Becky had never appreciated the benefits of having a willing man-servant before. Especially not one who looked so nice after he worked up a sweat and stripped off his t-shirt.
“Whatever you do down there in New Orleans, it suits you well, Counselor,” she called from her couch. He was heaving fifty-pound burlap bags of malt and hops out of the van and stacking them in piles by the malt hopper. She hated not having her hands on her own product, but watching a real-life Harry Slater sweat on her behalf was better than Bradley Cooper in the movies.
“Racquetball mostly. Some gym time,” he grunted out as he dropped another bag on the pile. And he’d been surprisingly kind after she’d barfed all over him, or at least right in front of him.
Her knee was starting to hurt again. She reached for he
