Trouble Brewing Read online

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

  * * *

  Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.

  For my personal home brewer.

  I’m so drunk in love with you.

  #Surfboard

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Someone once told me to never be the smartest person in the room, and I make it a point to keep my room packed with people smarter than me.

  Starting with the BGW ladies. You are the most beautiful bunch of women I’ve ever known, and I love that I can call you friends. Brighton, thank you for being my mentor, soundboard, retreat mom, and all-around general badass. Were it not for you, I’d still be using emojis and GIFs to express my emotions. Ellis, you are too brilliant for this world, and I love learning from you. Elizabeth, if there was ever a test I had to take, I’d cheat off you. Esh, my favorite Iowan, you’re almost always the first one to volunteer to lend your eyes, and your advice is always perfect. Helen, you’ve shown me you don’t have to be the loudest one to make the biggest splash. Jen, you don’t know it, but you’ve pushed me to let down my guard in writing and in life because of your openness. Ann, you think and do things I could never dream up, and you do it all in the best socks. Melly, you are my third favorite storyteller, only behind my brother and Kevin Hart, which means you are pretty damn funny. And Laura, my long-lost sister, I adore you, plain and simple. When I am old and gray, I’ll look back at our many adventures yet to come and smile. Thank you all, ladies, for your laughter and guidance.

  Of course, I need to thank Sharon, my agent and dreammaker, for always answering my e-mails even when they’re filled with late-night ramblings or drunken ideas, which led to this book. You are a gentlewoman and a scholar, and I never fear with you on my side. Marla, editor extraordinaire, thank you for seeing the possibilities in this manuscript and for being so accommodating while I birthed a human baby and a book baby. My baby and my brain appreciate your patience.

  To the PW ’15 group, the best collection of writers ever known to meet over the internet, I know there is always someone who can answer any question I have or lend an ear for support. Thanks to my CPs, J.R. and Laura (again), you are the best.

  To my family for never making me feel like my dreams were stupid, and for my brother, who I will always thank, for always making sure there was someone smarter than me in the room.

  Gratitude, love, and light for Oprah.

  And last but not least, I’d like to thank Yuengling, Summer Shandy, Dogfish Head, Brooklyn Lager, Fat Tire, Stone IPA, Sierra Nevada, Goose Island, Lagunitas, Free Will, Hijinx, Funk, the Tavern, Callaghan’s, and every other beer, bar, pub, and brewery where everybody knows your name and they’re always glad you came.

  CHAPTER 1

  Piper

  It was miserable out. The groundhog saw his shadow this year, and we were all paying dearly for it in Minneapolis. I mean, really, who gave that four-legged, bucktoothed furball that much authority anyway?

  While he hid away enjoying the rest of his long winter’s nap, we’d been hit with a foot and a half of snow on the first day of spring and were still waiting for it all to melt, even though it was now the last day of March.

  I hefted the garage door up another couple of inches so it was off the ground a few feet, despite the outside temperature. Between the heat from the propane boiler and the smell of hops and barley, I needed to get some fresh air. I tugged my beanie farther down on my head before slipping out underneath the garage door, leaving the humidity of my pseudo nanobrewery.

  The neighborhood was quiet at this time of day, before schools let out and people got home from work. I watched the melting snow fall in big clumps from nearby trees and made tracks with my boots in the now-dirty gray mush, contemplating the latest e-mail from my sister. I had asked her to send me some mock-ups of my logo with different colors. My website needed a little pick-me-up; the drab taupe and brown just wasn’t doing it for me anymore.

  Out of the Bottle Brewery had been my dream for years, ever since I’d learned you could actually earn a living from making beer. And with a couple of cases at a distributor, the reality of making my dream come true was closer than ever before. I wanted—needed—everything to be perfect. Including the welcome banner on my website.

  I breathed out a big puff of white air, still not used to a Minnesota “spring” even though I’d been there for two years now. Two years of this cold and all of my savings, hoping I could reap the benefits of an expanding craft brew scene.

  So far Out of the Bottle hasn’t gained much traction, despite winning a few local tasting contests. But that would all change soon. It had to, because there was no way I was ever going back to work for someone else, brewing recipes that weren’t mine. Plus, my bank account was in dire need of a paycheck. I had to believe I’d get some of my beer into paying hands. Sooner rather than later.

  Before my teeth started chattering, I stomped off whatever snow was left on the bottom of my boots and ducked back into the garage. With five conical fermenters, a lautering tun, three wooden casks, a small utility sink, and a tiny desk, my two-car garage at the back of the house was a miniature brewing kingdom and I was queen.

  I couldn’t wait to expand and open up a real brewery. One with a multiple-barrel brewing system, a tasting room, a couple thousand square feet, and a few workers. A place I could actually reign over.

  But to get there I needed to sell. And to sell, I needed to get to work.

  I pushed up my sleeves and sat down to look back over my sister’s e-mail. Unfortunately, the quick jaunt outside hadn’t helped in deciding what color to make the funky wording. I dropped my head to the table with a frustrated groan.

  “Piper?”

