Stuck on Brew

By Wendy Dalrymple

Mikayla Brewster seems to have it all together: good friends, good health, and a booming beer business. But appearances can be deceiving. Kayla's small bar is failing... and her body isn't performing at its best either! Still, she smiles through the pain.

Keen Long is a mysterious painter who just so happens to be Kayla's biggest competitor, stepping in to run the successful bar right across the street after his uncle's passing. What Kayla doesn't know is that Keen doesn't have a clue how to run a business and his own booming bar is hanging by a thread itself.

Can Kayla learn to slow down and find time for herself in the middle of financial chaos? Will Keen be able to fill his uncle's shoes? Will these rival bar owners be able to put aside their differences and find a way to coexist as friends or even more?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Jun 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781094421124

Wendy Dalrymple

Wendy Dalrymple crafts highly consumable, short and sweet romances inspired by everyday people. When she’s not writing happily-ever-afters, you can find her camping with her family, painting (bad) wall art, and trying to grow as many pineapples as possible. Keep up with Wendy at www.wendydalrymple.com!

Book preview

Stuck on Brew

Stuck on Brew

Wendy Dalrymple

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Untitled

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

About the Author

About Bryant Street Shorts

BRYANT STREET SHORTS

© 2022 Wendy Dalrymple

Published by Scribd, Inc.

All rights reserved

Cover design by Wendy Dalrymple

ISBN: 9781094421124

First e-book edition: June 2022

Bryant Street Publishing

San Francisco, California

Vellum flower icon Created with Vellum

1

Mikayla Brewster was positively smitten with craft beer. She savored the complex, malty flavors of caramel brown ales and the toffee-sweet nuances of dark bocks. She loved to sip crisp, refreshing lagers in the spring, fruity pilsners in the summer, and rich, coffee-flavored porters in the winter and fall. Brewing and selling hand-crafted libations gave Kayla a sense of personal satisfaction, and her downtown St. Petersburg, Florida microbrewery, Brewnette Beers, was her pride and joy. But much like the foamy finish of her favorite English stout, things were beginning to come to a head.

Hey, Ivy, has the mail come yet? Kayla frowned at the glowing laptop screen open in front of her and tugged at a chestnut lock of hair. The sound of clanging pots and the crackling buzz of the local radio station echoed from the back of the brewery, followed by the pitter-patter of feather-light footsteps. She sighed at her perch behind the bar and squinted at the spreadsheet that organized her vendors, utilities, and payroll. Once again, the numbers weren’t adding up in her favor.

No. The post office is closed today. Ivy, her best friend and brewmaster, emerged through the swinging double doors, her inky black mass of pin-straight hair neatly tucked under a red handkerchief. She pushed her signature cat-eye-frame glasses up the bridge of her nose, hitched her thumbs inside of her overall straps, and eased into Kayla’s side. It’s MLK Day. Remember?

Gosh, I forgot. Kayla let out a long, low breath of air. I think my brain is still coming out of a post-holiday fog.

Same here. I almost forgot to add the hops to the batch I made this morning.

Yeah, about that. Kayla cringed and scrolled through her spreadsheet. I think we might have to readjust our production for next month.

Things are still slow, huh? Ivy grabbed a glass from under the bar and turned to the row of beer taps behind them.

Unfortunately. I expected business to be slow after the new year, but not like this. Kayla glanced over her shoulder as Ivy poured the last of their Holiday Haze IPA into a tall pilsner glass. "Vee. It’s two p.m. On a Monday."

This is purely for research. Ivy shrugged and took a sip. I think I should add more coriander to the batch next year. Want some?

No, thanks. Her cheeks warmed as she returned her gaze to the laptop screen. I’m trying to cut back. New Year’s resolution. I’m not an IPA fan anyway.

Good for you. Ivy offered up a sympathetic smile. My dad doesn’t understand how I can work as a brewmaster without getting hammered every day.

Kayla snort-laughed. Yep. I learned early on that being hungover all the time sucks. It’s too easy to drown my sorrows in my own stock.

Speaking of. Ivy held up a finger and took another sip. How bad are things? Honestly.

Bad.

Like, so bad I should be getting my resume ready?

Kayla’s heart clenched. She gave her friend a guilty glance. It wouldn’t be a bad idea.

