“Do I look like the violent type?” she asked, and Victoria shook her head. “Have you seen Mr. Kingston this morning?” Now Victoria nodded. “Then I need you to watch this, and I need you to call me a cab to Center Studios. That’s where this beer festival thing is, correct?” Another nod.
In less than five minutes, Brynn was in a taxi on her way to find the man who was too stubborn and scared to admit what this trip had been all about, to prove to him that she’d been too stubborn to see what was right in front of her, and to convince him that they’d spent enough time apart already.
She looked down at what Jamie considered her godforsaken Cubs T-shirt. She’d planned on spending the day on a plane not trying to win out over Jamie’s fear. And though she’d showered and put on clean undergarments, she was pretty much out of clothes that hadn’t already been worn. Well, if he loved her, he’d take her in spite of the shirt. Now she just had to find him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jeremy opened another bottle of the new brew to fill the sampler cups.
“We’re getting good traffic,” he said, and Jamie grunted a response he hoped came off as an affirmative.
“My sister keeps texting me saying that you and Brynn aren’t returning her texts. Can you just answer her so I can stop being the middle man?”
Jamie grunted again, this time a negative.
Jeremy continued pouring and passing out samples while Jamie occasionally greeted a patron who wanted to meet the brewer. He was happy for the band playing across the way, though he thought about requesting something other than Van Halen’s “Why Can’t This Be Love.” Instead he gritted his teeth. He could make it through the next three minutes. For the most part the music helped drown out his thoughts enough to keep working. If he stopped moving, stopped listening, he’d have a hard time keeping himself from just hopping in the truck and saying Fuck it.
“So you’re going with the stoic lumberjack thing, then?” Jeremy asked, a smirk plastered on his face as he gave Jamie’s plaid and denim look a once-over. Jamie still didn’t feel like talking. “Where is Brynn, anyway?” Jeremy asked. “Between the texts from my sister and the fact that Brynn’s not here for the big unveiling, I take it the trip didn’t quite work out as planned?”
“I’m going for a walk,” Jamie said, rolling up the sleeves of his button-down. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. Yep. It was definitely a beard now. He adjusted his Sox hat and felt the hair tickling the tops of his ears, brushing the collar of his shirt. And just as he was about to set off for a little solitude in a sea of strangers, he heard his name.
Not from someone nearby, yet not a voice shouting across the expanse of the studio field. Nope. I’m looking for Jamie Kingston blared through the lot’s speakers, the ones being used by the cover band who just finished their song. And dammit if he didn’t know that voice.
The stage was in his line of sight, and as he got closer, he saw first—Jesus, he saw the Cubs shirt, but he didn’t care. He laughed, something he thought he wouldn’t do today or any day soon.
“Jamie. I know you’re out there. At least, I hope you are or else Chainsaw and the boys are going to really regret playing this next song if it’s totally in vain. Did you know the singer’s name is Chainsaw? Great name, dude.” She’d turned her face from the mic to acknowledge the long-haired, leather-pants-wearing band member who must have been Chainsaw.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I need to tell you something, and I was hoping if I did it with enough witnesses, you’d finally believe me.”
Jamie pushed his way through the crowd, as close to the stage as he could get. The ground was wet up front, muddied by spilled beer from patrons who were already drunk by eleven a.m.
She saw him then, and she chewed her top lip before breaking into a smile.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled up to her.
She looked at the band poised to play, then back at him.
“Your laugh,” she started. “I love the deep rasp of your laugh and the way I can’t help but smile when I hear it.”
He lifted his hat and ran a hand through his hair before adjusting it again. Then he crossed his arms. Since when did he get so fidgety?
“And that!” She pointed at him. “That hat, how it’s a part of you, a reminder of your loyalty, no matter how good or bad the Sox are doing.”
“Hey!” he called to her, the crowd circling around him to listen to their show. “We’re in the playoffs. We could make it to the Series!”
Her smile broadened, and he itched to move closer, then crawl up on that stage and grab her. She was here for him. She had to be. After last night—after the past few days—he let hope wriggle its way in.
“The way you stay so even-tempered to balance my…” She threw her hands in the air in a wild gesticulation, and he laughed. “But with the things that matter—your work…and the people you love—you fill with passion, one that’s so contagious people can’t help but love what you love.”