Brynn smiled at this, and okay, maybe she even puffed up a bit with pride. Jamie had been putting his scientific brilliance to this kind of work for almost a decade now, and she hoped he was just as proud at how much she’d paid attention. Of course, there were times he’d gone on for far too long about the IPA he was trying in any given year, and Brynn would zone understandably. A girl doesn’t want to get attached to one ale only for him to never make it again. But the passion with which Jamie did his work—that was contagious. Mellow and even on all other counts, his spirit ignited when he talked about what he loved.
“She certainly does,” Jamie said, and Brynn beamed. Jamie didn’t correct Tim about the your girl comment, and she decided to let it go as well. No point in steering the conversation in that direction when they were just starting to have fun.
“Do I get to taste it now?” she asked, the moisture from the glass making her mouth water.
Jamie put his hands over hers, guiding her to lift the glass. Finally, she thought, but the motion stopped when her hands were just in front of her face.
“What do you smell?”
Brynn sighed. At least the glass was closer to her mouth. Baby steps, she supposed.
She sniffed and was transported to a memory. Barely more than a year ago, the Fourth of July. Brynn had just gotten out of a relationship—her doing—because after six months there weren’t any fireworks, so the last thing she wanted to do that night was see the evidence of what was missing from her life. She boycotted the Fourth and holed up in her apartment by herself until Holly, Annie, Jeremy, and Jamie brought the anti-party to her. With a half barrel filled from the ale house, the five of them drank their fill with the shades drawn and the Monkees blaring. Not one firework was seen or heard, and Brynn relived this scene simply from the scent of citrus.
“Orange,” she said, grounding herself back in the moment with the sound of her own voice. “With maybe a hint of grapefruit. Or lemon. Something tart.”
“Dude,” Tim said. “Do not let this one go.”
This time Brynn and Jamie responded in perfect unison.
“We’re not together.”
Brynn’s version was emphatic, Jamie’s hesitant, but their words were the same nonetheless.
“Then will you marry me, Brynn?” Tim asked in earnest.
Brynn flushed at the compliment, sure both men could see the evidence of it on her pale skin, but she didn’t care. It felt nice to have this part of her brain admired—the beer part. Maybe she’d call it her beer cortex.
“Haven’t tasted it yet, Tim,” she said. “A girl’s gotta drink her beer before she marries the guy who poured it.”
She stuck her tongue out, ready to lap up the fragrant liquid.
“You’re killing me,” Tim said.
“Dude, I poured it,” Jamie argued under his breath, and Brynn wondered if the remark was for Tim-the-bartender or her. This blindness thing was heightening her other senses all right, and she didn’t like it. Because heightened senses made her think. And overthink. Hell, she did that on a normal day. Right now she just wanted to forget thinking altogether and drink her beer.
“Can I taste it, now?” she asked, sure that as soon as the liquid passed her lips, she’d probably down the whole glass. It was turning into that kind of a night.
“One sip,” Jamie said. “One sip and then initial reaction.”
She stuck her tongue out again, partly because she liked the idea of Tim-the-bartender thinking it was hot. She didn’t do things like this, acting playful and sexy with a perfect stranger. But blind or not, Brynn felt sexy in this moment, and she dipped the tip of her tongue into the head of the beer.
“Jesus.”
The word was soft, under his breath, but Brynn’s sense of hearing was sharper this evening, because the word did not escape her, nor did the recognition that the voice belonged to Jamie and not to Tim. She reminded herself she was playing at sexy for the complimentary bartender and swallowed the bit of foam on her tongue. Then she laughed softly, the tickle of the carbonation lingering.
“I can name that beer in one sip,” she said.
“Don’t rush,” Tim told her. “I’ve got all night.”
“Actually, do it, now,” Jamie said, and for the first time tonight she wished she could read the expression that went with his words.
Instead she sipped. One long, slow gulp.
“It’s a Hefeweizen,” she said, then rested the glass on the bar. “A close second to my favorite, which is a Belgian white, though this one hasn’t brewed me one yet.” She nodded toward where she thought Jamie was. Who knows? It could have been Tim. Heat coursed through her, and she closed her eyes. She saw no fireworks, but it was most definitely the Fourth of July.
“Game over,” Jamie said.
“No way, dude. We’re just getting started,” Tim insisted. “Drinks are on the house the rest of the night. What can I get you?” he asked Jamie, and Brynn listened to him sigh.
“You got any Jack?”
Chapter Twelve