Love With A Twist: Spirit of Hops, #1

By J.E. Joyce

Welcome to Rapids Bay Minnesota, where the Viking blood runs strong, secrets don't last long, and the best place to kick back is The Spirit of Hops Brewstillery. Half brewery, half distillery, all hometown watering hole goodness fit for the Gods.

Sloan

I'm a California girl, born and raised. So when a long-lost uncle leaves me a run-down trash heap of a building in the middle of nowhere Minnesota it was a shock. Yet, when the two blowhards next door offer to buy the building out from under me, my stubborn streak wins out over common sense. I fiercely stand my ground until one of them starts to play nice. How long can I reasonably expect to stand against his Viking charm? Do I want to if it means I can keep my building, the town I am starting to call home, and the man who is quickly stealing more than just my heart?

 

Kendric

I poured my heart and soul into making The Spirit of Hops Brewstillery the thriving hub of Rapids Bay. The only thing standing in the way of the final expansion plan is Old Man Kennedy selling his building. But when he wills the building to a niece no one in town has ever heard of, I feel my plans start to slip through my fingers. I can't let that happen, Spirit of Hops means everything to me and I will do whatever it takes to make it succeed. Even if that means playing nice with the rainbow-haired terror that moves in next door. When the siren with the mermaid hair turns out to be a Valkyrie, I risk losing more than my carefully laid plans if this goes wrong.

What do you get when the town recluse leaves his run-down bar to a long-lost niece instead of the brewstillery owners next door? Shenanigans, and the town of Rapids Bay, Minnesota will never be the same again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.E. Joyce
• Release date: Jun 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223085379

Book preview

PROLOGUE

SLOAN

… a nd as for the matter of the property in Rapids Bay. The building at 1650 Main St, including the business and rental property above, was owned outright by the former Mr. Kennedy. Regarding the estate, Mr. Kennedy has left the building and all its contents to his niece, Ms. Sloan Anders.

The grating rasp of the ancient lawyer's voice melted into nothing but a background buzzing in my ears over an hour ago. Being summoned to a run-down lawyer's office in a small town somewhere in Minnesota was weird enough. To then find out you had some long-lost, crazy uncle you never knew existed but then died has totally thrown me for a loop. I don’t know why I am here. My mother and I had a strained relationship. I never knew many details about her, much less that she had an older… much older… brother hidden in this random corner of the Midwest.

It's been two hours sitting in this stifling, musty office listening to the lawyer drone on and on reading the will, and I am no closer to understanding why I am here. Maybe it makes me callous not to care overmuch about an old man passing away, but let’s be honest… I have no idea who this guy was, and how it has anything to do with me, so I can’t help if my mind wanders. I am attempting to calculate how long it would take to get back to the airport and if we would have time to catch a redeye back to California tonight when my boyfriend, Aiden, squeezes my knee, pulling my attention back to the present. I shoot him a glance, and he inclines his head toward the lawyer with an insistent look.

Oh, crap. Clearly, I missed something while thinking about the crappy airport Cinnabon’s.

I’m sorry. Can you repeat that? I ask the lawyer, pasting on the sweetest fake smile I can muster. Hopefully, my sugary sweet manners will distract from the fact I haven’t listened to a word the man has said all day.

As I said, Ms. Anders, your uncle has left the property at 1650 Main St to you. The building has been owned outright by Mr. Kennedy for several years, so the only thing needed to take possession of the building is your signatures on some paperwork and then our business will be concluded, the lawyer explains.

Is it possible for his dry rasp of a voice to make both lava and ice run down my spine at once? Because I am pretty sure it just did. Either that, or I’m having a stroke. Maybe that’s it. Yeah, a stroke. That makes way more sense than me, 28-year-old Sloan Anders, the consummate ‘gig economy’ worker, owning a freaking building in who-knows-where Minnesota. And did he say something about a business? Yeah, no. This can’t be happening.

What do you mean, take possession? I ask. I should cringe at how dumb that sounds, but I can’t seem to process what is happening right now. My brain can only handle so many curve balls in one week, and I have clearly just reached my insanity capacity.

Just as it sounds, Ms. Anders. I need your signature on a few forms, and then the business and rental property will be yours to do with as you choose.

