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  He shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  Heath had come a long way since his own senior superlative: Most Likely to Blow Something Up. He’d been on the watch list of the Clarkston F.D. since sixth grade, when his attempt to build a geyser with a pack of Mentos, a liter of soda, and duct tape worked a little too well.

  Poppy smiled to herself, forgetting her own problems for a moment. Heath had always been somewhat of an enigma. Their teachers used to murmur behind their hands that he was a science prodigy. Who could forget his Edible Skin Layers Cake made from Fruit Roll-Ups (epidermis), Jell-O (dermis), and mini marshmallows (hypodermis)? Rumor was, he’d aced his college boards. Yet he’d tossed out all those scholarship letters without opening them, and now beer drinkers all over the Pacific Northwest couldn’t get enough of his ales with names like Newberg Neutral and Ribbon Ridge Red.

  When it came to social skills, there was a sweet innocence about Heath that made him hard to get close to.

  Given Heath’s case of arrested development, Junie didn’t waste her breath pressuring him. Everyone knew he’d rather face an angry rattlesnake than make chitchat at a party. Instead she focused on Poppy. “Don’t you want to see all the people we went to school with?”

  “I’ve never stopped seeing most of them,” replied Poppy. Even during the four years she worked in Portland, she still lived at home. “For everyone else, there’s Facebook.”

  “A lot has happened over the last decade. Some people went away, some got married, had kids, got divorced, won and lost jobs . . .” mused Red. “People change.”

  “Exactly. That part of my life is behind me. I don’t feel the need to see how I’m measuring up.”

  “But how can it hurt?” pleaded Keval. “Come on, Poppykins. It won’t be any fun without you.”

  She set her jaw. Finally, she said to Heath, “Hand me that yearbook.”

  Outside, rain pelted the windows, and there was the rumble of distant thunder.

  Poppy thumbed through the pages until she found what she was looking for. She laid the open book in the middle of the table and pressed her index finger to the passage that still haunted her.

  Red, Junie, and Keval tipped their heads and read silently, while Heath’s eyes skittered restlessly around the room like he’d rather be anywhere else but there.

  Most likely to still be a Clarkston waitress at our tenth class reunion: Poppy Springer. Poppy’s most endearing talent is writing her name backward. She is a true golden retriever at heart, as evidenced by her blond mane and a mind refreshingly free of deep thoughts. Poppy’s hobbies are organizing individually wrapped tea bags and leaving a trail of smiling faces wherever she goes.

  Following a brief pause, everyone started talking at once.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Who cares about an old senior superlative?”

  “That doesn’t define you.”

  “Who’s going to remember that? It was the freaking Stone Age.”

  Lightning flashed. The café door opened and a tall woman in a silk blouse and pencil skirt blew in, shaking the rain off her umbrella.

  Demi Barnes had started out as an assistant at the statehouse down in Salem and worked her way up the ladder. Recently she’d nabbed the job of running their state senator’s newly opened Willamette Valley satellite office—quite the achievement.

  She paused inside the entrance, combing her fingers through her windblown hair.

  Poppy was the only server working until the dinner shift came in at three. It was her job to greet Demi. Yet somehow, she found that her butt was glued to her seat.

  When Demi spotted Poppy she started toward her, heels clicking ominously with every step.

  From the corner of her eye Poppy saw Heath slam the yearbook shut and slip it into his bag.

  “Well, look who.” Demi stared down at the splashy orange flower on Poppy’s uniform. “Back working at your parents’ café?”

  “For now,” she replied. The crack in her voice betrayed the scars from Demi’s subtle yet razor-sharp bullying, back when they were in school.

  “Things didn’t work out in Portland?”

  Why does Demi always make me feel so inferior? It was her own fault for letting Demi get to her. Inadequacy, shame, guilt.

  Somehow, she managed to mask her inner turmoil. “Things worked out fine. I’m just . . . back home temporarily, until my new job starts.”

  “Oh, really? What job is that?”

