale malting mills before. This place was a little smaller. Still, it was doing a lot of business as far as he could tell.
A woman in a flowered blouse and black knit slacks glanced up from the front desk as he walked in. “Can I help you?”
Wyatt gave her his salesman’s smile. “I wanted to speak with Mr. Parsons. Is he available?”
The woman gave him a tentative smile of her own. “I think so. Let me check.” She pushed back from the desk and walked toward an open door at the back of the room. “Abel,” she called. “Somebody here to see you.”
A moment later a tall man in jeans and a plaid shirt emerged from the back office and walked toward the front. His brown hair looked a little shaggy around the ears, and like Cooper, his face was lined by the sun. But his grin reminded Wyatt of old western movies.
“I’m Abe Parsons,” he said. “You wanted to see me?”
Wyatt guessed Parsons was around his own age or maybe a little older. He slid back into salesman mode again. “I’m Wyatt Montgomery, Mr. Parsons. I’d like to talk to you about a potential order.”
And just like that, the temperature in the office dropped fifteen degrees. Parsons no longer looked like a friendly cowboy. In fact, he didn’t look like a friendly anything.
“You’re the one Harlan Cooper called me about. The one working with Bec Dempsey.” His jaw firmed in disapproval.
Well, hell. He should have known Cooper would spread the word. “Yes, sir. I’m helping Bec with a project.”
Parsons folded his arms across his chest. “Like that asshat Colin Brooks? You going to take off too and leave her holding the bag? You another one of these fly-by-night, love ’em and leave ’em types?”
“Abel Parsons, you stop that. Right now.”
Wyatt realized he and Parsons had both forgotten about the woman in the flowered blouse. She, however, definitely hadn’t forgotten them.
Parsons’s ears turned bright pink. “Sorry, Ma,” he muttered.
Wyatt glanced toward Mrs. Parsons, giving her a more tentative smile.
She narrowed her eyes at him. Clearly, she might not be happy with her son for swearing, but she wasn’t ready to join Wyatt’s fan club, either. “Is Bec going to start that brewery going again?”
Wyatt sighed. “I don’t know exactly what her long-term plans are, ma’am. I’m just helping her with brewing one particular beer.”
Mrs. Parsons turned back to her son. “You might as well talk to him, Abel. Maybe he can answer some of your questions.”
I doubt it. But Wyatt managed to keep his expression bland.
Parsons gave him another exasperated look, but he clearly wasn’t going to go against his mother’s orders. Which struck Wyatt as a wise decision. “Come on. We can talk in my office.”
Parsons’s office was a small room filled with a desk, two chairs, a ridiculous amount of paper given the laptop he was apparently using, and a glass container of some kind of grain that Wyatt should probably have recognized but didn’t.
“I’m not giving you any malt,” Parsons said flatly.
“I don’t expect you to give it to me. I’m willing to pay whatever you’re asking.” Wyatt kept his expression bland. Pushing it to pleasant would be a stretch, but he figured he could stay inoffensive.
“I won’t sell you any, either.” Parsons looked like his jaw had been transformed to granite.
Wyatt sighed. “Look, Mr. Parsons. I know you and Bec have had problems in the past. She told me she’s very sorry about the way things worked out between you. She wants to make amends, and she wants to pay off the rest of her debt.” Wyatt figured telling him she wanted to make things right would be more helpful than telling him she was an asshole.
“And how does she figure on making amends?” Parsons raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “She got me to order grain I wouldn’t have ordered without her. She had big plans—putting Antero on the craft brewery fast track. And here we are a couple of years later with a closed brewery and nothing to show for it.”
Except a barrel of legendary imperial stout. Wyatt frowned. He’d thought Bec had said she’d taken care of some of the debt. “Didn’t she pay some of the outstanding bills?”
Parsons shrugged impatiently. “About half, and I was able to cancel some of the orders and pass some of the malt on to other breweries. It’s just…” He paused, grimacing. “She should have let us know what was going on. I know it wasn’t her fault that Brooks took off and left her, but she didn’t mend any fences herself.”
