What Happens in Denver
by Liz Crowe
Genre: Humorous Contemporary Romance
Meet Andi Rigby. She and her husband own a famous bar. Andi can mix a cocktail, change a beer keg, soothe ruffled customers, and drink you under the table. Life is good until the day she finds herself divorced and unemployed. After a suitable period of ice-cream and whiskey infused mourning, she heads to a beer conference in Denver on a mission to rediscover her joy and find a new job.
Between fielding gossip, saving a drunk woman from herself, and dodging a hot but ill-advised boozy hookup, the weekend leads to a few surprises. She ends up employed with an unexpected bonus—a new friend. Oh, and the guy she kissed? Turns out her new job includes selling his brewery's beer. No big deal. Except the bit about him being practically perfect for her at a moment she's determined to focus on her own success.
A story of new friends, fresh starts, and a side order of romance served up with a nice cold pint.
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What Happens in Denver
Excerpt #1:
While delivering a mental lecture about this being not my business and I needed to get some sleep anyway, I saw his lips move but couldn’t hear a damn thing over the din of the place. When his female companion jumped up and threw her napkin down on the table, she almost plowed backward right into me. She wobbled on her teetering high heels, then lurched away and straight into a waiter, whose tray was loaded with salads heavy on kale and entrees heavy on marrow.
I reached out and caught her arm. She was blotto, that much was clear at this close distance. Little Burke Brother—Michael, I recalled—stayed seated, his expression blank during this whole exercise.
Jerk.
A bizarre surge of protectiveness came over me. I took her arm and guided her down the steps. Once we hit the fresh air, she revived enough to peel away from me, drop to her hands and knees, and puke on the sidewalk.
As I held her hair back like some kind of sorority sister, the substantial foot traffic gave us a wide berth, most of them without comment. It was Craft Beer Convention time in Denver. Puking humans were more common than weed stores, at least for a day or two.
While I waited for her to wrap up her worship at the cement altar, I summoned a ride on my phone app, realizing too late I had no idea where she was staying. She probably had a two-star room with a DNA soaked bed and a lovely view of the dumpster, like me. I got a warm, sisterly feeling about her.
I waited while she spit, then rose to her feet.
“Take those off already,” I said, pointing to the black patent leather heels. She did. Her eyes rolled around in their sockets. Her lollipop of a head didn’t want to stay upright. I plunked us down on a conveniently placed sidewalk bench—gotta love Denver—and waited, not sure which would come first, the ride or the second round of the happy hurls.
Luckily, it was the ride.
Excerpt #2:
“May I join you?”
I opened one eye, already knowing who it was and figuring it for some kind of effed-up karma. “If you must.”
I moved my shoes down to the sidewalk and shifted as far to the left armrest as I could. James Burke plunked himself right in the middle of the thing.
“Do you mind?” I crossed my legs to avoid having our thighs touch. I wasn’t in the mood for flirting or otherwise. I’d just done something great for myself for the first time in over a year and didn’t feel like sharing the victory.
No matter how good-looking said potential victory- sharer might be.
Or how close he was sitting to me.
“Don’t you have a Burke Brothers beer dinner to handle?” He didn’t. I knew, thanks to my new-found stalkerish behavior. I’d discovered the brothers weren’t hosting one this year. Odd. This would have been a great way to showcase their new quality-problem- solved brews to their fellow professionals. But it was their brewery, not mine.
“Nope,” he said, putting his hands behind his head and stretching out his long legs.
“Nice manspreading, dude,” I said in my prissiest voice.
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“Nah, not really.” He glanced at me, then bent his knees and opened his legs out to each side, jamming me even farther into my corner. “Now this is nice manspreading.”
Without even thinking about it—and thanks to my three martinis—I twisted around and plopped my legs on his lap. He grinned, grabbed my left foot and dug his knuckle into my arch. I tensed, until my poor battered foot relaxed.
“Oh...my God...yes.” I closed my eyes and let him do what he would, no longer caring that we were making a spectacle of ourselves.
After a few moments, he switched to my other foot. I shivered and sighed again, stretching out like a cat until I realized my hips were practically on his lap.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, shifting away until only my feet were there. He shot me a look that made my face flush hot. “Okay, I’m good. Thanks much.” I rotated and put my feet back on the sidewalk where they belonged.
“My pleasure,” he said, his voice soft and low.
I glared at him. “Don’t flirt with me, pal. I’m not in the mood. And you’re not my type.”
“So quick to judge,” he said, stretching his arms back and his legs out again.
When he closed his eyes, I allowed myself a quick, up-close assessment, which was a bad idea, in my weakened state. I’ve established that the guy could pass for an NFL player with his wingspan, immense shoulders, and ever-so-long legs. His beard was neatly trimmed off his neck and cheeks. The matching dark brown hair was thick and a bit on the long side, which made me have to curl my fingers into fists to keep from touching it.
Oh boy. Where did that come from?
It came from the bottom of your third martini glass, you silly girl.
I jumped to my feet. James opened his eyes, slow and easy, as if knowing I was about to make a panicky bolt for it and figuring he should go slow, to treat me as if I were a rabid animal trapped under his front porch. Forcing myself to relax and smile, because I was in control of this, after all, I picked up my shoes and made a point to look at my phone screen.
“Don’t stare. It’s rude,” I said, my finger poised to call for a ride.
“Can I buy you a beer?”
I sighed and looked at the darkening sky, never more aware of how badly I did want to sit with him, to have a beer and a chat. But I was determined not to develop bad habits, like the one that had landed me with Matt in my post-grad years.
