She’s just a friend, and she’s allowed to be interested in hops.
I remind myself that emotions like envy are unbecoming to my entire worldview.
“Let me pour that for you.” Marcus spins around and crosses the bar to the taps.
I shoot her a curious stare. “Want me to leave you alone to chat with Daniel Craig-Hemsworth?”
“Aww, you’re jealous.”
“No. Please. Not at all.”
“I’m just interested in how the beer is made. You don’t have to be so green.”
“Not jealous. Not in the least.”
She holds up her thumb and forefinger. “Maybe a little? I mean, he does have a nice accent, you have to admit. Not that yours isn’t ever so lovely too,” she says, slipping a posh accent onto the last few words.
I jerk back. “I don’t sound like that.”
“You don’t think you sound like Hugh Bonneville?” she asks, continuing in that high-class tone.
“Like a rich, stuffy uncle? Are you kidding me?”
“He’s delightful to listen to. Like Jim Dale. Don’t you like the Harry Potter voice? Astonishing things were happening, and all that.”
“One, Jim Dale is a national treasure, so naturally, I think he’s the cat’s whiskers. Two, I do not sound like Jim Dale or Hugh Bonneville.”
“Maybe Hugh Grant, then?”
“Daniel Craig,” I say, standing my ground.
With utter amusement in her eyes, she sets her hand on my arm. “You’re completely jealous that you’re not the only Brit in the room, aren’t you?”
“Please. As if.”
“Jealous. Calling it.”
“Not an ounce of it in me.”
“Liar.”
“Woman, you are relentless.”
She shimmies her shoulders in a little victory dance. “I am indeed.”
A few seconds later, Marcus turns around, sets down the pints, and issues a declaration. “I promise you this pale ale will coat your palate, and you’ll love every second of it going down your throat.” He blinks, realization hitting him clearly. “Er, sorry. That sounded . . .well, sometimes I get carried away.”
Truly regards the glass with a smile. “We all get carried away sometimes, Marcus.”
I groan. The innuendo. Dear God, the innuendo. I can’t take it anymore.
Another customer walks in, and Marcus gestures to the man in a cap who’s surveying the beer board. Yes, go away, Marcus. Go away, this instant.
“Now, I’ll be right over there. If you need anything at all, just shout. I’ll be here for you.” He’s Frasier again, and he takes off, possibly to begin a history lesson with a new customer.
Truly lifts her glass. “I like him.”
I flinch and try to blink back my shock. “You like him?”
That wasn’t what I wanted her to say.
17
I point to Hemsworth. “Him? You like him?”
“Yeah, he’s a character. I like to call that type . . . the soapbox bartender.” She taps her chest. “Personally, I’m a mixologist. But the mixologist gets along well with the soapboxer because we’re both kind of obsessed with what goes into drinks.”
“And you like him?” I ask again, still incredulous.
“I like him professionally,” she says, then presses the back of her hand against my forehead. “You really ought to see if your temperature has risen from this fit of jealousy.”
“I’m cool as ice.”
“Then, since you’re so unaffected by him, take a drink and give an honest opinion.”
I down some of the IPA, and it’s pretty damn tasty. “It’s okay,” I admit grudgingly. “Maybe you and Soapbox want to discuss it.”
She laughs and drinks her beer. “I’ve never seen you so wound up. It’s adorable.”
