“Well, what would you like to drink? I can grab you something from the bar while you’re in there and meet you right back here. All I’m asking for is a little bit of your time.” His tone softens with me, replaced with a slight plea as he stares.
“Water is fine.” I twist away from him and head back inside, intent on using the restroom, but then something in me decides against it. Instead, I spy a discrete exit up ahead and waste no time scurrying toward it, never bothering to look back as I plan my escape. As I shove open the door, greeted by the slightly humid air of the night again, I find my car in the parking lot and slide inside to flee the shackles of a life I don’t want any part of and race toward any place that isn’t here.
I sigh into the welcoming silence as the only sound I can hear is the traffic moving around me while I drive further and further away from the country club. But it’s a far cry from the meaningless conversations and fake people I left behind.
As the wheels of my car spin beneath me and I feel the tension leave my body, I pass by a warehouse that is lit up with nightlife. Large steel doors are propped open and bright light peeks out from under them along with the sounds of laughter and music. The sign on the top of the building proudly displaying Gibson Brewery catches my eye, and the noise coming from within makes my ears perk up as I slow down at the stop light. Those people sound like they’re having fun, not biting their tongues, or playing a part in a show they want nothing to do with.
Without thinking, I move my car into the turn lane and signal to turn into the parking lot once the light turns green. I quickly find an open parking space, grab my purse, and head inside where merriment rings out loud and groups of people have sectioned off around high-top tables in the huge space that boasts a country feel.
Giant steel barrels line the back wall through windows behind a long bar, housing hundreds of gallons of beer, I presume. Shuffle board tables are positioned in one corner, and several board games are scattered about among the picnic tables in the middle of the floor.
I look around and realize I’ve never been in a brewery before, and as my eyes move around, I spot an empty seat at the bar and beeline straight for it.
“Hey, there. How are you this evening?” A short blonde woman comes up to me as I get comfortable on my stool, wiping her hands on a towel hanging from her hip.
“In need of alcohol,” I answer, which grants me a knowing smile from her.
“Then you came to the right place,” she says in that southern drawl that makes me think she’s a little more country than most of us here closer to the city. “What can I get you?”
“Well, I’ve never been here before, and I’m not a huge beer connoisseur. What would you recommend?”
She turns around and grabs a wooden plank with five small circles in it, then small shot glasses and plops them with ease into each space. “I would do a sampler then, so you can taste a variety.”
“When did this place open?” I ask as my head spins around the room again.
“Just a few weeks ago. This is a tasting room that Wyatt Gibson, the owner, wanted to open closer to the city. Gibson Brewery is actually stationed a few hours from here at the Gibson Ranch. Have you heard of it?”
I shake my head. “Afraid not. But I think a place like this will do well in a town like Newberry.”
“That’s what we’re counting on.” She nods and then points me in the direction of the menu, where what seems like a mile-long list of beers are written out in multicolored chalk.
“The list goes from lightest to darkest beer, so I would recommend starting at the top, especially if you’re not too keen on beer. Unless something pops out at you.”
I read through and agree that the top five would probably be best, so she takes my tray, fills up each sampler glass from the taps that are installed in the wall behind the bar, and then carefully places the wooden plank back in front of me.
“Here you go. Just let me know if you need anything else. I’m Kelsea.” She places a small strip of white paper in front of me, which I’m assuming is my bill, and then scurries off to help another customer.
“Thank you!” I call after her as she waves me off with a charming smile and greets the newest person at the bar.
I lift the first glass to my nose and smell it, a pale blonde ale that reminds me of Coors Light and take a sip, pleased that this beer actually has more flavor than one of America’s favorite drinking beers. I continue along the line of samples, taking a sip of each for good measure when a familiar voice hits my ears from behind, sending off a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.
“Didn’t take you for a beer drinker, Princess.”
And when I turn around to confirm the owner of the voice, his smug grin flashes back at me, along with a glimmer in those gold eyes I’m beginning to feel could hypnotize me.
I feel my legs start to shake as I take in his appearance. He looks very similar to how I vaguely remember him the night I ran into him at The Jameson. Black jeans encase the muscular legs I know he’s hiding beneath, a white shirt clings to his well-defined torso, and a black baseball cap sits backwards on his head, all giving him that signature bad boy look I’m beginning to realize I’m a big fan of.
“Well, there’s
