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her and handed them to me. “Sit wherever you’d like.”
    “Do you mind, Mom?” I asked.
    “No, that’s fine.” She patted my shoulder. “You lead.”
    I edged past a few high-top tables in the lounge area before pulling out a chair at the bar for Mom.
    “Your father needs to see this place. I don’t think he’s been here yet,” Mom said, eyeing the row of taps behind the bar. She twisted in her seat as she hung her purse on the back of the chair.
    Besides brewing their own beer, Peak City had an extensive selection of drafts on tap. My dad, a self-proclaimed beer connoisseur, had a personal mission to visit every brewery in the state of Michigan. At one time, he’d dabbled in brewing, but the sludge he’d made convinced him to leave the beer making to the pros.
    “We’ll have to bring him here next time you guys come up,” I said.
    My dad, a busy cardiologist in Detroit, hadn’t had a chance to visit me in Bridgeland yet. He had, though, spent many weekends as an undergrad visiting Mom, who got her degree in elementary education from Central State, the public university in town.
    “Hi, folks. Welcome to Peak City.” Linden placed drink menus in front of us without looking up. “Can I start you with—” Our eyes met. “Oh, it’s you.”
    Mom giggled. I tried to send her an evil side-eye, but she’d lifted her menu to cover her face.
    “Well, hello to you, too.” I smiled, though my sarcastic greeting probably didn’t help pave the way to her good side.
    “What can I get you, Officer Taylor?” Linden asked. She was a glacier; a completely frozen, not-a-chance-of-melting-even-in-global-warming kind of glacier.
    I closed the drink menu. “We’ll have the sampler flight of beers, please.”
    “That’ll be right up.”
    The familiar scent of CK One by Calvin Klein wafted in the air, and I’d forgotten to spray myself tonight. I leaned into Mom. She smelled like a chick.
    “Now I know why you brought me here when there’s a perfectly good steak house at the casino,” Mom said, teasing, and pinched my side.
    “It’s not like that, Mom.” I brushed her fingers away.
    “What’s it like, then?”
    “She hates my guts.” I glanced at Linden as her fingers tapped the computer screen behind the bar.
    “Well, that much is obvious. What did you do?”
    “My job. Both times,” I muttered. Mom’s head cocked to one side, her disbelief obvious. “I swore at her little brother. In a game. Which is my job. And I pulled her over for speeding. Also my job.”
    “Jason Riley! You swore at a little boy?”
    “I said ass.” I defended myself. “It’s barely a swear word. And he’s not little. He’s seventeen.” No reason to tell Mom I used “fuck” after Linden had walked away.
    “Here you go.” Linden lined up six half-pint glasses of the brewery’s beers on the bar in front of Mom and me. “Start on the left. They’re in order according to the menu up there.” Linden pointed to the huge chalkboard above her head, which described each of the six beers on Peak City’s current brew list.
    “Thanks.” I tried to make eye contact again, but Linden didn’t even glance my way. She must think I’m one of those egomaniac jerk cops. I let her go with a warning. How did that deserve the cold shoulder?
    “I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.” Linden smiled at Mom.
    As she spun away, I caught the CK One scent again and realized it was coming from her. My stomach tightened, excited at how much I liked the smell of me on her. I shook my head, trying to shake the thought. If she smells like men’s cologne, she’s probably been all over a guy who wears it.
    “She called you Officer Taylor. That’s not a good sign,” Mom commented before she took a sip of the lightest of the six beers. Must’ve been the ale.
    “Better than jackweed or ass,” I said, remembering what Linden had called me at the ice rink.
    Mom choked on a laugh, then brought her hand to her mouth as if