13. Charlie

13

CHARLIE

T he bathroom door creaks open, waking me up at some Godawful time. It’s still dark out, and the inn is still and quiet. I squint at the flashing alarm clock by the side of the bed.

It flashes 4:59. My alarm goes off in one minute. But as usual Quentin is already up and ready to go. Screw him. I’ve got one more minute to stay in bed, and I’m going to take it.

I pull the pillow over my head, blocking out the sliver of light coming from the bathroom.

My head feels heavy, and I haven’t had nearly enough sleep. I was worried about the idiot in the bathtub all night.

The fact that sleeping in a tub was a better option than sleeping in a warm comfy bed next to me shows how fucked up the sergeant is. He’s in denial about what’s between us, and it’s driving me crazy.

We’ve been thrown together on this trip in a room with only one bed. If that isn’t a nudge from the universe, I don’t know what is. My mother wasn’t around as much as she could have been, but some of her hippy mindset rubbed off on me. Things happen for a reason, and being stuck together with only one bed when there’s a fiery attraction between us seems like fate to me.

If an opportunity presents itself, you should go for it. And the growly ex-sergeant is the best opportunity I’ve had in a long time.

This is the perfect time to explore what’s between us, but he’s so far up his own ass he won’t entertain the possibility. And now I’ve slept badly thinking about him all night, and I’m cross.

Beep beep beep,

The old school alarm clock blares near my head, and I jerk my neck up and fumble for the off switch.

“Morning.”

Quentin is already dressed and shaved and looking as fresh as a new day. My head’s banging, and I didn’t even have anything to drink last night.

I scowl at him as frustration burbles up inside me. Frustration that he’s dragged me across the country, frustration that he’d rather sleep in a tub than next to me, frustration that even at five o’clock in the morning, before my head catches up, my body is already responding to him.

My core tugs at the sight of him, and I long to pull him into the bed and rub myself against his hard muscles and find out what exactly it takes to make the ex-sergeant lose control.

But all that’s impossible because he refuses to acknowledge that there might be something between us.

“I’ll go find coffee.”

He wisely exits the room, and I flop back onto the bed. With Quentin gone, I can get five more minutes of sleep.

Several snoozes, a grumpy Quentin, and a large coffee later, we finally leave the inn for the day. The festival is on the edge of town in an unused field.

Mobile vans and marquees are in neat rows across a wide grassy clearing. Towards the far end of the field, a stage is set up where local bands will play. Along one edge are the food trucks, already giving off delicious smells that remind me we haven’t had breakfast.

The organizer directs us to our allotted area, which is right in the middle of the craft beers and opposite an organic wine stall.

Quentin parks the truck, and we get to work setting it up. The side pulls down to form a makeshift bar, and we bring out the stools and a few tables to create a small seating area out front. The fridges are attached to a generator, and we stock them up with our award-winning bottles. We’ve also bought kegs direct from the brewery which we hook up.

While I stock the fridges, Quentin heads off to get us some breakfast. He comes back with two breakfast burritos and a brown paper bag.

“For later,” he mutters as he hands over the paper bag.

I open the bag to find a fat donut coated in thick pink frosting.

I’m touched he remembers that pink donuts are my favorite. I abandon the burrito and bite into the soft dough.

Quentin frowns. “You’re supposed to save that for later. In case you get hungry when I’m at the meetings.”

I chew the donut, enjoying the sweet sensation as it caresses my tastebuds.

“Why save the best stuff?” I say between mouthfuls. “If you want something, why wait?”

Quentin looks away and stomps off to check that the generator is cooling the fridges.

I notice him walking stiffly, and while he’ll never admit it, I’m pretty sure that night in the tub has messed his back up. Silly man.

I finish the donut and get to work setting out the tasting samples on the counter.

By the time the gates open at eleven, we’re ready to go.

The first hour goes smoothly. Quentin stays with me and we work well together, giving out samples and selling bottles of our award-winning beer to eager customers.

It’s a different vibe down here compared to North Carolina. The men wear hipster beards neatly trimmed unlike the wild men back on the mountain. Not that Quentin would ever grow a beard. The military influence is too strong in him.

A couple of times, I catch him watching me when I’m talking to male customers. He always seems closer, hanging over my shoulder whenever a young man talks too long with me, even though I’m only talking about the beer.

In the afternoon, Quentin heads off to his meetings and I manage the truck on my own. It’s fun. I enjoy talking with customers, and we’re selling well. I take a few big orders from local bars which we’ll ship out from the brewery.

The story behind the beer brings in the customers as much as the award label. That it’s brewed by veterans in a motorcycle club on the side of Wild Heart Mountain captures the imagination and makes people want to support us.

By the time the gates close at six and customers start drifting away, I’m exhausted. My body is weary from standing up all day, and I’m hungry.

We spend an hour cleaning up and restocking for tomorrow.

Today was busy but fun. Quentin’s meetings went well. He brokered a deal with one of the biggest distributors on the west coast. Our mountain beer is going to be sold from Seattle to San Diego.

Quentin’s humming, and it’s infectious. I hum along with him and only halfway into the song realize it’s one of his old man tunes. I guess his music isn’t that bad after all.