My feet are killing me. Two-inch heels seemed practical at the beginning of my shift. But thirteen hours later? Not so much. It’s been a week at the brewery, and nothing in my business management classes could have prepared me for dealing with this. I’ve managed to field the usual questions: What is your best beer? The Belgian wheat. What’s a great light beer? The pilsner. I may not have any firsthand knowledge of these recommendations, but I’ve seemed to skate by so far.

I glance at my phone and frown. Normally, by this time, I’d be back at my apartment, sipping on a glass of a nice rosé on my couch and binge-watching my favorite Netflix shows. But tonight is the tenth anniversary of On Tap.

The whole crew is here tonight—day shift, night, weekend, and yep, you guessed it, my favorite person. Reid and I are currently in a juvenile dirty look battle. I have my side-eye honed to perfection, but I must say, I’m truly impressed by his stink-eye abilities. It’s not something I’m proud of. I mean, I don’t think anyone sets out to be an absolute infant when it comes to dealing with their co-workers, but over the past week, it has spiraled to the point where it’s now a Pavlovian response when I see him. Reid’s face equals my eyes narrower than on-street parking downtown.

Tom remarks on the great sales. I shoot Reid a sneer. Tom compliments the waitstaff. Reid throws a quick glare before laughing at a joke from one of the waitresses.

God, it’s so immature, yet I will not be the person to cave first. Because, if anything, I am persistent.

Sandy, one of the waitresses, is sitting next to me, taking long pulls from her pint glass. Honestly, it looks like piss, which is par for the course of how appetizing it sounds to me. I’ve been slowly emptying my pint into hers when she’s not looking. It’s a jerk move, but I’m not drinking it, so someone else might as well enjoy it.

Tom clinks the top of his pint glass with a knife, and the table goes silent. “I’d like to thank you all for coming out tonight. Ten years and On Tap is still going strong.” He smiles as he looks at each one of us. “And to celebrate our anniversary, we have a new brew for you to try,” he says.

With that, he pushes back from the table, disappears into the kitchen, and comes back with two pitchers of a light amber liquid.

“This one is our new strawberry wheat. We’re going to name it Strawberry Shortcake.” His smile splits his face. During my initial interview, he told me that he’d been working on this beer for over a year.

He hands one pitcher to Reid and the other to Sandy. They both walk around the table, filling the empty pint glasses in front of everyone’s place setting. I doubt I’ll be able to pull a switcheroo with two drinks—I’m not that talented.  

Reid inches his way closer to me with each glass he pours. Not that I’m keeping tabs on him or anything. It’s mostly just survival tactics because who knows if the dude is trustworthy with all this cutlery around. No butter knives are going to end up in my back. No sirree.

Even from four spots away, I detect the faint scent of his cologne. Apparently, my wires are crossed—damn pheromones—because that scent goes directly south.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Nope. Not going there. He’s the enemy. He doesn’t want me here—he’s made that much crystal clear—and I refuse to allow whatever crack scent he’s wearing to penetrate my resolve.

I grab my water and pretend to be extremely interested in my hydration when he finally gets to my spot. He grumbles something under his breath while he grabs my pint glass and hastily pours the beer. I expect him to slam the glass down on the table. Instead, he gently slides it in front of me. And waits. His lips. Holy crap. They’re pulled into a smile.

I do everything in my power to school my features, but that beer scent wafting under my nose is enough to make my lip curl and my esophagus protest.  

“Bottoms up, princess.” And then his smile turns into that godforsaken smirk. “Go ahead, take a sip. I bet Tom wants to know what his newest employee thinks of his concoction.”

I push the pint farther away. “I’m not thirsty right now.”

“Says the person who was guzzling water like it was the last glass on earth.”

“Was not.” Okay, I was. And it’s unnerving that he’s watching me as closely as I’m watching him. “And why are you watching me drink anyway? Kinda creepy, don’t you think?”

He merely cocks his head in response. He doesn’t need to say anything to call me out on my bullshit. It must be a bartender thing.

He leans down, one arm on the back of my chair, the other on the table, his body caging the side of me. “I see right through you, Callie. It’s only a matter of time before Tom does.” He moves in closer, and goose bumps fleck my skin from the way his warm breath caresses my ear as he speaks. “I’d drink up if I were you. Wouldn’t want the boss to think you don’t like beer.”

