The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(17)

“Why don’t you walk me through and tell me what you’re thinking?”

I balk, because what AM I thinking? Doubt is a fast-acting poison, paralyzing me where I stand. I don’t know how I want to break up this massive space. I don’t know how to make the leap from brewing to serving beer and having a tasting room. Recipes and flavor profiles—that I can do. But all of these details?

Not for the first time, I question the wisdom in taking on a giant project like this—upgrading from a Brewer’s Permit to a Brewpub Permit and turning my Me-shed small-batch brewing into a 10,000-barrel a year operation.

I don’t know how long I stand here, frozen, before Winnie steps between us, holding out one hand. She still has the push broom in the other. “Hey! I’m Winnie.”

“Peter. Good to meet you. Are you his, um, partner or …?”

Peter looks between me and Winnie, and I don’t know if he means partner in the romantic or business sense. I’m also not sure which of those ideas is the most preposterous.

Winnie chokes out a laugh. “No. Not in any sense of the word.” She laughs again, and it shouldn’t irritate me that she finds either idea as absurd as I do.

I don’t say a word. I also don’t stop her when she starts asking Peter questions about bathrooms and plumbing and where the brewing equipment can go.

Winnie doesn’t suffer from the same visualization issues I do. Between Peter’s questions and her suggestions, I start to actually get a sense of how the space will work. With the two of them doing ninety percent of the talking, I could feel like the third wheel, but Winnie makes sure to keep drawing me in. She has this way of making her ideas feel like my ideas. Peter doesn’t seem to notice that they aren’t, and if I were less observant, I might not realize it either. She’s that good at sweeping people up in her world.

A good quality. Maybe a dangerous one.

“A lot of breweries now are setting up the system in sight of the bar,” Winnie says. “No walls. That allows people to really see the magic. James, with the tanks along this wall, having the bar here would make sense. Is that what you were thinking?”

It wasn’t, but I am now. I like the idea of people being able to see the process, to be a part of the process in a small way. This intimacy is what separates craft brewing from the giant beer manufacturers.

“I like that.”

I like everything Winnie suggests. Though it would normally get my back up having someone—especially someone on her second day of work as a temp—butting in, I’m grateful. For her ideas and for her unobtrusive way of presenting them.

It almost makes up for the fact she invited half the town today. Almost.

As we finish up, Peter gives the darkening space one more look. “This is a great start. I’ll come back with some sketches and we’ll get to work. I know your timeline is tight.”

It absolutely is, a fact I’d rather forget. I need this part done so that when the equipment arrives in a few weeks, I can dedicate all my time to brewing. The bit of calm I located over the past hour dissipates like steam, leaving me hot and headachey again.

Peter says his goodbyes, and once again, Winnie and I are alone in the building. It’s almost pitch black, and we move toward the doorway, where light comes through from the newly installed lamp posts up and down Main Street.

“That was a productive day, huh, boss?”

This is where I should thank Winnie for her help. Despite my annoyance about all the people, we did get things done faster. And her help with Peter was honestly invaluable. But the words seem permanently lodged in my throat.

“How’s the website coming?” I ask instead.

“I’ve got the framework set up, but I have a lot of questions for you before I can do much more. We should really sit down and discuss—”

“I’m sure whatever you build will be fine.”

Not even remotely true. But after today, I need a Winnie break. Being around her is doing funny things to my head. Maybe we can move our communication to text so I don’t have to see her at all.

Winnie twists my work gloves in her hands. I hadn’t realized she’s been carrying them around for the last half-hour with Peter.

She tilts her head. “You don’t seem to trust or like me, but you’ve got blind faith in me when it comes to your whole website?”

“I didn’t say I don’t trust you. Or that I don’t like you.”

Winnie scoffs. “Right. You just ooze distrust and disrespect and dislike and a bunch of other disses from your pores. But sure—put me in charge of something as important as your online presence. I won’t screw it up or anything.” Her smile has a feral quality to it.

“Thank you.”

She raises one brow. “For promising not to screw it up?”

“For today.” I figure it’s best to keep it vague. I am grateful, yet somehow still resentful of the way Winnie jumped in with both feet. “Which reminds me—I’ve got another job for you.”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this job?” she asks slowly.

I grin, and Winnie drops the broom. It clatters to the ground, and we both ignore it.

“How do you feel about cats?”

Her eyes widen. “James, no.”

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it—and to be clear, it isn’t optional—is to rid this building of all the strays.”