“She’s trying to get started again now,” Wyatt said slowly. “Maybe she can still make the whole Antero craft brewing thing work.”
Parsons looked like he’d sucked on something sour. “Too little, too late. I’m not getting pulled into that mess again. She can find someplace else to get her malt.”
But she wants yours. Wyatt ran his fingers through his hair, trying to come up with something. “Look, I own a place in Denver, Quaff. If there’s anything I can do for you…”
Parsons gave him a thunderous look. “You trying to bribe me, Montgomery?”
Wyatt gritted his teeth and prayed for patience. “I’m trying to reach an understanding with you. I want the malt. For Bec. I’m trying to find something you want that I can provide as part of the deal.”
Parsons still looked sour. “What the hell kind of place is called Quaff?”
What was the matter with people around here? Quaff was a perfectly good name. Or anyway he’d always thought so before. “It’s a…bar.” Somehow he had the feeling Parsons wouldn’t be any more impressed by the idea of a gastropub than he had been by the name Quaff.
Parsons shrugged. “Don’t know what good a bar would do me. I can always drink here in town.”
“We have events,” Wyatt said doggedly. “A bus to Broncos games. I could get you tickets.”
Parsons shrugged. “I don’t get over to Denver that much. I can watch the Broncos on cable.”
Wyatt was trying desperately to come up with some kind of counteroffer when the door to the office swung open so suddenly that he jumped. Even Parsons looked disconcerted.
The woman who stood in the doorway was small and blonde. She was also, unless Wyatt missed his guess, thoroughly pissed off.
“Abe Parsons,” she said flatly. “Where the hell is my flour?” She stalked into the room as if she expected Parsons to have the flour concealed in his desk.
For the first time, Parsons looked less than confident about his position. “Angel, I’m working on it, honest. But I’ve got other customers, too. And yours is a special order.”
The blonde placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t give a damn about your other customers. You took my order, Abe, and I’ve got customers, too. And my orders have a faster turnaround than yours do. When is it going to be ready?”
Parsons’s ears had turned pink again. Apparently, his mother wasn’t the only female who could do that to him. “Day after tomorrow?”
The woman narrowed her eyes—bright green and snappish now that Wyatt looked more closely. “Tomorrow. And not a second later. I mean it, Abe. I’ve waited long enough for that flour, and I need it.”
Parsons nodded jerkily, his ears bright red by now. “Yes, sure, okay, Angel. Tomorrow it is.”
She blew out a breath. “Well, that’s that then. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Right. Tomorrow.” Parsons sounded slightly choked.
Wyatt studied him more closely. Pink ears, stuttering manner, brown eyes faintly desperate. He paused. It all added up to one thing—love. Or at least an extreme form of like.
Interesting.
The blonde gave him one decisive nod, then turned on her heel, glancing at Wyatt for the first time as she did. She surveyed him without much interest, then stalked back out the door.
Parsons stood where he’d been when she’d first stormed into the room, rooted in place. He stared through the doorway as she disappeared outside, his unguarded expression full of longing.
Wyatt almost felt sorry for him, but he had stuff to do. “Spirited,” he said in as neutral a tone as he could muster.
Parsons nodded dolefully. “She is that.”
“She a regular customer?”
Parsons turned suspicious eyes in his direction.
Wyatt raised his hands quickly. “I’ve got no interest, honestly. I was just curious.”
Parsons blew out a breath. “That’s Angel Lomax. She’s a baker here in town.”
“Oh.” Wyatt frowned. “I didn’t know you ground flour—that’s kind of unusual for a malting plant, isn’t it?”
“Special order,” Parsons said slowly. “A favor. My grandpa was a miller. We’ve got the old grist mill out back.”
“Oh,” Wyatt repeated. “Nice favor. Custom ground flour isn’t easy to come by.”
Parsons shook his head, never taking his eyes off the route Angel Lomax had burned through when she left.
