The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(43)

He’s probably already ordered equipment. Right? I try to remember what James said when the contractor came. He had a general area where the brewing equipment would go, because he mentioned needing to add floor drains. But I can’t recall what he said specifically about the brewing tanks.

My lack of knowledge about the industry in general and our brewery specifically is embarrassing. I feel this even more keenly because I’m one of only a few dozen or so women in the exhibition hall. It’s a bro fest as much as it’s a beer fest, and I know there’s an automatic assumption I don’t know much. In this case, it’s true.

Still, I press on. Because I want to prove James wrong. Even if I’m feeling angrier with the man by the second.

First, for what he said in the truck. I got over it. Then I decided I’m not over it.

Second, for making me feel unimportant and also kind of disgusting because he can’t handle sharing a room that, yes, only has one bed, but also has a perfectly acceptable pullout couch. There’s no need for him to stay with Tank tonight. Austin traffic is the worst, and it doesn’t stick to the normal rush-hour times. The highways are always backed up, and the downtown streets are just as bad, with cars everywhere, cyclists, and now idiot tourists on electric scooters.

The most obvious and practical thing would be for the two of us to share a room. But nooooo. James can’t handle being trapped in a room with me.

Finally, I’m furious with him for giving me exactly zero relevant information about his business, making me look and feel stupid.

The thing is, I’m actually enjoying this. The more vendors I talk to, the more I find myself wanting to know. I’m taking notes for James, sure, but for myself as well. I’ve caught the excitement in this place. I pick up snatches of conversation with lingo I don’t know, making notes about unfamiliar words I’ll google in the privacy of my room tonight.

It’s not just about James and the push-pull I feel with him. Being here has leveled up my excitement about Dark Horse.

Too bad James doesn’t care if I’m excited or not.

After thanking the man for explaining the varieties of brewing tanks (of which there are apparently many), I grab his card, then head to one of the tables serving beer samples. These are much more popular than the vendor tables, which has worked well for me, since I’m trying to get as much information as I possibly can. I’ve already scrawled five pages of notes.

I finally make my way through the line and grab a beer in a plastic cup. I forget the name as soon as the man says it but remember the descriptions as light and hoppy. I take a sip and try not to make a face. I’m not sure I like light and hoppy.

I drop the cup in the trash and move on to another vendor, scanning for James like I’ve been doing the whole time. Where is he? I did give him a room key since his bags are up there. Maybe he’s hiding out in the room. Or maybe he’s here somewhere, totally avoiding me, ducking behind booths to stay out of sight. That seems more likely.

I visit the table of the largest US supplier of hops and yeast, then an insurance company’s booth. There are way too many worst-case scenarios to list, but I scrawl down as many as I can, all the while hoping James has insurance.

I’m drawn to the booth of a company who prints labels for cans and bottles, checking out vibrant designs from their current clients. There are examples in metallic, glossy, matte, and embossed for the cans and varying kinds of paper for bottles.

“Do you do the designs in-house?” I ask, running my hand over one of the glossy metallic labels.

“Usually, people come to us with their own,” the woman behind the table says. She looks a little older than me, but her hair is almost pure white and hangs down to her waist. It’s stunning. “We have a few people on staff to work with simple things like resizing, but no actual designers. Are you looking for cans or bottles?”

Great question. So, James—are we using cans or bottles?

“Cans now, but we might expand to bottles.” I’m taking a wild guess here. Cans seem like they’d be cheaper to start with, right? The woman nods, so maybe I guessed correctly.

Does James already have designs in mind? Has he hired someone? Design isn’t my top skill, but I like to dabble the same way I dabble in so many things. He seemed to like what I did for the site, but he didn’t specifically tell me if he liked the logo mock-up. If he does, I might be able to save him from hiring a graphic designer. First, I’d need to know the kinds of beers, the names, and what style of design James is looking for. All of this will require talking for more than two minutes and in more than two syllables, which at this point, seems unlikely.

“This one is ours.” A woman with short, dark hair steps up next to me, handing me one of the labels. It’s metallic and trippy. Honestly, it makes me feel dizzy, like the room is spinning around me.

She leans closer and whispers, “So terrible, right?” A laugh bursts out of me, and she grins. “I’m Kyoko.”

I shake her hand. “Winnie.”

“I think we should be friends. Because we don’t have beards, for one. And you have killer boots. We can stick together and fight the beertriarchy—that’s patriarchy plus beer—together.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Looping her arm through mine, she starts to pull me away. The woman at the table holds out the label. “You can keep this, if you’d like.”