Janet Evanovich - Love in a Nutshell

Kate smiled at the label’s black pen-and-ink drawing of a goofy hound who was trying to look fierce. “That’s the same dog in the mosaic out front of the brewery.”

“Chuck’s our mascot, even though Matt doesn’t bring him around much. He’s also Matt’s longest lasting relationship… so far.”

Both Bart and Travis were giving Kate suggestive grins as Travis took the bottle from her and poured for her. Kate focused on the tabletop.

“This is a summer brew,” Matt said. “Technically, it’s a Kölsch style beer, which you’ll need to know when you’re on the floor. But really, just think about a beach day when you’re ready for some shade and a cool drink.”

Kate lifted the glass and tentatively sniffed its contents. She steeled herself. One sip from a Barbie-sized glass couldn’t do all that much damage, could it?

“Come on, you can do it,” Travis said.

She took a sip, expecting to hate it, but she didn’t. In fact, she went for a slightly bolder sip.

“Not half bad,” she said. “It’s bubbly like soda but not icky sweet.”

Matt grinned, obviously proud but trying to keep it under wraps. “It’s a good starting point. Low in hops and lower in alcohol than some of the others you’ll be trying. Ready to move on?”

“Almost.” Kate drained the sample glass. “An unpretentious beer, lightly floral, and of earthy peasant stock.”

“You joke, but beer tastings are a big part of how our business has grown,” Matt said. “A little less attitude than some wine events, but we have food pairings and tasting notes, too.”

“Really?”

“It makes sense if you think about it,” Matt said. “What was your first impulse when Travis poured you that sample?”

“To smell it.”

“Exactly,” Bart said. “Let’s try an IPA on her for bouquet.”

“IPA?” Kate echoed.

Bart handed her another bottle. This one’s label was nearly psychedelic and read Goa for the Gusto.

“India Pale Ale,” Bart said. “So called because when the British Empire was at its peak, British ale had to travel a long way to get to Britons. Lots of hops were added to each barrel as a preservative, and the product ended up way different than it started out. It became part of beer history.”

Kate handed the bottle back to Travis, who poured her a sample. She lifted her mini-glass and smelled the ale.

“Wow! It smells almost like a sauvignon blanc… all citrus.” She drew in deeper. “Like grapefruit, and maybe a little lemon?”

Matt nodded his approval. “Exactly. Like all IPAs.”

Emboldened by the so-not-beer aroma, Kate downed half the sample in one swallow, then had to fight not to gag it back up.

“Issues?” Travis asked.

Kate took several deep breaths. “Totally not my style. It tastes nothing like it smells.”

She really could have used a food pairing. Something smothered in hot sauce to wipe out the flavors lingering in her mouth would have been dandy.

“For a lot of people, an IPA is an acquired taste,” Matt said.

Travis rose and grabbed an empty pitcher from behind his pouring counter.

“Dump,” he said.

Kate tipped out the last bit of beer in her glass. “Thank you.”

“Technically, hops add both dryness and bitterness,” Matt said.

“The bitterness I got. How about a little Dog Day to cleanse my palate?”

Travis gave her a refill. She downed it, then shuddered as the last memory of the Goa left her body.

Matt grabbed another sampling glass and set another bottle on the table. “Dragonfly Amber Ale. Time to move one step darker in the ales.”

“So long as you leave the Chuck beer in easy reaching distance, I’m game,” Kate said.

“Dragonfly Amber is the first of my beers to place in judging at the Great American Beerfest,” Matt said.

“What’s Beerfest?” Kate asked.

Travis’s face was heavy with awe. “It’s like the Olympics,” he said.

Matt poured Kate a sample. “Caramel malted barley, smooth finish, and dry hopped to eliminate bitterness while keeping the dryness in place.”

Kate tried a sip and found she had no problem at all with the Dragonfly. “Okay, now this is the nectar of the gods,” she said.

Travis pumped his fist. “Another beer hater bites the dust.”

They moved on to stouts and porters, and Kate loved them all. Clearly, she had misremembered her earlier beer encounter.

Once the guys had finished up with the tasting, they started discussing Travis’s recipes. Kate tried to follow the conversation, except she didn’t have the background to know whether his autumn pumpkin ale was “cutting edge,” as Travis claimed, or “too out there to coutthe baturn a profit,” as Matt contended.

“Is it getting warm in here?” Kate asked.

The men paused in their conversation.

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Matt said.

“Okay. Carry on.”

Kate wandered over to the small tasting bar and began leafing through Travis’s beer notes and advertising materials. The editor in her quickly returned.

“Does anyone have a pen?” she asked.

All she received in response were blank stares. They had moved on to addressing the level of nutmeg in Travis’s brew. No big deal. Her purse, which always held a fistful of pens, was in the truck.

When she returned, she asked the guys, “Mind if I grab another Dog Day?”

“Go for it,” Matt said. “We shouldn’t be that much longer, though.”

She pulled a beer from the cooler and went back to flyspecking Travis’s notes. She’d finished her first mini-glass and was pouring her second when Matt joined her at the bar.

“Sorry this is taking so long,” he said. “I need to take advantage of the time I can be up here. Travis isn’t hot on listening to Bart, so I have to be the enforcer.”

“No problem.” She slid Travis’s brochures closer to Matt. “I’ve been keeping myself busy. I cleaned up the copy and kicked up the language.”

Matt gave her a funny look. “Your face is kind of red. Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

Or at least she thought she was. Kate touched a hand to her cheek. She was hot. Like a core-temperature-reaching-lethal-range kind of hot.

“I think I’ll step outside for a second,” she said.

Whatever Matt had to say in return was left in the dust as she bolted toward the door. Once outside, she climbed into Matt’s truck and flipped open the passenger’s vanity mirror.

“Oh, man!”

The whole beer issue was coming back to her now. That youthful flirtation had ended not because she’d drunk too much and made herself sick, but because beer was her Kryptonite, something akin to severe lactose intolerance.

She wasn’t red. She was Chet-colored.

Kate sat back and fanned her face. She knew what was coming next. Her internal temperature would kick up even higher, her stomach would begin to ache, and finally she’d emit a rumbling last heard at Mount St. Helens. She had an hour and more in the truck with Matt on the way back to Keene’s Harbor. No way could she pretend for that le cd fe, and fngth of time that she had no idea where those noises might be coming from.

Damn.

Kate hopped from the truck to catch the October wind. If she could cut the heat, maybe she could kill the whole vicious cycle.

“Calm thoughts, cool thoughts,” she coached herself as she headed upwind. “You can beat this.”

Once she’d made the outer edge of Horned Owl’s parking area, she pushed up her long sleeves and held out her arms for optimal wind exposure, slowly rotating like a deranged wind turbine. Still, she could feel sweat collecting between her breasts.

“I am so screwed.”

She shot a look at the brewery’s door. Thank heaven all was quiet and still. The guys could talk while she cooled. She returned to the truck and used the open passenger door as shield.