I would not—could not—allow myself to do anything more than drink and enjoy his company, then I’d get my sorry tail back to my hotel and pack. I had a lot of things to do after all. I had a move to plan.
“Andi?”
I flinched. I’d been standing here too long, not answering him. My inner polite young lady kicked in. “Sorry. Um, sure. Okay.”
“Don’t get too excited about it.”
I glared at him. “Fine. I won’t. Catch you on the flip side, Jimmy.”
I was a solid fifty steps down the sidewalk before he caught up and fell into step with me. He kept his hands to himself, which I appreciated. I was too jumpy by half and needed my personal space honored. I gave him a mental half-point. He stuck his fingers in his jeans pockets, and we walked a while in comfortable silence.
LONGER excerpt:
“Okay, I’ll admit it. You’re a natural,” I said.
“I think we’re a pretty good team.”
We had been, especially at the last stop. The
fawning over James and his as-yet-to-be-released New England IPA had been non-stop, but Palio was a stubborn so-and-so. He’d taken a lot of convincing to put the Burke Brothers standards back on his shelf. James and I had, by then, developed a decent give and take between us so the buyers or owners didn’t feel so much assaulted by a sales pitch. It was less stiff, antisocial beer-snob and more casual, cool-kid conversation.
James had outdone himself. The perfect balance of humble and apologetic about his brewery’s past screw- ups and honest about what he and his brother were doing to put it right. At one point, when he’d been rhapsodizing about how much he loved working with Michael, how much better everything was already, I’d heard something in his voice—sincerity bordering on real emotion—a clear signal to me that he’d fight the buyout.
I just hoped it didn’t split their brotherly team. I could tell they were close, but this issue could rip that apart.
“What? I got something in my teeth?” He lowered the visor to look in the tiny mirror.
“No, no, sorry.” I started the engine. I had to admit it. I didn’t want the day to end.
His phone buzzed with a text. He glanced at it. The shit-eating grin was back. “Well, I didn’t ask her out, but she’s asking me, the brazen hussy.” He waved the phone at me.
“Good for her. We twenty-first century women have to take matters into our own hands. If we waited around for you guys to make a move, we’d be clearing cobwebs off our hoo-hahs.”
“Your...what?” He chuckled. “Is that Southern for ‘ask me out, James, quick, before my vagina gets old’?” I blushed so fast and so hot I thought I might pass out. “No. Shut up. Leave me alone. Oh Lord.” I put a hand to my face. “I have no idea why I said that.”
He laughed again. “So should I say yes?”
“Say yes to what?” I slammed the car into reverse and nearly backed straight into an oncoming car in the parking lot. “Shit. God damn it.”
“Nice mouth, Scarlett. I thought cussing was lazy talk.”
“Go fuck yourself, Rhett.” We glared at each other until I was overcome with giggles—nervous ones, but it broke the tension.
He grinned, and it had to be the most wonderful thing I’d seen in a long time.
“You have a great smile.” I cleared my throat. “I mean, nice work today, with the smile...and the smoldering gaze...and the ass.”
“Why, thank you,” he said.
“Okay, I think I can do this without killing us now.” I backed out of the space and headed toward V anAnsel.
“I have a better idea,” he said after about ten minutes of silence.
“Better than what?” I signaled to get off the expressway. I was already pondering my night ahead— a hot bath, after a cold shower, Chinese take-out, a bit of movie binging, then early to bed. I needed to shake off everything about this day so I could move forward, let James go about his business while I went about mine.
“Go out with me.”
My foot hit the brake as we approached the top of the exit ramp with a little too much energy. We jerked to a stop, our heads rolling forward, then thumping back against the headrests.
“Sorry,” I muttered. I kept a death grip on the steering wheel.
James stayed quiet. I pondered the pros and cons as quickly as I could. In the pro column—I was dying to go out and have a nice, quiet, possibly romantic dinner with the man sitting next to me. A con—I shouldn’t get myself any further entangled with him. His company was about to undergo a huge trauma.
I knew I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready. I couldn’t trust my own judgement anymore.
As if sensing me waffle, he leaned forward so he could look me in the eye. “Come on. You know you wanna.”
I stuck my tongue out at him. He grinned and sat back. “Okay, I will. But just dinner.”
“Well, of course. What else would it be? I mean, what do you take me for?”
I pulled into the parking lot and drove around back near the warehouse entrance. I turned off the engine, took a breath, and looked at him. I was going with brutal honesty. I didn’t have the energy for anything more.
“I take you for a handsome, charming, talented, recently divorced guy used to getting his way, including with women. And you have to know, James, that I’m...I...” My throat betrayed me, closing up so tight I could barely suck air. “I can’t get involved with anyone right now. I’m not in a good place with myself yet, you know? I have some work to do still.” I bit my lip. “Jeez Louise, do I sound like a sappy soap opera or what? Sorry. Never mind.”
I opened my door, eager to escape these close confines.
Time to detach.
Liz Crowe is a Kentucky native and graduate of the University of Louisville living in Central Illinois. She's spent her time as a three-continent expat trailing spouse, mom of three, real estate agent, brewery owner and bar manager, and is currently a social media consultant and humane society development director, in addition to being an award-winning author. With stories set in the not-so-common worlds of breweries, on the soccer pitch, inside fictional television stations and successful real estate offices, and even in exotic locales like Istanbul, Turkey, her books are compelling and told with a fresh voice. The Liz Crowe backlist has something for any reader seeking complex storylines with humor and complete casts of characters that will delight, at times frustrate, and always linger in the imagination long after the book is finished.
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