18I stared at Neal Trent in disbelief. “You called Woody and checked me out?”
“Didn’t have to. I have your dossier right here.” He tapped his forehead. “Woody’s proud of his beer-loving godmother. Quotes you whenever we discuss suds.”
He chuckled. “Woody claims you’re on a first-name basis with a dozen top brewmasters.”
“Not true any longer.” I ran a finger down the side of my glass, drawing a line in the filmy condensation. I raised my red face to meet Neal’s eyes.
“And there were only three or four,” I admitted. “Woody’s such a genius at physics I had to inflate the number. I wanted to stake out my own area of expertise. A godmother has to know something her godson doesn’t.”
“I know how you feel.” Neal softened his voice. “Woody was twenty-two when I met him. And teaching undergradu