  There was a roaring in Poppy’s ears, and before she knew it she was back in second grade reading circle at Clarkston Elementary and Demi was laughing at Poppy’s stab at reading about Danny O’Dare, the dancin’ bear. To this day, though blessed in many ways, on some level she still felt like everyone was always waiting for her to mess up yet again. She looked around the table to see five sets of eyes on her, reflecting every emotion from encouragement to empathy to—in Demi’s case—disdain.

  Defiance welled up in her. She was tired of being talked down to. Underestimated.

  She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I’m going to be a sommelier at Cory Anthony’s new restaurant.”

  Her heart pounded. What am I saying?

  Demi’s jaw dropped. She was speechless.

  And Poppy was loving it!

  Keval caught Poppy’s momentum. A haughty grin spread across his face. “And a model. Boom.” He punctuated the syllable with his fork.

  Demi’s eyes swung back to Poppy’s, seeking clarification.

  “You’ve heard of Palette Cosmetics?” Poppy tossed her ponytail and stared straight into Demi’s treacherous green depths.

  I’m already in way over my head. Might as well go all the way.

  “They’ve hired me to be their spokesperson.”

  What alien being has taken over my body?

  As swiftly as Demi had been caught off guard, she recovered. “Isn’t that special? You’ll definitely have to come to the big class reunion, then! I’m sure everyone will be fascinated when they find out we have a sommelier and model in our class. In fact, spreading the word ahead of time might get more people to come.”

  The faces around the table froze.

  Demi sensed weakness like a shark smelled blood. “That is . . . unless it’s not a done deal?”

  Keval said, “Oh, it’s a done deal. Done as a dog’s dinner. Tell anyone you want. Tell the world! Poppy Springer has evolved. Our golden retriever’s going to compete at Westminster. Instead of sorting tea bags, she’ll be sorting French chardonnay. In place of smiley faces, she’ll be the face of—”

  “Poppy’s going to be a great somm.” Compared with Keval’s rising hysteria, Heath’s voice sounded rock solid.

  Poppy wanted to kiss him—even if it did make him squirm.

  Red took advantage of the uncomfortable lull to start gathering up her belongings. “Nice to see you, Demi. Poppy, could I scoot out and pay? My next client’s coming at two.”

  “I should get going, too,” said Junie, reaching for her own bag.

  Poppy let Junie out and remembered that for the time being, her job was pouring nothing stronger than Stumptown’s Hairbender. She offered Demi a nearby table.

  “Actually, I’m not as hungry as I thought,” Demi said. “I’ve got an idea. We were going to have our reunion meetings at the Radish Rose, but I think this would be a better spot. The next one’s scheduled for Tuesday evening. I’m going to go contact the committee. I’m sure they’ll all want to hear all the details about your new job.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” said Poppy, her smile feeling as phony as a three-dollar bill.

  “Oh, and Heath? I just thought of something else. Get your dad to loan us some potted trees from his nursery. The theme this year is Bacchanalia, and some greenery will be just the thing for that Roman garden look I’m going for. Now, I’ve got some calls to make.”

  They watched Demi walk briskly out the door and down the sidewalk, umbrella in one hand, phone in the other.

  Poppy
’s heart sank. If only she had kept her mouth shut! There had never been any expectations of her. She could have gone on working at her parents’ café forever, and no one would have thought the less of her.

  But now, if her fabulous new life didn’t happen, she was going to be the laughingstock of Clarkston.

  Chapter Two

  “Ow,” hissed Keval, rubbing his shin.

  “I barely tapped you,” replied Heath.

  “Next time, try using your words.”

  “Next time, try not saying every word that comes into your head.”

  “Can you believe Demi Barnes walked in here just when we were reading Poppy’s yearbook superlative?”

  “After what she wrote, she’s got nerve setting foot in here at all,” muttered Heath.

  “Nerve is something Demi has in spades. Did you hear her? ‘Heath, get your dad to loan us some potted trees,’” Keval mocked. “How’d she ever get that job in Senator Hollin’s office, with that kind of diplomacy? That’s what I’d like to know.” He shuddered. “What are we going to do?”