  “In here.” I turned just as my roommate stuck her head in the side door. Her normally golden-brown skin was tinged pink from the cold. “What are you doing home?”

  “My last two clients for today canceled, and Manny heard me sneeze three times. He sent me home to recover,” she said, stepping inside.

  I snickered. Sonja was the healthiest person I knew. Between her strict workout regimen and constant green juices, I didn’t know if she’d ever been sick. Manny, her boxing coach, would have a fit if his star athlete ever really came down with anything more than the sniffles.

  “Does this mean you have the night off?”

  She lifted a resigned shoulder. Only Sonja would be bereft at having absolutely nothing to do for the night. “Guess so.”

  “Piper and Sonja’s day of fun!” I sang, matching the annoying pitch of Chandler’s girlfriend Janice.

  She pointed a finger at me. “No, we’re not watching Friends.”

  I waved her off as she sat down on a folding chair, extending a pair of fancy leggings out toward me. She always got cool-looking workout gear because of her boxing sponsorship, and the hot pink called to me.

  I plucked at them, touching where the black mesh met the pink spandex.

  “We could go for a run,” she suggested.

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I want to do,” I deadpanned.

  I loved my friend, but I hated her idea of a good time. She was always on the go, and quite frankly I couldn’t keep up. In fact, that’s how we met—she literally ran into me. Sonja likes to argue I ran into her, but that’s not true.

  She had her headphones and face on, the one I’d come to learn was her all-business
face, and she smacked right into me next to the Landwehr Canal in Berlin. I was brand-new to Germany and happy to bump—literally—into a fellow American. She was there for a month visiting family; I was there studying to become a brewmaster, and we became quick friends. It turned out we were both fish out of water. Me being a student with zero friends, she being reintroduced to her mother’s family who she’d only ever met as a child.

  Our friendship quickly grew over daily lunches and weekends spent dancing at EDM clubs, forever bonded by bratwursts and a struggle to learn the native language. When she went home, we kept in touch, so much so that when I was moving to Minneapolis, she offered me room and board.

  That was almost two years ago. Now we were more best friends than roommates.

  “Here.” I turned my laptop screen to her. “Which colors do you like for the logo?”

  Sonja tied her thick, dark hair on top of her head, a few tiny corkscrew curls sticking out by her temples and at her neck. “Navy with the lime green.”

  “I like that one, too.” I sent off a reply to Kayla to change the header on the website, and before I stood to turn the propane off, I got my sister’s response that she’d have it updated as soon as possible. Sonja had seen me brew enough times to know the drill, so she followed me to the sink. I grabbed the wort chiller—a bungle of plastic tubes and copper wire—and untangled it as Sonja screwed one end of the tube to the utility sink’s faucet. I dropped the copper wire into the pot, and she let the ice-cold water rip from her end.

  Using this method to cool the beer was a bit amateurish, but it was all I had without the money and space for a glycol chilling system. I let the hot water drain out of the garage, carving a steaming path in the snow. My mind went with it, once again losing my thoughts to a future of chrome and steel. I’d had just about enough of these homemade shortcuts.

  I was a professional, dammit.

  My phone rang in my back pocket, disturbing the mental image of my future kegs. I didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway, hoping it wasn’t the credit card company chasing down the payment I owed them. I was already up to my ears in interest rates.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, I’m calling for Piper Williams.”

  “This is she.”

  “Piper, my name is Blake Reed, I got your information from Dave at B&S Distribution.”

  I’d met Dave a few weeks ago at one of the contests I had won. He’d agreed to stock a couple of my cases at the wholesaler he owned. So far not much had sold, but Dave had high hopes.

  “How can I help you, Blake?”

  “Well, I was just perusing your website and—”

  “You were? What’d you think of the colors?” The question was out before I could stop it, and I slapped my hand over my mouth. Could I be any more desperate?

  Blake laughed on the other end, and I could feel my stock in professionalism dropping by the second.

  “I like them,” he said. “The lime green is different, stands out.”

  I offered up a silent thank-you to the universe for the unbelievably quick work of my sister and that this guy had a sense of humor.

  “I actually called because I was hoping you’d be able to meet with me. I’m opening a gastropub next month, and I’d love to try your beer.”

  I jumped up, pivoting to face Sonja in a silent scream. She raised her brows, rushing to my side. I angled the phone so she could listen to the conversation.

  “Sure. I’d love to give you anything I got.”

  Sonja flicked my forehead.

  “I mean, I’d love to bring you some samples. When would you like me to come in?”

  He laughed again, my nerves no more eased by the sound. “Is tomorrow too early?”

  Sonja pumped her fist up and down as I answered, “Not at all.”

  “How about four o’clock?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Is the e-mail on your contact page okay for me to send you the address?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.” I knew I sounded way too giddy, but I couldn’t help it. Better to be overly excited than to have more accidental innuendoes fly out of my mouth.

  “Great. I’ll get that out to you in a few minutes.”

  I danced in place. “Thank you so much. I’ll see you at four tomorrow.”

  I hung up and let loose my scream of joy. Sonja joined me, dancing, ringing her arms around my shoulders.

