Resisting my Roommate (Sycamore Falls #3)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

JUDE

“For the love of god, we need more help,” Dylan whines, shooting me a glare as she hurries behind the bar to pour another round of beers.

The buzz of conversation and laughter surrounds me, a sign that my downtown taproom is once again bustling with customers.

With spring in full bloom, this place has been getting busier and busier, especially with people wanting to enjoy the weather on the outdoor patio that overlooks a play area for kids I put in a few years ago, all to encourage business.

It worked.

A little too well.

Now I’m having trouble hiring enough staff to keep up with demand, which is why my sister’s been picking up shifts. Hell, even I’m working the bar when I typically spend my days brewing the beer we serve here at the Wicked Hop.

Lately, however, I have no choice but to forego the time spent brewing so I can lend a hand in the taproom, especially on the weekends.

And this weekend is even busier than the last, a mixture of locals and tourists taking advantage of the warm weather as they enjoy some locally brewed beer.

“I’m working on it, but this isn’t just a regular bar,” I remind my sister as I pour an IPA. “It’s a taproom. Serving only the beer brewed in house. I’d like someone who at least knows the difference between an IPA and a lager.”

“At this point, you just need to hire someone, Jude. I’m exhausted from all the hours I’ve been working here.” She swipes at her brow with her arm, pushing her hair behind her ears.

Out of five of us, Dylan’s the only blonde.

And the only girl.

Something she still hates, considering she has four older brothers giving any guy she tries to date hell.

“Between this place and helping Hayden with his kids, I barely have any time to myself. Don’t get me wrong,” she adds quickly. “I’m happy to help, but can you at least try to hire more staff? And not require them to provide an essay on how different ingredients used in the fermentation process can affect a beer’s flavor. Okay?”

I chuckle. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good, because if I don’t get a day off soon, I’m going to lose it.”

“I’m sorry, Dyl.”

She’s been working non-stop, especially since our oldest brother, Hayden, moved back home after his wife unexpectedly passed away late last year. My mom and Dylan have been helping him with his two kids while he works, which he seems to constantly do. I get he’s a doctor and will always need to be on call. It just seems he’s working all the time to avoid facing life without his wife.

Then again, I can’t blame him. I’ve been doing the same thing the past several years.

“Why don’t you take tomorrow off?” I suggest as I pour another round of beers for a group of tourists at the end of the bar.

“Are you sure?” Dylan sets several full glasses on a tray.

“It’s Sunday, so we’re only open a few hours anyway.”

“I don’t want to leave you shorthanded.”

“It’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t tell Hayden, or he’ll come up with a reason to go into work himself.”

“It’ll be our little secret.” She gives me an exaggerated wink. “You should take a day off once in a while, too, ya know.”

“The taproom’s closed every Monday.”

She narrows her gaze at me. “But you still come in and work in the brewhouse. You need to make time for yourself outside of this place.”

“I go to Mom’s.”

“Because you still use Dad’s old brewing system there to experiment.”

“And I visit Beckham at the vineyard.”

“And Finn at the fire department. Blah blah blah. That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it.” She lowers her voice, leaning toward me. “When are you going to move on?”

This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. And I doubt it’ll be the last. But it hits harder than usual today, considering what this week represents. It’s why I’m working. To forget.

I doubt I will, though.

“You shouldn’t keep your table waiting,” I say evenly, showing no emotion.

As always.

She blows out a sigh, studying me for a beat. Then she retreats, expertly balancing the tray full of beer as she moves through the busy taproom.

I turn back to the row of taps, snatching the next order as the slip spits out of the machine, and get to work on pouring beer, grateful for the distraction.

Especially today.

A sudden hush falls over the space, catching me off guard, and I look up to see what’s going on.

Living in a small town and running a popular hangout, I’ve seen my fair share of interesting things.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of a woman in an extravagant wedding gown pushing her way through the doors of my taproom.

And it’s not just any woman, either.

It’s her. The bride-to-be from the bachelorette party I stumbled on the other night.

After I left the bar, I immediately regretted sharing my cynical views of love and marriage with a woman who was days away from taking that step.

Now, I feel even worse since I doubt she’s here for a celebratory beer.

Several silent moments pass as everyone in the taproom stares at her, myself included. I half expect her to turn around and leave, embarrassed by all the attention.

