Did he expect me to stay?
“Shower. Then, since Carl is working today, I assume I’m going wherever you’re going.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his cocky mouth. “I think I’ve got some brewing to do.”
After a bracing shower and a quick breakfast, Griffith drives Shrimp and me to Local Brew, and the three of us head toward the barn behind the bar. Shrimp chooses to lie down for a nap under a shady tree rather than come inside, and I try to ignorethe rising tension I feel, being alone with the guy I thought hated me, but now apparently doesn’t.
As I hang out on a stool by the window and pretend to distract myself with my phone, Griffith visits each one of his beers, typing notes or measurements or other mysterious brewer knowledge into a tablet.
I wonder what his first batches tasted like. Were they immediately delicious? Or did he have to fail and fail again before figuring out the right recipe? I suspect brewing is part science, part art form, which means Griffith is more creative than I ever gave him credit for.
“Try this.”
He comes to stand in front of me, holding out a small glass with only a sample’s worth of beer. The liquid has a red-ish hue with a soft head of foam.
“You going to tell me anything about it?”
Griffith simply crosses his arms and waits.
I sip, then hum a happy noise at the taste of the tart beer with floral and sweet notes.
“That’s tasty. A new brew?”
Griffith nods, a smile playing around his mouth. “Hibiscus and vanilla sour.”
“Interesting flavor combo.” I take another sip, savoring the slightly familiar flavor. “Where’d you come up with it?”
“You.”
I furrow my brow, trying to remember whatever he’s referencing. “When did we talk about flowers?”
Griffith tilts his head, the movement doglike, his entire focus on me.
“It’s your scent,” he explains. “This is what you smell like to me.”
Um, excuse me? What the hell am I supposed to say to that?
“And you wanted to drink me?”
I guess that works.
Griffith leans closer, his own pine scent filling my lungs on my next deep inhale.
“Can you blame me for wanting a taste?” His voice has sunk deeper, taken on a growly edge.
That settles it. Griffith is officially flirting with me.
More than flirting. The guy brewed an entire beer based off my scent.
He’s wooing me, just like Violetta said.
And from the flush rising under my skin and the sharpening of my teeth, it’s working.
With his face so close, I can see his blown-out pupils and the flare of his nostrils, and I’m certain he’s breathing in my scent now. Can he read all the tangled emotions in my mind through my sweat glands? The idea is too much to process, and the chaotic half of my heart steals control of my limbs, leaning me forward, seeking out a taste of my own.
Griffith’s lips part on a gasp of surprise, and I lick his lower lip. That earns me a grunt and a set of hands on my waist.
Pulling me closer.
