Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 53629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 268(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 268(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
“I hope you have some pretty little arm candy to accompany you to this one,” I say to rib him a little, giving him my back as I slip off my heels.
He doesn’t answer even though it’s just a joke. It gets to him sometimes, the fact that we’re quiet about all this between us. I’m grateful for the relationship. Without him, I don’t know how I would have navigated all the lawyers and financial troubles. Let alone cope with life in general.
I will always love Robert for being there for me. Even if I’m nothing more than his little secret.
I give him a peck on the lips, grabbing ahold of his shoulders. “Have fun tonight; I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Brody
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Griffin’s question comes with the hollow thunk of his empty glass hitting the bar-height table in the back corner of the brewery. “The best recipe yet.” He double taps the bottom of his tasting glass after throwing back the small bit of what was left in it.
The sweet taste of hops is fresh and, more importantly, smooth.
I take another swig, letting it sit for a moment before swallowing it and pushing my glass forward on the hard rock maple. “It’s damn good.”
Griffin smiles as he pushes his hair out of his face. I swear when we were younger his dark brown eyes matched his dark hair perfectly. I guess the sun is making his hair lighter down South. His foot doesn’t stop tapping on the barstool even if he is grinning like a fool. The nervous energy about him is nothing but excitement.
“You know it’s good,” I tell him and take in the place. We’re at the only table in the brewery. All the shiny metal reflects the lighting from above in the old storage center. It’s perfect for brewing. Tall, twelve-foot-high ceilings and a single open space. That’s all we need. A place to brew. “Now we just need to get it going and start selling.”
“See, that’s the problem.”
He bought this place and I love it. It’s only the first step of many for what we have in store, though. Nailing down the recipes for the beer doesn’t matter if:
It isn’t a damn good beer.
We can’t sell it.
“The beer is good, but we still don’t have a license for South Carolina.” My best friend shrugs with his gaze fixed downward at the empty glass and lets out a long exhale. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look like this since he moved down here.
“I thought everything was moving along right on schedule?” I ask him, feeling my back lengthen as I sit up straighter. “You set up shop, then I come down and we get to work on the brewery and the bar.”
“I set up the brewery and we’ve got everything we need, but we don’t have a license to distribute.”
My nod is easy and short as I rub the stubble at my jaw mindlessly. “I thought you got it last week?” With a pinched brow I stare at him, waiting for an answer as unease runs through me.
I had the money, he had the knowledge, and together we had the same dream.
“Just a license is all that’s standing in the way, right? We’re still doing good on budget.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he answers and leans back. That restless tapping comes back, though. “We’re good on the budget. They just aren’t reviewing the application and I don’t know why.”
“I thought you knew people. Don’t you have connections?”
“I’m hardly connected,” he tells me. “My uncle lives down here but not in this township. But this is where the money is. The tourism and lots of generational wealth are all here. This is where we have to sell it. I just need a way in so we can get this license approved.”
“No connections … At least you have the accent, though,” I say, hoping the joke will lighten things up. Everyone down here sounds different from me. A hint of a twang is part of the Southern charm. It reminds me of a girl I hooked up with when I went to visit Griffin once. My nerves prick at the memory. I can’t shake the thoughts of her since I’ve been down here. I haven’t thought about Rose in a while, but this past week, she’s been coming to mind more and more. I tell myself it’s because Griffin and I came up with this plan back then when I met her.
“All right, well,” I say and let out a sigh, my thumb now tapping on my jeans in time with Griffin’s foot against the bar. I guess the nervous energy is contagious. “Let’s get the hell out of here and see if we can’t make some headway at the bar?”
“What are we going to do if we can’t get the license?” he asks with his voice low, true uncertainty written on his face. “You want to move the bar to my hometown?” He’s younger than me, fresh out of college. Broke as all hell and he spent the last eight months doing all this work, spending all my money. I can tell he needs the payoff. He needs something good to go our way.