Taken by Storm

“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 up a rubber mallet and Gus backed off, palms outstretched. “That’s all I’m saying.”

It probably wasn’t, knowing Gus.

“A woman might even be able to change your outlook. You might see things a little different and not want to expand the brewery and take on all that extra work. You’re already complaining about the work you’ve got.”

“Expanding shouldn’t cause much extra work. Not with all my brothers and cousins around to help.” Cam was being sarcastic, but he didn’t expect Gus to notice.

“Cam.” Gus touched his arm. “Leave things be.”

“I can’t.” He faced his cousin. “MacNeil’s is too big to be a family hobby, but we’re not big enough to get any kind of regular distribution. We grow, or we fold.”

“You have to relax, Cam. Enjoy life.”

If he did, there wouldn’t be a MacNeil’s, a point he hoped to make while he was gone next week. “You mean I should stand around and drink beer and spout clichés in a fake accent while wearing a skirt, like you?” Cam immediately regretted his words—not because they weren’t true, but that he’d indulged himself by saying them.

Gus didn’t take offense. “And didn’t that nonsense you blathered just prove me point about you needing a woman?”

Let it go, let it go. But he couldn’t. “It was a little harsh, but it wasn’t nonsense.”

“Och, laddie.” Gus shook his head.

“Fake accent.”

“It’s the excess man juices bubblin’ around in yer blood talkin’.”

“You did not just say ‘man juices.’” Cam whacked at the metal fastening staples. They sank into the wood and started a tiny split. Great.

“It’s the truth. Your juices are all backed up with no place to go, so they’ve spilled over into yer blood, where they’ve been bubblin’ and fermentin’.” Gus illustrated this by wiggling his fingers.

Cam whacked another staple into the box.

“Until one day, you’ll see a female and you’ll blow your top, just like that batch of summer ale the first year.”