  “Yes! Do you feel amazing?”

  I couldn’t have wiped the smile from my face if I’d tried. “I do, actually. This calls for a special dinner. What do you think? Pizza?”

  Sonja snorted. “Ha. No. I got spaghetti squash. You can finish up out here and I’ll get it in the oven.”

  “Piper and Sonja’s day of fun, remember? Pizza’s mandatory.”

  She turned at the door, side-eyeing me. “No pizza, but I’ll give you two episodes of Friends. Just not the one when Ross gets the spray tan. That one’s the worst.”

  I’d give her that. “Deal.”

  She closed the door, and I sank into a chair, waiting for the wort to finish cooling before I added the yeast. I watched the temperature gauge with an eagle eye. This batch wouldn’t be ready for tomorrow, but it would be perfect nonetheless. Every single gallon had to be.

  My first real chance to move out of a converted two-car garage to a bigger place was this meeting. And I was not going to screw it up.

  I was going to be perfect.

  As perfect as my beer.

  CHAPTER 2

  Piper

  I hitched the box in my arms higher and slammed the car door shut with my boot before juggling the cardboard to press the lock button on my key fob.

  Carefully, I stepped over the white slush of Satan and held the box steady. This was my future right here, and one wrong step could literally and figuratively be the death of me. I crossed the street to the address Blake had sent me. According to his e-mail yesterday, this was the Public, a new gastropub downtown that would hopefully put my beer on tap and my company on the map.

  I gazed up at the dark brick building. Minus the construction releases in the window and the missing signage, it looked ready to open. And I felt ready to puke.

  I’d been working toward this for the last ten years. All of my education, my experience, my hours of hard work every day brewing, bottling, labeling, marketing it all myself . . . it had all come down to this.

  With a deep breath and one last prayer, I opened the door and stepped into the possible start of my new life.

  I blinked, my eyes adjusting from the sunshine to the interior lighting. The Public was fabulous. Exposed brick showcased piping on the ceiling while kitschy light fixtures made out of aluminum cans hung low. The bar in the back off to the left had, on a quick count, about twenty taps. Behind it hung a metal sign made out of bottle caps in the shape of America.

  The place was trendy and hip, and I loved it. I wanted my beer to be sold here. Real bad.

  “Hey, can I help you?”

  I turned toward the voice and found a tall, blond Norwegian statue.

  “I’m here to see Blake.”

  The man pointed in a general direction over his shoulder. “He’s on the phone.”

  I set my samples on a sleek wooden table and met his blue eyes. He stared at me with a curious expression, and I tried not to fidget. Usually you couldn’t get Minnesotans to shut up, but this one was silent. Maybe he wasn’t a local.

  “We have a meeting,” I said, feeling silly. Why else would I be in an unopened bar?

  From under his Minnesota Vikings hat, the man’s gaze drifted to the box for a moment before slamming back to me in understanding. “You’re here for the tasting?”

  I nodded as a hulk of a man sauntered out from the bathroom, his tattoo-covered arms swinging at his sides. He was enormous—huge shoulders and legs bigger than both of mine combined. Hulk looked between me and the other man, then back to me before a slow smile spread across his face. “Hello, there. How can I help you?”r />
  I pointed to both of them. “Do you guys work here or something?”

  Hulk shook his head. “Not officially.”

  The statue took a few steps toward me. “I’m Connor. That’s Bear. We’re friends of Blake’s.”

  Bear, aptly named, ducked his head down. “And I am at your service.”

  This one tiptoed past Minnesota Nice to plant both feet firmly in the flirt camp. “Appreciate that, Bear.” I offered him a tight smile. “But I’m here to meet Blake about my beer.”

  “Your beer?” The surprise wasn’t new to me. I was a woman who brewed and sold her own beer. Not quite the norm.

  Yet.

  But with the way these two were gawking at me, you’d think I was a monkey who’d started explaining the process of evolution in French.

  “Yep.” I pointed to my T-shirt underneath my coat. “Out of the Bottle Brewery.”

  Connor’s and Bear’s eyes grew to cartoonlike proportions.

  “When Blake said a craft brewer was coming, I’d assumed you were a dude,” Bear said.

  Connor looked me up and down as if checking for proof of gender. “Me too.”

  That’s when the kitchen door swung open and all three of us turned at the sound. And my jaw promptly hit the floor.

  Months ago I’d found an Instagram account of Hot Dudes Brewing, and I was half-tempted to take a picture of this one and send it in.

  This man.

  This man deserved an entire Pinterest board. A Twitter hashtag. His own viral meme.

  He swept his hand through his hair that wasn’t quite brown or blond, straight or curly, but rather an artful mix of all. It flopped to the side in a clumsy sort of style.

  His eyes coasted around the room and landed on me. “Piper?”

  “Yes,” I croaked, and cleared my throat. “I’m Piper Williams.” I met his outstretched hand with a smile. His long fingers curled around my hand tightly. My father always said you could tell a lot about a person by their handshake. And his was steady, sure, friendly.