  “Do?”

  “About Poppy. You know how she is. She’ll never pass a written test without some major academic intervention.”

  Secretly, Heath hadn’t exactly been devastated when he found out Poppy had lost her job at the wine shop. Not that he didn’t want her to be happy, but the idea of having her back at the café on a regular basis warmed him inside. No one else made his turkey BLT quite like she did: bacon fried crisp, light on the mayo. He had already started getting excited at the idea of her being present at all the town’s big annual events—the post–Memorial Day Hike, the Clarkston Splash in July, and the fall crush celebrations, just like back in the good old days—when Keval broke the news of her plans to leave again in three short months.

  He looked up from where he’d been staring into his empty glass. “A waitress at rest tends to stay at rest unless an external force is applied to her. Newton’s First Law of Motion.”

  “That is so nerd.”

  “Nerd has such a negative connotation. I prefer intellectual badass.”

  Keval rolled his eyes and glanced over at where Poppy waited on another table. He inclined his head toward Heath’s. “You know what I mean.”

  Heath did know. If not for that hotshot restaurateur who had set his sights on his Poppy, right now the world would be falling back into apple-pie order. But he couldn’t exactly share that with Keval. Or with anyone, for that matter.

  “Don’t make me say it,” Keval whispered.

  “Say what?” Heath was lost in his fantasy of seeing Poppy’s friendly countenance every day again, instead of only glimpses now and then. Not that he couldn’t have found her if he’d needed to over the past few years. Her parents’ house was right down the road from his. At least there’d been that.

  “I love Poppy to pieces. Who doesn’t? But let’s be real. The eel-whay’s inning-spay, but the amster-hay’s ead-day.”

  “Pig Latin. Brilliant. Shoulda been a spy, like Sam.”

  Keval’s eyes grew round. “Is it true what they say? Was Sam really a spy?”

  Heath slapped his forehead. “And you think Poppy has a short attention span?”

  Right before Sam Owens started the consortium, he’d been awarded a chest full of medals for his military service. When asked about the details, he was infuriatingly closemouthed. His reticence had turned speculation about his past into one of the town’s favorite ongoing pastimes.

  “Why are you asking me?”

  Keval sat back and folded his arms. “Heath Sinclair, that is a hedge if I ever heard one. You’re one of Sam’s best friends. I knew it. I always said—”

  “Forget Sam. Back to Poppy. You’re right about her.”

  “Then you admit it—she’s in way over her head.”

  “No.” Heath instinctively rushed to Poppy’s defense. Fate had first thrown them together when they were barely tall enough for the carnival rides at the Yamhill County Fair. Over time, they’d grown as thick as the tangled roots on one of his dad’s overgrown perennials, and just as hard to separate. He knew her limitations better than anybody.

  On the other hand, he couldn’t deny that Keval had a point. “Maybe. Poppy might not be well-read, but she’s not dumb. What I meant was, I agree she’s going to need help.”

  He stopped short of volunteering himself. The truth was, he didn’t want Poppy to pass that test. He wanted her to stay right there in Clarkston.

  Keval, on the other hand, was plenty smart, but he didn’t have the patience to spend hours tutoring Poppy. Heath felt safe bouncing the ball back to him. He gave Keval a penetrating look.

  Keval glanced over his shoulder. “Are you looking at me?”

  “Why not? Aren’t you the cybermayor of Clarkston?”

  “Just because I do promo for a wine consortium doesn’t mean I know diddly-squat about wine. You were the one who held her hand all through school. With all due respect, if not for you, Poppy still wouldn’t have graduated. And now you’re in the beverage business. You’re a shoo-in.”

  “I’m a brewer, not a winemaker.” Heath’s highly tuned olfactory senses worked as well for wine as for beer. But Keval didn’t have to know that.

  “Shhh—here she comes.”

  Poppy approached sporting her usual winning smile despite the incident with Demi minutes earlier.

  Heath braced himself for her unique blend of orange blossom, jasmine, and sandalwood—a blend that never failed to stimulate a rush of cortisol and adrenaline in his blood.

