CAMERON MACNEIL CAREFULLY packed a bottle of MacNeil’s Highland Oatmeal Stout in bubble wrap. Standing next to him—and not helping—was his annoyed cousin Angus.
“I don’t see why you want to bring in an investor,” Angus said. “And judging by your caginess, he’s no MacNeil.”
“Do you know a MacNeil with the kind of money we need who we haven’t already hit up?”
Instead of answering, because the answer was “no,” Angus chugged the rest of the bottle of stout he’d nabbed. Highland Stout was not a chugging type of beer, but the nuances of hops and yeast escaped Angus. The alcohol content did not.
“Easy,” Cam warned. “We don’t have a lot of that batch left.”
“Make more.” Gus reached for another bottle, but Cam grabbed his wrist and guided it to the Highland Spring Bock they were about to release.
“The stout is a seasonal. Try this one.”
“Dishwater,” Gus grumbled and went for the high alcohol Pumpkin Porter they’d experimented with last fall. Cam let him have it. He didn’t like the way the porter tasted, although a lot of folks did. There seemed to be some unwritten rule now that all brewers had to come out with a pumpkin beer in the fall. Personally, Cam didn’t think the mixture did the beer or the pumpkins any favors. And don’t get him started on raspberries. Their Highland Heather Honey beer had promise, but so far, he wasn’t satisfied with the recipes they’d developed. But he would find the right one eventually. At least the failures weren’t wasted, he thought with a glance at Angus.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Gus said after a deep swallow. “Och, laddie, ye just gotta have faith in y’self.”
Cam shook his head at the accent. Cam’s problem wasn’t a lack of faith; it was a lack of help at the brewery. He considered a moment and then packed a bottle of the Pumpkin Porter to take to Seattle.
“What?” Gus tilted the bottle to his mouth.
“The accent. It wasn’t that strong when you lived in Scotland.”
“Lassies luuuuuv m’ accent. It’s part of the package.” He burped.
“Is that part of the package?”
Gus waved it off. “It shows I’m a man who enjoys life.”
“Or at least beer.”
Gus turned the bottle until the label faced Cam. “Yeah, and whose mug is that on the label, I want to know?”
A swath of the MacNeil tartan ran across a corner of the label behind a smiling, red-bearded man with a receding hairline—Gus. Although in current versions of the label, his hairline had been considerably filled in, thanks to the miracle of digital photo enhancement. “We don’t want the lads to be associating drinking beer with losing their hair,” Gus had explained virtuously.
Cam nodded to the label. “Are women really and truly impressed by that?”
“A man capable of fully appreciating a good brew is a man capable of fully appreciating a good woman.”
“And that line actually works for you?” Cam decided to add another bottle of the Pumpkin Porter to the wooden sample crate. Gus actually did know his beers. He was the front man for MacNeil’s Highland Beer. Cam was the everything-else man.
Gus patted his belly. “You’ll never get a hit if you don’t swing your bat, if ye get what I’m sayin’.”
Cam gave an unwilling laugh. “I do, but I wish I didn’t.”
“Yer just jealous because the ad folks didn’t pick yer pretty face for the label.”
“I don’t want to be on a beer label.”
“Och, surprised ya, though, di’n’t it? That they picked me over you.”
“Not really.”
“Oh, come on, Cam. Give a guy a break,” Gus said, dropping the accent. All but the part that was real, anyway. “When I’m hanging around you, I need some kind of an edge. Women won’t notice me otherwise.” He took another sip of beer.
Cam glanced down to where Gus’s huge belly draped over his kilt. His cousin must have put on thirty pounds since they started brewing beer commercially a couple of years ago. Aesthetics aside, it was also a health issue. And Gus believing his beard disguised his double chin wasn’t good, either.
“What are you staring at?” Gus spread his arms wide. “The kilt?”
Actually the stomach, but now wasn’t the moment to get into it. “That’s not a kilt.”
Gus looked down. “What would you call it then?”
Cam hid a smile. “A denim skirt.”
“Get with the times, Cam. Not all kilts are plaid wool anymore.” Gus drained the rest of his beer. “And I gotta tell you, they’re a helluva lot cooler for a Texas summer.”
He wiped his shining forehead on his sleeve. He was sweating in the unheated brewing room in a Texas January. It didn’t bode well for when it actually was summer in Texas.
“The ladies do like a man in a kilt,” Gus informed him. “Now, I know what’s running around in that head of yours.”
Probably not, Cam thought.
“But here’s the way I see it—on our next Saturday tour, you put on a kilt and flash those dimples of yours—”
Cam hated his dimples.
“—and maybe a little more—” Gus twitched the hem of his kilt and laughed uproariously, holding his belly. He looked like a Scottish Santa Claus. “And every female in the room will buzz right on over to you.”
“Cut it out, Gus.”
“It’s true!”
“Then why would you want me to wear a kilt?”
“To get it over with. You take your pick of the girls and free up the others for the rest of us mortals. The women will be disappointed, but then they’ll see me in a kilt and if they squint real hard, and sample enough of the beer, they’ll be reminded of you.”
“I must be getting tired because that makes a weird kind of sense.” Cam arranged curly wood shavings around the bottles for padding. He’d remove the bubble wrap and fluff everything up for a nice presentation after he got to Seattle.
“And it solves another problem.”
Cam reached for the crate’s top. “That would be?”
“You don’t have a woman in your life.”
“Gus...” They’d been over this, although why Gus felt Cam’s love life, or the lack of it, was his business escaped Cam.
“I know. You don’t want a girlfriend. You don’t have time for a ‘relationship.’” Gus used air quotes, which Cam ignored. “But you being unattached gives all the lassies hope. And if they have hope in their hearts for you, they aren’t going to fully appreciate my magnificence.”
“I apologize for the fact that my lack of a girlfriend is impacting your love life.” Cam fit the top onto the presentation crate and admired the MacNeil logo burned into the corner. Without Gus’s face. That had been one argument Cam had actually won.
Gus set the empty bottle on the table next to Cam’s box of samples. “It affects more than that. And more than me. We’re all well aware you don’t have a woman in your life. You need a woman.”
“I need to hire help at the brewery.”
“Why hire someone when you have your family? I’m not talking about a relationship.” Gus moved his arms in a big circle. “Just a short acquaintance. A night or two, even.” Cam picked