Okay. Those were all words; I know they were. They were in a recognizable order, so why the hell can’t I seem to make sense of them?

Are there any stipulations or limitations around the length of ownership before we can turn the property around? Aiden asks. At least one of us is thinking straight.

From a legal perspective, no, sir. But as someone who knows the property and the market in the area, the building is in a… less than ideal state if you wish to turn around and sell it quickly, the lawyer answers carefully.

I can feel the frustration wash through Aiden as he slumps back in the chair next to me. It doesn’t take a genius, or even someone with a functioning brainstem, to tell that he wants to get out of this Midwest backwater as soon as possible.

I can’t say I blame him. This isn’t my first choice of ways or places to spend the week. I’m a west coast girl and always have been. I was raised in Seattle, moved to San Francisco for art school, and then stayed after graduation. I met Aiden a few years ago when he came into a bar I was working at with his work buddies for a happy hour, and I was their bartender for the night. I have never really liked the suit type before, but there was something so charming about Aiden, that self-assured smile and the confident way he carries himself. He drew me in just like he’s doing with that look right now. I can already see the business dealings and financial statements running through his mind now. In fact, if I look close enough, I think I see green money signs shining….

Ms. Anders. Shit, I must have lost focus again. I really need to work on that.

Yes? I answer lamely.

If you can just sign here, here, and here, we can wrap up our business today, the lawyer says, a tinge of annoyance coloring his tone. Clearly, he is as unimpressed with me as I am with him. We are from two different worlds, worlds that, if I had my say, would never meet.

Sure, yeah. That’s fine. Without really thinking about or processing what I’m doing, I grab the pen the lawyer is offering and scratch my signature on the paper where he directs. I vaguely register Aiden grumbling about something in the seat next to me. Still, I can’t take anything else in right now.

Thank you, Ms. Anders…

Sloan. It’s Sloan, I correct the lawyer, my patience for just about everything to do with this day at its end.

Yes, well, Sloan. This envelope contains the keys to the lower-level business, the outside entrance in the building's rear, the apartment above, the mail key, and a listing of other important information your uncle left you is inside as well. If you need further assistance, please call me, and my assistant will schedule us some time.

Well, if that wasn’t a brush-off, I don’t know what was. This man wants nothing further to do with me or this transaction. Refusing to take it personally, I give him a slight nod and a tight smile as I grab the envelope from him before turning and making my way out of the little office without another word.

CHAPTER ONE

SLOAN

W help, Mrs. Anders… the balding inspector with the massive beer belly says for the billionth time since he got here an hour ago to finally inspect the decrepit excuse for a building I am now saddled with.

It’s Sloan. Just Sloan. Not Mrs anything, for the umpteenth time, I say, as politely as possible, through gritted teeth with a forced smile. The last thing I need is for the locals to turn on me at this point.

After the initial shock that came with hearing the will and that my long-lost uncle left me a building, I actually got excited. You know, maybe it could have been a fun challenge or something I could spend a week putting a little elbow grease into before selling it for nothing but profit before returning to my life in San Francisco. Yeah. None of that was the case.

When Aiden and I first pulled up out of the building a week ago, my first reaction was to double-check the address the lawyer gave us because there was no way this was the right place. Aiden hadn’t even wanted to get out of the rental car. Our initial shock had quickly devolved into an argument, with him wanting to call the lawyer back and demand what kind of sick joke the man was trying to pull. I just wanted to go back to the hotel and forget about it all for one more night. Thankfully, Aiden had given in, and we had spent the night pointedly not talking about or acknowledging the giant elephant in the room.

It’s been almost a week since I got the keys, and this is the first time I have set foot inside the building. When we had driven over the morning after meeting with the lawyer to take a look, Aiden had convinced me to call an inspector before we did anything else, and, as much as I hate to admit it, he was right. I wouldn’t have handled seeing this place alone for the first time, or worse, with only Aiden very well.

When I had called to schedule this inspection, I can’t say it had instilled me with much hope when the first reaction I got to the man hearing the address I was calling about was to laugh so hard he choked on his own spit and melted into a coughing fit that I may have been more than slightly worried he wouldn’t have come back from. Once he had settled down again, he had assured me this would be a big one for ya then and had blocked off his entire morning to meet with me.

