“Like…of the psychological kind? Or the farming kind? Not that I’m judging the former. Lord knows I’m at least twenty years overdue for that kind of help myself.”
Emerson finally dropped his hands. Dared to glance at his neighbor again. And there those dark brown eyes were, looking right at him. Smiling. His lips had curved a bit higher, too, but his eyes. The lines around them. Those weredefinitelysmiling.
Emerson’s stomach swooped.
“Both,” he eventually answered. “I need both. But the farming kind is the most urgent.”
The man held their eye contact for another beat before he dipped his chin and picked up his beer. Emerson’s heart thudded in his ears. He wondered what this man’s skin smelled like. For a second, the stress of his life faded, just an inch.
“Tell me about this farm,” the man said. Emerson watched the bob of his throat once more before he faced forward.
“It’s called Short King Farms. We?—”
“No shit.”
Emerson couldn’t help himself. He looked back again, and—oh. The man wasactuallysmiling now, a slash of white teeth, eyes bright. A smile like a surprise, like the man hadn’t expected it either.
“You’reShort King Farms?”
Emerson cleared his throat, held out a hand.
“Emerson King.”
The man laughed as he leaned over the bar, a rich, deep rumble that changed his entire mysterious demeanor.
And then he reached out a hand to meet Emerson’s.
In the trance of the man’s laughter, Emerson had somehow forgotten he was still holding out his palm. The contact hit him like an electric shock.
“Are you actually that short?”
The man was still holding his hand. His fingers were long and smooth, the pressure of his thumb firm against Emerson’s. Emerson’s brain had largely stopped functioning.
“Or did the name just make you laugh?”
“How about we never leave these bar stools,” Emerson said, “so you never have to find out. But both. The answer, again, is both.”
The man’s smile deepened. They were still shaking hands. Every inch of Emerson’s skin buzzed.
“Well.” Finally, the man dropped Emerson’s hand, turning back to his beer. His teeth had disappeared, but the smile remained, retreated back to that corner of his mouth. Emerson pictured dipping his tongue right there, an audacious surprise to his own imagination. His hand hung limp off the side of the bar, like it no longer knew what to dowith itself. “Well done on that. You’ve been making me laugh every time I see your label.”
“Yeah?” The word came out in a happy haze before its meaning fully penetrated. All Emerson had heard waswell doneandyou’ve been making me laugh. But after a beat, the rest followed through. “You’ve heard of us?”
Us, he still always said.
Even though, for most intents and purposes, for a year now, it had beenme.
But maybe that wasn’t fair to Parker and Myriah; certainly not to Jansel, his sole full-time employee. There had been Bree, too, for a while, the part-time social media manager Jay had made him hire when he’d left, even though Emerson had let her go six months ago. Still, maybe he shouldn’t feel as alone as he did. And he knew Jayden still cared about the farm. Maybe it was okay to still sayus.
“Of course,” the man said easily. He brought his elbows to the edge of the bar, crossing his arms. He wore a heather-gray t-shirt, jeans. Emerson thought that if he spent more than two seconds glancing at those forearms, he’d probably pass out. He forced himself to take another sip of his beer. “I see your stuff all the time at the IGA.”
Right, of course. Liv was Emerson’s top commercial distributor. He talked to her every week.
The brewery where they currently sat, though, was at the edge of Lincoln City. Close enough to drive to when you needed an afternoon to feel sorry for yourself, far enough away from home that you never knew where anyone was actually from. But this man must also live in Greyfin Bay. Had seen Emerson’s produce, his jams and his salsas and pickles in Liv’s IGA.
“The bookstore carries your stuff now, too,” the man added.
“Yeah,” Emerson said. “Mae. They’rereal nice.”