  “Anything else, guys? More water? Lemonade?”

  “Aren’t you upset?” Keval blurted. “I can’t believe you just told Cruella de Clarkston that you already got the sommelier and the modeling jobs. What are you going to do if you don’t pass your test?”

  So much for zipping it, thought Heath. “No one would know anything about this if you had so much as an atom of self-control.”

  Keval’s mouth crinkled into a suitably sheepish expression. “The news was bound to come out sooner or later.”

  Heath sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.

  “I’ll think of something,” Poppy replied. Her smile remained steadfast though her eyes sparkled wetly. Then her lips quivered as she gulped unshed tears. “Somehow.”

  Chapter Three

  “Hey, boss.”

  Heath’s marketing manager, John, stuck his head in Heath’s office on his way back from lunch.

  “I’m free to fill you in on yesterday’s Brewer’s Guild meeting whenever you are.”

  Heath looked up from the spreadsheet he’d been studying, rocked back in his chair, and locked his fingers behind his head. “How’d it go?”

  “Same as last month. It was all about brewpubs again. That’s all anyone wanted to talk about.”

  Heath sighed. “Sounds like a song on repeat.”

  For months, John had been trying to convince Heath to open a bar in the front of the brewery where they could serve their own brands on tap. And he wasn’t the only one. Sam Owens had been hammering him, too.

  Across from Heath’s desk, John perched on the arm of a chair. “Think of the bucks we’re missing out on. We can charge more per pint in our own bar than we can sell it at through our distributor. Not only that, in case you didn’t notice, you’re becoming a one-man cult. Your customers want to meet the brewer. They want to know you.”

  “We’re becoming a cult,” Heath corrected him, scooting his chair back in. “We, not me. I didn’t build this business by myself. And I didn’t start out brewing beer for the notoriety. I like to keep a low profile.”

  He bowed his head over his spreadsheet again, signaling the conversation was over.

  John pressed his lips together. “Ironically, the fact that you’ve always flown under the radar has made you in even bigger demand. Like it or not, you’ve become a recognized brand. We should have a point of destination where people can sample everything on the line.”

  “We�
��re doing fine without a bar,” said Heath, without looking up.

  “We could do even better. When’s the last time you went on a good pub crawl?”

  In the early years of setting up his business, Heath had been in countless ale houses. But these days, Clarkston Craft Ales’s phenomenal rise had him spending more time crunching numbers and plotting the next big idea with his brew team.

  “What say you drive over to the city with me for the next guild meeting. We can spend the afternoon checking out the competition.”

  “That’s what I got you for.”

  Wearily, John got up and turned to leave, but lingered in the doorway.

  Heath looked up. “That it?”

  John gave the wall a resigned slap. “That’s it.”

  When the sound of John’s steps faded away, Heath sat back and scratched his head.

  Both John and Sam had excellent business sense, and they weren’t the only ones raving about brewpubs. He might not travel much, but he kept his subscriptions to the industry journals up to date.

  But the thought of his own bar—schmoozing and posing for strangers’ selfies—made him wince. His comfort zone was right here, behind the scenes.

  Besides, what with checking on his dad every day, he had a full plate.

  John was right about one thing, though. It wouldn’t hurt to drag himself out of his lair and take a trip up to the PDX soon. It was long overdue.

  * * *

  A warm front had swept in on the heels of yesterday’s storm, leaving the autumn air feeling almost balmy.

  Fifteen feet up, in the wide-reaching arms of an oak, Heath flipped on the string of white lights hanging along the roofline of the tree house he’d started hammering together when he was eight years old, after his world fell apart.

  He stood back, imagining how this place would look today through Poppy’s eyes.

  When Keval wussed out at the café, there had been nothing else to do but step up to the plate. No way could he resist those tears that Poppy tried to hide.

  Still, this wasn’t going to be easy.

  He ran some water into a plastic cup with the name of one of his best-selling ales emblazoned on the side and watered the ivy hanging from a macramé cord.