The color drained from Ivy’s cheeks. She closed her eyes, nodded, and plunked her half empty glass on the bar. How much longer do you think we have?

Three months? Four? Kayla shook her head and shrugged. If business is good during spring break, maybe I can make things work through the summer. I just don’t know.

That sucks.

It does indeed suck. Kayla pursed her lips and gazed over at her friend. A golf-ball-size lump of shame rose in her throat. Vee, I’m really sorry.

Ivy offered up a crooked smile and wound an arm around her shoulder. It’s gonna be okay.

Kayla leaned into her friend and tucked her head under her chin. A hot tear ran down her cheek; she swallowed hard and wiped at her eyes. I feel really bad for talking you into all this. I thought I knew what I was doing.

"You do know what you’re doing. Ivy squeezed her shoulder tighter. We had a great first year. No one could have anticipated the shutdowns, the shift in the economy…."

She sniffed. It’s just disappointing, you know?

Ivy relaxed her grip and looked down, the corners of her eyes soft behind her glasses. Remember when we used to brew out of the apartment in college?

Yeah. Kayla smiled. Your blueberry mead was disgusting.

I bet there’s still purple splatter marks on the ceiling, Ivy laughed. We would never have imagined opening up this place back then.

Kayla nodded. We sure have managed to do a lot since then. I don’t want to let this all go.

Maybe we don’t have to.

Maybe not. I’ll think of something. Kayla pressed her hands to her cheeks; they burned beneath her touch. She blinked at a new set of tears that threatened to crop up and gazed out the front picture window overlooking the sleepy shops and restaurants lining First Avenue. Her brewery hadn’t been the only place in town to take a hit because of the recession, but that realization did nothing to soothe her. The outlook for the future of Brewnette Beers wasn’t good, and the commotion happening on the other side of First Avenue indicated that things weren’t likely to get better.

Vee, do you know what’s going on across the street?

Ivy took one last swig of her drink and followed Kayla to the front picture window. From their stakeout spot, they could just make out the blurred images of a half-dozen people moving bar stools, sweeping, and cleaning the windows. Clearly, something was up. Kayla’s would-be competitor, Island Brews, had shuttered their doors before Brewnette Beers even took off. Now, all these months later, the lights were on inside of the once-favorite local brewery, casting a soft glow through the hazy January afternoon. The landmark location had remained quiet and somber for months; now, the entire building seemed revived, illuminated and buzzing with life.

Do you think someone finally bought the place? Ivy pulled her phone from the bib front pocket of her overalls and began tapping away at the screen.

I don’t know. I heard from Leah at Pizza Taco that Mr. Long passed away. I guess he had been sick for a while.

That’s too bad. He was one of the first microbrewers in the area. Ivy frowned and flicked at the glass screen. She held up the phone and flashed a web page in Kayla’s direction. Real estate listing shows it didn’t change hands. Maybe Mrs. Long decided to open the taproom up again.

I guess. Well, that’s going to be the final nail in our coffin, then. Kayla leaned against the windowsill, her heart heavy. I won’t be able to compete with a local treasure reopening across the street.

Don’t lose hope just yet. Ivy laid a hand on her shoulder. You’ll find a way. You always do.

Kayla offered her friend a half smile as she continued to stare out the window at the activity happening across the way. Her interest piqued as a man emerged from inside the building carrying a huge crate in his arms, his jeans and T-shirt splattered with paint. A backward baseball cap covered his crop of long, dark, silver-streaked hair, giving the man an overall laid-back, artistic aesthetic. Mrs. Long, looking as stylish and sleek as ever in a matching pantsuit and heels, followed the man out to the road carrying another overflowing crate. The man smiled, took both of the crates, and placed them in the back of the truck bed. Mrs. Long placed a hand at the center of the man’s back and nodded as he leaned in for a hug.

Whoa. Looks like Mrs. Long got herself a new hottie, Ivy said.

"Oh, my god. We have to stop gawking. Kayla sucked in a deep breath and turned away from the window. Besides, so what if she did? Good for her."

Good point. Ivy leaned in for a hug. I’m going to head home. Text me later?

Okay. I might close up early tonight if it's dead. Kayla flicked her gaze across the street again. The man with the crate seemed to catch her eye for a brief moment, then turned over the engine on his truck and pulled out onto First Avenue. She squeezed her eyes shut and