We walked across Henry’s parking lot to the old building, and I dug out my keys. I’d been carrying the spare around with me for a couple of years now, holding out hope that Kemp and I could realize our dreams.

When I unlocked the door by the loading ramp and pushed it open, then flipped on the lights, the same thrill zinged through me that did every time I was in the space. It might be an old, dusty two-story former hardware store right now, but when I looked at it, I imagined big, beautiful silver fermenters, floor-to-ceiling windows to the two-story brewing room, rich wood accents, gleaming concrete floors, the smell of yeast…

“Tell me what you have in mind,” Chloe said, her expression neutral, which was better than some people who walked in and frowned at the current state of the place.

I took her hand and pulled her gently forward, section by section, inadvertently giving her a mini education on our needs and plans and how a brewery worked.

Deep into a description of the fermenting stage, I caught myself and shook my head. “Sorry. I can get carried away. I’m sure that’s more than you ever wanted to know.”

“I want to know everything, actually,” she said, and something in her voice grabbed my attention. “Maybe not tonight but this is kind of fascinating.”

“This? Brewing beer? You barely even like beer,” I said lightly.

“I usually choose other drinks, but the samples you’ve given me… Those were different.”

“Better,” I said, confident. “Thanks for indulging me. I want this so bad I can taste it—”

“Is it strawberry-lemonade?” she asked grinning. “Or caramel and malty?”

“Both and more. I’m working on an orange wheat I think you’ll like. Are you ready to go—” I almost said home but realized that sounded presumptuous.

“We need to talk. Where should we talk?” She’d gone serious, and for some reason, my pulse kicked up.

I reminded myself this was her deal. Her stakes. She was driving the bus here, and if I could help her, so be it. If she chose a different route, that was her right.

“Come on.” I guided her back to the door with my hand at her waist, killed the lights, and locked up.

Instead of heading to the Henry’s parking lot, which was down to a handful of cars, I took her hand and walked toward the shore. There were several benches along the water, on either side of the long dock where people could park their boat while they ate at Henry’s, and one of those benches was hidden by a storage shed between the restaurant’s lot and Bergman’s. I led her there.

The night air was fresh and mild and smelled of lake water and spring and hope.