Reid draws away and eyes me hard. And even though I wasn’t seconds ago, I’m parched as hell now. My mouth is dry, nervousness erupting within me at his clear challenge.

I grab my water glass and realize that I’ve actually drained it, and the only thing in front of me is the stupid beer.

Well, crap.

Tom picks up his pint glass and smiles. “Here’s a toast to ten excellent years with you guys and to many decades more.” Everyone around me lifts their glasses, too, and I follow suit.

“To Tom and On Tap,” people say, then clink their glasses and take a swig.

I contemplate faking my sip until I glance across the table and lock eyes with Reid. He’s watching me. He knows I hate beer. The very thought of it touching my lips is about as repulsive as he is.

He wants to see me suffer? Not on my watch, douche canoe. I give him a sweet smile and take a long pull of the beer.

OhGodohGodohGod. So disgusting. Abort mission. I fight every overwhelming response to spew it back on the table and somehow manage to swallow it. I know that sounds like I gave the worst blow job known to all mankind. News flash: I’d take the blow job any day over beer.

Just don’t tell my mom that.

Sandy turns to me and hiccups. “This beer is so damn good.” Her eyes are glazed over, and I momentarily feel bad for dumping my beer into her glass earlier.

“Yeah. So good,” I say.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?”

“Working as usual. Since I’m in training, I’m working six days a week for the foreseeable future.”

“Ugh. That’s rough.”

“You working?” Sandy typically works weekends. Especially since it’s easier to find a sitter for her kids on those days.

“No, I switched with Reid.” She practically bounces in her seat when she says, “He’s taking my spot so I can go to a Beyoncé concert. Can’t miss the queen.”

“How nice of him.”

“He really is the sweetest,” she gushes.

I didn’t know Reid before I got hired, but I’ve not come to the same conclusion about his personality that Sandy has. “Oh yes, so sweet,” I mumble. But she’s gone back to guzzling more beer and humming a Queen B song.

I manage to lay low for the rest of the party and avoid looking in Reid’s general direction. That is, until the moment I get up to leave, and Reid and Tom are standing in the way of my exit.

Tom pats me on my shoulder in a very dad-like fashion. “Ah, Callie. Thanks for coming tonight. Did you like the Strawberry Shortcake?”

“Loved it. So very...strawberry-ish.” Lame. I am so freaking lame. Out of all the compliments I could give, it’d probably be nice to come up with an actual word. “I mean, the hops were on par.”

Tom’s brows furrow, but he nods politely. Did I mention I love my boss? He’s been so patient with me, unlike a certain somebody standing next to him.

Reid crosses his arms and gives me a shark’s smile. Shit. “Since you know so much about hops, Callie, what would you say the hops level is in the Strawberry Shortcake?” he asks.

Hops level? Might as well ask me how to talk in iambic pentameter ’cause this just isn’t happening.

“Oh...umm…” Crap, crap, crap. He’s totally going to know I’m a fraud, and I’ll get fired, and then what am I going to do for a job?

My heartbeat pulses erratically in my neck, and things begin moving in slow motion. Like a clairvoyant, I can see my job going down like the Titanic. RIP kickass job. You were the Jack to my Rose, and I just let you slip through my fingers into the icy depths of the Atlantic.

“Don’t you know the rules, Reid? No interrogating new employees during a work party.”

Phew. Saved by the boss.

Then he turns to me.

“And, Callie. It’d be good for you to learn the hop index of all our brews.”

Reid smirks. Jerk.

Tom continues. “Reid, I’d like you to make sure Callie knows our brews inside and out by the time her ninety-day review comes around.”

We both look at him, ready to protest.

“Sandy’s a pro with our beer list.”

“Yeah.” Oh my God. Am I agreeing with Reid? But it’s for our mutual benefit, so I see this as a one-time ordeal.

Tom lifts a hand, silencing us. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Reid’s my best guy, and, Callie, I know you’ll soon be my go-to girl. Have a nice night, you two.” And with that, he walks off to visit with some lingering co-workers.

“You thought life was hell this past week? Just wait until tomorrow,” Reid mumbles as I move past him and head toward the hallway leading to the restrooms. I’m allowing him the last word because I have more important things to do.

Like ridding my mouth of that god-awful taste of was-it-or-wasn’t-it hops.