I grin. “Atta Boy.”
We walk a few blocks down main street until we see it—brick building, big windows, a sign with bold letters.
ATTA BOY BREWERY
Inside it’s warm and lively, the smell of beer and fried food wrapping around me like an invitation. People laugh at tables. A couple plays darts near the back. Music hums low enough to talk over. It’s all so normal.
We sit at the bar. The bartender is busy, but a man behind the bar is checking the taps—dark hair, broad shoulders, easy confidence. He looks up as we settle in.
“Hey,” he says. “What can I get you?”
Ozzy gestures lightly. “Tripp Atwood sent us.”
The man’s brows lift. “Tripp?”
I nod. “At Book, Spine, and Sinker. He said we should come here.”
The man groans like his soul just left his body. “Yeah?”
Ozzy’s mouth curves. “He’s charming.”
“That’s what makes him dangerous,” the man says, then wipes his hands on a towel and offers one. “Paxton.”
“Salem,” I say.
“Ozzy,” Ozzy adds.
Paxton nods, eyes flicking between us with friendly curiosity. “You visiting?”
“Something like that,” Ozzy says smoothly, which is not an answer but also not a lie.
Paxton doesn’t push. Just nods like he gets it. “So,” he says, leaning an elbow on the bar, “What can I get you?”
Ozzy orders first. “Kunt Kicker IPA.”
I choke a little.
Paxton laughs. “Good choice.”
I look at the menu, overwhelmed by options. “Um… what’s a cider like?”
Paxton points. “Try that one. Sweet but not too sweet.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do a cider.”
Paxton nods and sets to work, chatting as he pours. “So Tripp was signing books?” he asks.
I smile. “Yeah. He was fun.”
Paxton sighs dramatically. “He is fun. He’s also insufferable.”
Ozzy smirks. “Sounds like family.”
Paxton gives him a look. “You have no idea.” He slides our drinks over.
Ozzy takes a sip of his IPA and lets out a satisfied sound. “Okay. This is good.”
I take a sip of mine. It’s crisp, sweet, and bright. My eyes widen. “Oh. That’s… really good.”