“Hey, EVP,” I said, my nickname for her ever since she’d been promoted to executive vice president.

“Hi,” she said simply. No explanation for why she was suddenly back in Dragonfly Lake.

“What the hell are you doing here? Don’t get me wrong; I’m happy, but…?”

“Hoping to get some lunch at what I’ve heard is the best place in town.” She looked from side to side, sizing up the bar and the adjacent dining area, one of three. “It’s incredible what you guys have done to it.”

“Which you would know if you’d ever been back in the past however many years. Why now?”

“I was summoned to meet with my boss at the worksite this morning.”

“Good ol’ Madame Dictator. She treating you okay?”

“She treats me well and you know it,” Chloe said, and I could swear her uneasiness increased as she fidgeted.

“She pays you well,” I corrected. “Not the same. Can I get you a drink?”

“Got any coffee?”

“Got something better.” I opened the under-the-counter fridge and took out the growler I’d brought from home. I grabbed a beer-tasting glass and held it up in question.

“One of your concoctions?” she asked. Of course, if she’d ever come around these parts, she’d know. When I had a good batch of home brew, I didn’t chintz on sharing with friends.

“It’s a strawberry-lemonade pale ale. Better for summer, but I never know how long it’ll take to get it right.”

Chloe eyed it with less enthusiasm than I’d hoped.

“I see how you are,” I said. “You stop in town for a history-making visit, come into my restaurant for the first time since my brothers and I have owned it, but you only want to go halfway.” Teasing dripped from my tone, and I gave her my butt-hurt act.

“Stop,” she said with a laugh. “If your ego needs me to try it, then pour me a taste. A small taste,” she tacked on as I lifted the growler victoriously to pour. “I have to drive back to the office after lunch. The Nashville office,” she clarified.

With respect to that, I kept it to half the sampler glass. This was stronger than the average beer.

After sliding the glass to her, I pulled out a menu and set it in front of her.

She ignored the menu, taking the small glass—a rounded bowl with a short stem—in her hand. With a tilt of her head, she studied the light blond liquid.

“Try it already,” I said. “You’re killing me.”

“Didn’t want to get a-head of myself.” She grinned and waited for me to acknowledge her pun.

“How much lager are you going to make me wait?” I tossed back.

With a laugh, she said, “Whatever it takes to make you hoppy.”

With that, she tipped the glass up and took a dainty, tentative swallow.