Wyatt took a breath. Now or never. “You could ask her out. And I could make you the best meal you’ve ever had. For two.”
Parsons turned toward him, outraged. “What the hell?”
Wyatt shrugged. “You’re interested in her. Chances are she’s interested in you, too. Ask her to dinner. I’ll make it and serve it. Candles, wine, everything. The whole nine yards. I own a restaurant. I know what I’m doing, so help me.”
Parsons narrowed his eyes. “And in exchange for this, I’m supposed to sell you the malt?”
Wyatt nodded. “If I meet your expectations, you sell me the malt.”
Parsons stared at him for a long moment, then glanced back into the outer room, where Angel had made her more-than-dramatic exit. “You have any experience with this whole cooking thing?”
Wyatt nodded again. “Yeah. I do.” Granted, it had been a few years since he’d done it, but it wasn’t like you forgot how to cook once it was in your brain. “Like I said, Quaff is a restaurant, too.”
Parsons stayed silent for a moment longer, a man fighting a mighty internal battle. Then he shrugged. “All right. Dinner for two. Wine and candlelight. Where is this going to happen?”
Good question. Wyatt hadn’t actually thought that far ahead. But he figured Parsons might have some ideas of his own. And if he didn’t, maybe Bec could come up with something. “Wherever you want it. You pick the time and place. I supply everything else.”
Parsons frowned, pursing his lips as he thought. “Can’t be my place. Ma wouldn’t take kindly to being asked to leave.”
No, Wyatt was pretty sure she wouldn’t. A definite non-starter. “Let me see what I can turn up for a location. You have a preference between inside or outside?”
Parsons’s eyes took on a slightly hunted look. “I hadn’t thought about that. Outside? It might rain.”
Wyatt nodded. “It might. Or it might not. Think about it.” He pulled one of his business cards out of his wallet. “Give me a call tomorrow after you’ve had time to think about what you want. I’ll start putting the food together.”
That hunted look was rapidly turning to panic. “When would we do it? I mean, I haven’t even asked her.” His jaw firmed as his voice dropped slightly. “Suppose she says no.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Is she going with anybody? Engaged? Involved?”
Parsons shook his head wordlessly.
“Does she have any reason to dislike you, other than the flour delivery?”
Parsons grimaced, flexing his shoulders. “Yeah, well, I’ll get that to her tomorrow. Even if I have to work on it after we close up tonight.”
“I’m assuming the answer to my second question is no.” Wyatt gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “So there’s no reason for her not to take you up on dinner. And who’s going to pass up a romantic dinner for two cooked by a professional chef?” He was, of course, stretching the truth slightly, but he’d definitely been a professional cook at one time, even if he hadn’t exactly made it to chef status.
Parsons looked a little less panicked but still slightly shaky. “What if she’s busy?”
“Choose another night. It’s not like we have to do it at a particular time, do we?” Come on, Abe. Work with me here.
Parsons took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders like a man facing a particularly nasty fate. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll do it.”
Yes!
“Okay, give me a call when you’ve got the date set up. Meanwhile, I’ll work on finding you a good spot for dinner.” Wyatt felt the familiar surge of excitement that usually accompanied closing a difficult sale. “I’ll get on it tonight.” He started to turn for the door.
“Wait.” Parsons raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you want me to order your malt?”
Wyatt paused. “Oh. Yeah, of course.” The malt. The reason he’d gone into this in the first place. Clearly he was in danger of losing his focus again. He pulled Bec’s sheet out of his pocket, tearing off the portion with the types and amounts of malt she needed. “This is it.”
Parsons looked the list over, eyes narrowing. “Okay. I can do this. Some of it’s on hand, some I can get. After the dinner.”
“Right.” Wyatt nodded. “After the dinner.” And please, God, let this dinner go all right. Given that he was preparing it on his own. And given that he hadn’t a clue about when and where he’d be preparing and presenting this gourmet feast.