“That is dreamy,” May says, perking up. “Also, I noticed he’s pretty easy on the eyes.”

Everyone laughs, including me.

“What? Have you seen the man?” she says, smiling for the first time in an hour. “Those forearms. It must be all that kneading.”

There’s more laughter. “Get ’is number!” Grandpa croaks.

But Audrey shakes her head. “I’m pretty sure he bats for the other team. Whenever Griffin shows up in the coffee shop it’s not my backside that’s admired.”

“What can I say?” Griff shrugs his big shoulders. “I have a very nice ass.”

“Language,” Ruth Shipley says.

“Ass is just another word for donkey,” Grandpa chirps. “Now is it time for pie? That young fella has finished his dinner.” He points at my plate.

“Why not,” Ruth says with a sigh. “I think I lost control of this meal a long time ago.” She glances at her daughter. “Nice to have you at home, sweetie. We haven’t converted your room into a home gym or anything.”

“Glad to hear it,” May grumbles.

But she doesn’t sound glad.

“How’s business at the Gin Mill?” Griff asks me over pie and coffee.

“Great,” I say immediately. Because I’ll be damned if I complain to Mr. Perfect. “I thought November would be terrible, but the dip isn’t as bad as I thought. The weekends are still pretty packed.” If only I had a better profit margin. “I’ll always be scraping by until I can expand my revenue sources.”

“I hear you.” Griff smooths his beard with one hand. “We have cider and fruit and milk. Diversity is pretty critical.”

This is something I’ve already learned the hard way. “I think serving food is my obvious next step, but a commercial kitchen costs fifty grand, and then I’d need more people on the payroll.”

“And blowing up the payroll is scary,” Audrey adds. “Ask me how I know.”

Griffin reaches over and rubs his wife’s pregnant belly. “What else you got for ideas?” he asks me.

“Making beer,” I admit. Griff is an accomplished cider-maker, so he’ll understand the appeal. But it’s kind of a pipe dream at this point, because even though my home brew is tasty, I don’t have the facilities to make commercial beers. “I don’t have the cash to invest in that idea, either.”

“You can start small,” he points out, as if I can’t figure it out for myself. “At least with ale. Lagers need more equipment.”

“True.” I’ve thought about it a hundred times already. My uncle Otto has a fermentation tank that’s only in use for about ninety days a year. I have designs on that tank for sure.

“Who wants more pie?” Ruth Shipley calls, and nearly everyone raises a hand.

Except for May, who’s pushing crumbs around on her plate, looking sad.

I don’t get it. I really don’t. May is smart, loyal, and hot as hell. She’s obviously the most lively of the Shipley kids. Who would cheat on her?

Even though I stopped May from punching Daniela or the other woman tonight, a part of me thinks they deserved it.