Anything for You

“What’s the harm?” Rafe asked, leaning against the stainless-steel counter. “Expand your horizons. Get laid. Smile a little.”

“She’s really not my type.”

“We talked about this,” Colleen said. “You have to be willing to try or you’ll just be at home, brooding and sulking. Like always.”

Connor sighed.

“Don’t you Catholic sigh at me,” Colleen added.

They were talking about what’s-her-name. The new person at Blue Heron who’d been in the other night. Marie or Marsha or whatever.

“You said you’d listen to me,” Colleen reminded him. “I’m pregnant, and if you upset me, Lucas will stab you.” She folded her arms on her stomach. “Besides, you’ll never get—”

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

Because she was just about to say You’ll never get over Jess if you don’t start trying.

Jessica had made herself crystal clear. And maybe Colleen was right. There was a first time for everything.

“Good,” Colleen said. “I texted Marcy from your phone and told her you’d meet her for a drink. Of course, I pretended to be you and was very charming, so don’t be surprised if she expects a little fun.”

He closed his eyes. “You’re such a hemorrhoid.”

“You want to be godfather to this baby or what? I can always ask Rafe here.”

“I think it’s clear who’d buy the best presents, especially if it’s a girl,” Rafe said. “A gay faux uncle versus your hetero brother. No contest.”

“It’s a girl,” Connor said. Colleen and Lucas had decided not to find out, but Connor knew already.

Colleen raised an eyebrow, one of her better tricks. “That’s a good point, Rafe. Connor, can’t you just stop whining and man up and go on this date, damn it?” She burped. “Do you have any Tums? God, this heartburn is murder.”

“When will this baby be born? Seems like you’ve been pregnant for two years.”

“Oh, is it hard on you? Do you think you should say stuff like that when we’re in a room full of sharp objects? Huh?” Rafe handed her a roll of antacids, and she scarfed down two.

Okay, so she was really uncomfortable. Her back hurt; he knew that without her saying anything. Irritatingly, he had a sympathy backache. And she was scared. Lots of things could go wrong. He felt a flash of fear himself, and before he could stop himself, he found that he had his arm around her shoulders. “You’ll be fine, Dog-Face. And hopefully the baby will look like me.”

“Will you please go out with Marcy? Have I ever been wrong in my entire life?”

“Yes, and yes. I’ll go, but only because you threatened me with a knife.”

“Now see? Was that so hard? I can already see the write-up in the Vows section. ‘They went on a date after Connor’s beloved twin threatened to stab him.’ Oh, and I’m interviewing a temporary bartender, so don’t growl and scare her away.”

“Get out of my kitchen, both of you,” Rafe said, flapping his hands. Connor gave him a look but obeyed. It was Rafe’s kitchen on Tuesdays and on Friday nights, when Connor and Colleen had dinner with Savannah.

While Colleen fussed around behind the bar, Connor got his laptop from the office, sat down at a booth and focused on his project of the last fifteen months.

O’Rourke’s Brewing.

In the land of small vineyards, there was also a fair number of microbreweries popping up here and there. Some were quite good; some were mediocre. But who better to be an owner of one than Connor himself? He knew flavors. O’Rourke’s had the best beer list in the Finger Lakes, or so said the New York Times, thank you very much. Why not branch out into something a little different?

He didn’t want to be a brewer himself per se; his true love was food. But he’d always done some home brewing, though he really didn’t drink too much; one beer on an empty stomach was enough to give him a buzz. But Connor knew a guy, Tim Parsons, who’d jump at the chance to be a brewer and do the actual work, almost like a sous-chef. He was just waiting for Connor to get things in place, content with his day job as a schoolteacher.

The restaurant was his first priority, but Connor wanted something a little more to his name. He and Colleen had owned O’Rourke’s for almost ten years now, and they were both incredibly proud of it.

Problem was, it ticked along like clockwork. They had a great staff; Rafe was almost as good a chef as Connor, and a little better with desserts. Colleen ran the bar perfectly, Hannah and Monica were excellent servers. In tourist season, they hired a couple more kids to bus tables and wash dishes. They got stellar reviews and were featured in virtually every article that mentioned Manningsport.

So that goal had been met. The other goal—marry Jess—had gone down in flames.

It hadn’t been easy to see her the other night with the Hollands. But she played it cool, that much-hated three feet away face on in full force. It was her specialty, after all. So he played it cool, too, even if he did burn the next order he’d cooked.

Time to focus on the microbrewery. He and Tim had already developed seven varieties of beer in Tim’s garage, and they were utterly fantastic, in his humble opinion. But the first step to creating an actual brewery would be to find funding. He had a chunk saved, as well as a bank loan, but he’d still need investors, people who wouldn’t mind being silent partners and ponying up the cash. Connor had a successful business to his name; he already had an in with distributors as the co-owner of the bar; and he was a professional chef. He was keeping an eye out for some real estate that would house the business.

All he needed was about half a million dollars more, and he’d be all set.

“Daydreaming about your brewery?” Colleen asked.

“Yeah.” He turned the folder so she could see his notes.

“Dogface Ale? Aw! Thanks, brother mine.” She smiled, rubbing her belly. “You know, Dad would be—”

“I’m not going to ask Dad to be an investor.”

She sighed. “He’s not Satan, you know.”

“I know. But this is going to be mine. Not ours, and certainly not his.”

“Well, our high school reunion is coming up. You could tap some of our old classmates. You should start with Jeremy. He’s richer than God.”

He hadn’t thought of that. It might be uncomfortable, casually asking Jer if he had a few hundred thousand dollars lying around. Then again, why not? Jeremy might get a real kick out of it.

“Do you have any plans at all?” Colleen said.

“I have this spreadsheet,” he said.

“That’s just money. What’s your vision?”

“Um...what?”

“You need to pedal vision. Why would I buy O’Rourke’s beer instead of anyone else’s?”

“Because you’re my sister?”

She rolled her eyes. “What sets O’Rourke’s beers apart? You have an attractive twin. How will you leverage her charm and good looks to help your business grow?”

“I won’t. She’s not as cute as she thinks.”

She smiled and gave him the finger. “I’m even cuter. Oh! The baby kicked. Want to feel?”