Page 173 of The Havenport Collection

Wyatt

“ C an we each get a seasonal flight, please?” giggled the woman at the bar.

She was in her early thirties and gave me a big smile while her friend nudged her suggestively.

I was used to a certain amount of flirting as a bartender; it sort of came with the territory.

But I was not in the mood these days. My heart wasn’t exactly broken but certainly dented after my five-year relationship fell apart a couple of months ago.

No number of flirtatious customers would pull me out of my funk tonight.

“Sure,” I replied, ducking down to find more of the tasting glasses.

It was my first Saturday night behind the bar at Binnacle Brewing, and I was loving the low-key vibe here. It was still early, so hard to say for sure, but the crowd was decent and the space was pretty cool.

I had arrived earlier this week from Portland, Maine, to start my apprenticeship with Liam Quinn.

I was an aspiring brewmaster, and he was an award-winning brewer who had his own microbrewery down in Havenport, Massachusetts.

We met last summer at a brewing industry event, and he seemed so cool.

He mentioned his business was expanding, and he was looking for someone to train and groom as his successor.

I had been languishing up in Portland for a few years, bartending mainly and doing odd jobs at the SeaWench Brewery—one of the largest independently-owned breweries on the east coast. We had a staff of hundreds and over a dozen brewers.

Despite my best efforts, I just couldn’t get the kind of hands-on experience there I had been looking for.

But I stayed and poured pints and mopped floors and cleaned tanks, hopeful that things would work out.

It was the kind of person I was, someone who accepted what I was given instead of pushing for more.

Not anymore. I was chasing my dream, and so far, Binnacle Brewing was exceeding my expectations. I had learned so much in just one week. Not to mention the kind welcome I had received from the team here and in the small town of Havenport.

Having grown up in Maine, I was pretty well accustomed to the typical New England small towns.

But Havenport was something else. Steeped in Revolutionary War history and nestled on a small peninsula near the New Hampshire border, it was bursting with character and life.

In just a few days, I had discovered an amazing coffee shop, walked through the historic downtown lined with cobblestone streets, and visited one of the most breathtaking beaches I had ever seen.

It was a picture postcard sort of town, and I felt lucky to be here. Unlike some of the desolate fishing villages I’d lived in, Havenport was a living, breathing place.

Trent came over and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “How you doing, Wyatt?”

“Great. I need to go grab more glasses.”

“The stout keg is kicked. Do you mind changing it on your way? I can cover the bar.”

I nodded and headed off in the direction of the keg room.

Trent was the operations manager at Binnacle and one of the nicest people I had ever met. He had been training me all week, helping get me situated, and had even offered me his spare bedroom while I found an apartment in town.

So we were temporary roommates as well as colleagues. I liked him immediately. Trent was in his midthirties and always had a smile on his face. He knew everyone and everything and went out of his way to help me.

After changing the keg, checking the others, and swinging by the kitchen for a fresh rack of glassware, I headed back to the bar.

It had grown more crowded in the twenty minutes I had been gone.

I also heard the distinct sound of someone tuning a guitar.

Trent had mentioned live music on the weekends.

I smiled; good music always helped my shifts behind the bar go faster.

I made my way into the taproom and stopped in my tracks. Standing in front of me, on the small stage area, was the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on. She was standing with her guitar, a keyboard, and an amp, biting her bottom lip as she tuned.

She had dirty-blonde long hair that hung past her shoulders, dark eyes rimmed with long black lashes, and a slightly upturned nose garnished with a small diamond stud. I watched her as her long delicate fingers adjusted the tuning keys, noting the look of intense concentration on her angelic face.

She wore a loose floral dress that showed quite a bit of leg and worn Doc Marten combat boots.

A thin sweater slid down one shoulder, exposing her beautiful neck and collarbones.

I could see a floral tattoo snake up one of her wrists and disappear under her sweater. I desperately wanted to see more.

She looked up while tuning and saw me staring at her like an idiot. And she smiled. A toothy, slightly crooked smile that made my heart clench.

I suddenly became aware I was standing in the middle of the taproom, holding a large rack of glasses, staring at a pretty woman, and grinning like an idiot.

So I headed back behind the bar, crouching down to hide the fact that my face was tomato red.

I focused on stacking and organizing the glassware while trying to mentally recover from the embarrassment.

“Everything okay?” Trent asked, wiping down the live edge oak bar with a rag.

“Yes,” I said a little too enthusiastically.

He smirked. “I see you met Sylvie.” He nodded his head in the direction of the stage.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“She’s really talented,” he continued. “Plays here on weekends.”

She was probably Trent’s girlfriend. He was handsome and charismatic and probably had beautiful musicians throwing themselves at him regularly.

Having been cheated on myself, I felt instantly guilty. “I’m sorry, dude. I didn’t realize.”

Trent laughed. “Nothing like that. She’s single.”

“I don’t want to step on your toes.”

“We’re just friends. But you should talk to her after her set.”

I would be doing no such thing. I would clean up this bar and studiously avoid making eye contact with her.

The last thing I needed was to get lost in those mesmerizing eyes again and make a fool of myself.

I was here to do a job—to elevate my career and pursue my dream, a dream I had put on the back burner for too many years.

The bar got a lot busier as the night went on.

I was in a groove, pouring beers and chatting with customers while simultaneously cleaning.

While I would never call myself a social person, I did enjoy bartending.

The Havenport crowd was great, pretty patient and really generous tippers.

I had almost forgotten about my earlier humiliation when I heard it.

The most incredible voice.

Melodic and haunting and a tiny bit playful.

I stopped and stared at the stage.

Sylvie was playing “The Sound of Silence,” one of my all-time favorite songs. I watched as she played and sang, and I felt the emotion of each note.

Her face was focused, but her body language was relaxed. She was made for this—being on stage and sharing her gifts with the world. Her arrangement of the song was slightly different, folksier and more playful, but still haunting and intense.

I stood, listening to her singing while the noise of the busy bar faded away. Her beautiful voice made me dizzy with conflicting emotions—loneliness, yearning, and most of all, hope.

Each note hung in the air, more perfect than the last. Every cell of my body pulsed with the need to take her in my arms. I had never even spoken to her—had only just laid eyes on her—but I felt her in my heart.

Her beauty, her talent, had gotten under my skin. And I had no idea what to do about it.

I walked toward the stage, a bar towel still slung over my shoulder, as she sang.

She raised her eyes and met mine as she strummed the last note.

I took a step back. Something happened. Something major that I couldn’t understand or explain.

But as I stared into her eyes and she stared into mine, something inside me shifted.

My cells rearranged themselves in my body.

And all I could think was “I found her.”