Page 19 of Mane Brew

Somewhere around midnight I notice I’ve alphabetized her staff roster twice. I don’t need it alphabetized. I don’t need it at all. I did it because it was something to do with my hands that wasn’t drafting a message to her I have no professional reason to send.

I send the message anyway. Three words. Tanks holding steady?

She doesn’t answer for eleven minutes, which I know because I watch the clock, which is not behavior I would accept from any operative under my command.

Tanks are fine. You worried about my tanks, Blackthorn, or something else?

I don’t have a filing category for that question. I close the log, turn off the light, and spend considerably longer than eleven minutes deciding not to answer it honestly.

I go back the next morning anyway. Tea, black. Same as always.

Some patterns don’t need documenting to be true. I’m starting to suspect I already know that, and I’m simply too well organized to admit it out loud.

5

ZEPH

Aweek into Rhodes Blackthorn’s supposedly temporary investigation, I’ve learned three things: he takes his tea black, he alphabetizes under duress, and I’ve stopped dreading the sound of the bell over my door.

The problem with having a lion prowling through my brewery every day for the past week is that I’m starting to notice things.

Inconvenient things.

The way Rhodes moves through my space with that particular brand of feline grace—all controlled power and coiled tension. The way his fingers drum against his clipboard when he’s thinking, a rhythm so precise it could keep time for a metronome.

I hate that I’ve started listening for that rhythm.

“You know what’s concerning? The fact that you’ve made seventeen visits in seven days.” I finally turn to face him. Mistake. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows today, forearms on display. Strong forearms. Capable forearms. Forearms that probably look excellent when he’s⁠—

Nope. Not going there.

“Eighteen visits,” he corrects. “You’re forgetting Tuesday evening.”

“Tuesday evening was you standing outside my door for three minutes before walking away. That doesn’t count.”

His expression shifts. Gone before I can name it. “I was assessing perimeter security.”

“My perimeter is a beer garden full of drunk pixies. It doesn’t need assessing.”

“Everything needs assessing.” He taps his pen against the clipboard. Once. Twice. “Particularly establishments with documented magical incidents.”

“One incident. One!” I throw my hands up. “And nobody got hurt.”

“Thirty-seven people experienced shared hallucinations.”

“Shared revelations. Big difference.” I turn back to my tanks, but I feel his attention on me. Heavy. Watchful. “My Revelation Red was supposed to enhance clarity. It worked.”

“Mass hallucinations are not clarity.”

“They saw pre-Severing Mistvale. Witch-shifter matings. Historical accuracy.” I shrug, even though my shoulders want to tense under his scrutiny. “That’s pretty damn clear if you ask me.”

He makes another note. Scratch, scratch, scratch. The sound is starting to live rent-free in my head.

“What are you even writing?” I reach for the clipboard. He pulls it away with shifter reflexes. “Come on. Let me see.”

“Documentation is confidential.”

“It’s documentation about my brewery.”