She doesn’t, though.

She holds her head high, determined and unfazed by her situation. One thing is certain. It takes guts to walk into a crowded bar on a Saturday evening wearing a wedding dress that would make Cinderella envious.

“Rough day at the office?” Bernie, one of my regulars, asks as she approaches the vacant chair beside where he’s been enjoying a few beers with the other members of the unofficial Sycamore Falls chess club.

“Depends on your definition of rough,” she retorts playfully. “If you mean finding out the man you were supposed to marry has been cheating on you with your best friend minutes before your wedding so you ditch him, only for him to report the car he bought you as stolen, taking your only mode of transportation, then yes. It’s been a pretty rough day.”

“He did?” I press, unable to stop myself.

Her expression falls as she turns to me, clearly annoyed by my presence. Can’t say I blame her.

“I guess you were right and I’ve been wearing rose-colored glasses all along. So congratulations. Feel free to gloat.”

“Do you two know each other?” Bernie furrows his bushy gray brow.

“No,” I say at the same time as she answers, “Yes.”

Bernie eyes me suspiciously, seemingly more inclined to believe this complete stranger than me, someone he’s known since the day I was born.

“We met briefly the other night,” I explain.

“Is that right?” Bernie looks between the woman and me, obviously intrigued.

“It was quite an enlightening conversation,” she says once she’s situated on the chair, layers upon layers of fabric flowing out from beneath her. “He shared his opinions on love and marriage, how it’s all bullshit, more or less. If I remember correctly, he likened love to a sparkler on the Fourth of July.” She looks my way. “All smoke and no substance. Quite the romantic. I’m surprised all the ladies aren’t banging down his door.”

“Don’t pay no mind to Jude,” Harold, another member of the chess club, pipes up.

“I don’t plan on it.” She sits straighter, squaring her shoulders once more. “I didn’t have running out on my wedding and losing my car on my bingo card today, but I can make the most of a shitty situation. So I’m going to have a drink, then go down the street and treat myself to a piece of cake, since I’ve been looking forward to having some since I woke up this morning.”

“And after that?” Bernie asks, captivated by her.

He’s not the only one, either. Everyone seems to be looking her way. Then again, that could simply be due to the lack of excitement in a small town. Locals will cling onto any big story and talk about it to death, to hell with how it might affect anyone.

“Not sure.” She shrugs. “But I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

“Well, let’s get you on the path to figuring it out. Jude, can you get my new friend…” Bernie arches a single brow her way.

“Abbey,” she says, picking up on his unspoken question.

“Can you get Abbey something to drink? My treat.”

“All we serve here is beer,” I tell her curtly. “There’s a bar a few miles up the road.”

“Do you want me to leave?” she challenges. “I’m not sure the owner of this fine establishment would appreciate learning you’ve been chasing away paying customers.”

“Oh, no,” Bernie interjects. “Jude’s not?—”

“Just giving you an option in case beer isn’t your thing,” I cut him off before he can finish his statement.

She smooths a hand down her dress. “I’ll have you know I quite enjoy a good beer. During my time in the Peace Corps, it was one of the few treats we were able to get our hands on.”

I keep my expression even, not wanting her to pick up on my increasing curiosity. I’m not sure what I expected, but based on the enormous rock she wore the other night, plus the wedding dress I can only assume cost five figures, she doesn’t come across as the type of woman who’d willingly volunteer two years of her life to work in some third-world country.

“Can I have the imperial?” she asks after scanning the large chalkboard hanging overhead containing my current tap list.

“It’s heavy. And strong. It has nearly twelve percent alcohol by volume.”

“I’m firing for effect tonight.”

With a subtle nod, I turn toward the wall of taps, pouring the honey brown ale into a glass before setting it down in front of her.

“Out with the old, and in with the new.” She lifts her glass, her voice filled with determination. “Here’s to new beginnings.”

I watch as she clinks her beer with Bernie, unsure what to make of this woman who should be devastated but instead is toasting to a new beginning with a man she befriended mere minutes ago.

How can she be so resilient? How can she be smiling?

How can she act as if her world hasn’t been flipped upside down?

It both angers and intrigues me, leaving me torn between wanting to find hope in her optimism and wanting to resent her for it.

Because my world was flipped upside down.

And I still feel like I’m drowning every second of every day.

Why isn’t she?