“Hey, I was starting to worry about— Holden, what’s wrong?” She came closer and took my hand in hers, searching my face. “Are you okay?” She wrinkled her nose. “What do I smell?”

I sucked in a breath and heard the shakiness of it. “The brewery… There was a fire…”

“Oh, God. Is everyone okay?”

“Everyone’s okay. No one was there when it happened.”

“And the damage?” She stood directly in front of me and took hold of both my hands now.

I was having trouble looking directly at her. I felt so fucking stupid. “It’s... significant. Going to set us back a couple of months.” I dropped her hands and went toward the kitchen, mostly because she was looking at me so intently. “Beer?” I asked her as I pulled out the IPA.

“Yeah. Beach Babe please.”

I loved how she’d embraced the beer names. Chloe had sat in with us on the branding meeting, and from time to time, she’d have a thought about something concerning Rusty Anchor and voice it, as if she was getting into the planning too.

I poured a glass for each of us and swigged down half of mine, knowing I needed to tell her everything. The whole town would know by morning anyway.

“I fucked up,” I said, leaning my butt against the counter, studying the head on the beer.

“What do you mean?”

“The fire was my fault. Chet Hogan was helping us haul away a bunch of debris earlier in his old truck. He has problems with the battery in that beater, I don’t know exactly why, but he brought in a charger and his “spare” battery and plugged it in inside the brewery. He took a load away, then couldn’t make it back because his wife needed him for something, so he reminded me to unplug the charger in another half hour or so. I rushed off to Henry’s for the dinner shift and forgot about the charger. They’re pretty sure it overheated that 1950s wiring and exploded.”

“Damn,” she said. “The wiring was all going to be replaced in the remodel, wasn’t it?”

“Yep,” I said, trying to sound flippant. “I should’ve known better. I did know better, but I intended to unplug it when I left.” I let off another stream of silent swear words in my head, berating myself good.

“Hey,” Chloe said. She set her beer down, walked around the island, and pressed her body into mine, her hands on my chest. “It was an accident. It could’ve happened to anyone.”

I rested my hands on her hips, not hating the comfort she offered. “All these years of dreaming about a brewery, and when we finally get funds, I go and do this.”

“Insurance will cover it.”

I nodded, not voicing that I was sure it would take forever and a year. I was already sick of hearing myself complain.