So here I am, with this old-school boomer whose favorite pastime seems to be walking the line between naively uninformed and misogynistic. As we go through the building I now own and am responsible for, I try to hold back the panic attack that only seems to grow the longer this man talks and the more he shows me. According to the inspector, who I don’t think even bothered giving me his name, I am lucky the building is still standing. There are foundation issues in the basement. The old boiler still being used for heat, is all but shot. There are cracked pipes, rotted floors, water damage pretty much everywhere, and Well there, missy, you’re sure lucky. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that there light switch would send this whole place up in flames if I so much as flicked it, don’t ya know?

Seriously, what is with the accents here?

When he hasn’t been pointing out every little thing that could kill us both or send the building tumbling down around our ears, this guy has been telling me a bit about the history of the building and the town. I am rather thankful for the insight, but I’ll never admit it to him. He lost any gratitude from me the fifth time he leered at my tits and called me Mrs. assuming Aiden, who won’t even set foot in this place, was my husband. Because surely a little woman like me can’t possibly handle any of this stuff on her own. Frankly, I am done with them and their entire gender after today.

According to the inspector, this building was the carriage house that served the old train depot. The depot and train tracks have been out of commission for almost a hundred years, but the carriage house and depot still stand. The depot is a beautiful old building across a large parking lot and courtyard from this building, and a brewery owns the building now.

Apparently, my uncle ran a bar… a total towny dive bar, judging by the busted-out beer signs and empty bottles stacked along the bar back. There are the bones of what could have been a commercial kitchen, if a small one, in the back of the first floor. The inspector assures me, though, that my uncle hadn’t served food in, Oh, gotta be close ta twenty years or so now would be my guess.

The upstairs was clearly used as nothing but storage for years upon years. Still, if you look past the boxes stacked nearly to the twelve-foot ceilings, it's actually a pretty great space for a studio apartment. I can’t help but wonder if any form of a kitchen is hidden behind some of these boxes. A decent-sized bathroom that desperately needs updating and a large nook that could easily be made into a makeshift bedroom round out the space.

Now the inspector and I are standing back out front of the building as he runs down the list of all his findings. Aiden walked up as soon as he saw us, and unfortunately, that only encouraged the Mrs talk that much more.

Whelp then, Mrs. Sloan…

Dear lord. I’m not even going to fight it. It’s not worth the murder charge. And what if I get knife happy and hit Aiden’s pompous ass? Two life sentences seem a bit much for a rundown bar. Though, with how Aiden has acted over the last week and this idiot this morning, I can’t deny the joy those thoughts bring.

An overly loud, dramatic sigh pulls me from my double homicide daydreams. Still, the weirdly slim fingers topped with perfectly manicured nails snapping in front of my face pull me back to the present.

She must have zoned out again. She does that a lot. Forgive her. Aiden’s condescending tone and the fact the bastard just snapped in front of my face is what finally does me in.

Oh yeah, I understand. It can be a lot to take in for a little lady like herself. Well, to catch you up, I will send over a complete report by the end of the week, but I’m pretty sure what we talked about inside gives you the gist of it. If she can’t remember everything or you have other questions, here's my card. Don’t hesitate to call.

Thank you. I appreciate you taking the time. The one question I have is, bottom line, what will it take to sell? Is it possible to sell as is, or will it require some work before it can be marketable?

"Um, excuse me, both of you. First off, I will take the card, thank you very much, and expect an email in my inbox by the end of the week with the full report. Thank you for your work today. You can go," I say with as much forced professionalism as I can muster, hoping the misogynistic inspector takes the hint and leaves. Thankfully, his poor little brain can’t seem to process a little woman like myself talking back and just turns to make his way awkwardly back to his car without another word. Good fucking riddance. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I turn to face the other pain in my ass, ready to tell him off as well, but before I can even open my mouth, he cuts me off.

What the hell, Sloan? That was completely uncalled for. Was it really necessary to be a bitch to the man who took time out of his day to help us? I swear, this is why I can’t take you to office functions or anywhere near my friends. That last part was muttered under his breath as he paced away down the sidewalk from me.

He didn’t. He did not.

I know I stand there looking like a fish out of water for a full minute before my brain can process the bullshit that just came out of Aiden’s mouth.

"I have literally had my entire life turned on its ass in the last week. All I wanted was just