Page 22 of The Fate Factor

But Wes is also the head of operations for Fortune Brewing—I manage the product and the people, he manages all the other shit that turns that into money—and I’ve just made his job a lot harder.

I force myself to sit up with a groan, swallowing against the pain. My concussed brain desperately tries to come up with lies to tell Wes and then myself—a few more hours of sleep and I’ll be able to work through it.Maybe if I just take extra breaks—but then I reach for my water bottle rolling around on the floor beside the couch where I passed out and real tears spring to my eyes at the sharp stab in my side. Fuck this hurts.

The pain brings flashes of the hospital slinking back to me, mostly fond memories of Vicodin, but also Noel sitting in the chair beside me for hours while I was drugged, and X-rayed, and set up with the damn crutches now leaning against my kitchen island.

I can’t believe I found her again after all this time.

I can’t believe I bled all over her porch.

She’s still untouchably gorgeous even under fluorescent hospital lights, fresh out of the sleep I stole from her. I’ve wondered over the last two years if maybe I’d built that part up in my head, how striking she is, but she’s just like I remember. An angel. A prophet. A hot witch with dark hair, bizarrely beautiful gold eyes, and a tiny diamond stud in her nose.

Her face has been a recurring daydream for the past two years, and now she tells me I’m the only one she’s ever had a freaking psychic vision about? Well, let’s just say the basest part of my brain lit up like a Christmas tree despite the blinding pain.

The jingle of keys rips me out of that thought, and my front door swings open, then the overhead light flips on. I throw an arm over my eyes to block it, and maybe to take five extra seconds of peace before I’m greeted with the look that’s inevitably on Wes’s face right now.

“You awake?” he asks. Sitting up again feels unachievable, so I wave over the back of the couch.

He rounds the corner, and his eyes go wide at my bare chest. My entire right side’s a deep purple. “Wow. That’s ugly as fuck.”

“Thanks.” I’m slightly surprised that he’s taken the time to assess me before launching into business, but it can only mean I look worse than I thought.

“We need a plan,” Wes says, tugging at the legs of his slacks before sitting in the chair across from me.

My head throbs, and I press my palms into my eyes. I can already tell he’s Crisis Wes right now. Not my favorite Wes.

“I asked Em to take over managing for the launch tonight,” I tell him. I texted her as I was limping into my apartment after Noel dropped me off. “She can handle it.”

And I’ll handle the hit to my pride from being forced to watch on the sidelines.

“What about the rest of your shifts? Running the taproom on a skeleton crew was the only reason we were able to open it, but it’s about to royally fuck us.”

I hate that he has a point. I was the one who pushed for the taproom when Wes wanted to focus on retail distribution. It was the first time we disagreed. My first time taking lead on a decision. Selling direct to customers is how I get to flex the few muscles that I bring to this venture—my people skills, my likable(pre-black eye) face, and my beer. That and jamming every brew fest and beer event I can find into my schedule.

I’m damn lucky this didn’t happen in July, but to be fair, I’m barely in my thirties. I’m supposed to be invincible. No one plans to be unable to work when they’re my age.

Or maybe some people do. I’m sort of a late arrival to this adult world.

I rub my fists into my eyes to ease my blurry vision. “Maybe we could swap jobs,” I say. “You can pour pints and I can sit behind the desk for a while.”

“If you could read a spreadsheet, I’d consider it.”

I grind my teeth, glaring at him. That was a low blow.

Wes glares right back and I know exactly what he’s thinking. “This doesn’t change anything,” I say, beating him to it.

“Jamie, this type of thing is exactly why you should be considering this offer. One accident and everything we’ve worked for is in jeopardy. You’re going to be laid up for weeks. You can’t work behind the bar, you can’t do your ‘charming people into sales’ thing. It feels like a sign.”

A sardonic laugh springs out of my mouth. “That’s rich coming from you.”

Wes has made it very clear he doesn’t believe in signs or fate. Or more specifically, the supernatural occurrence that brought me everything I have. He doesn’t even like when I mention it.

Two weeks ago, Wes took a meeting with NEBev, a large-scale beer producer in the tri-state area. They want to buy my brand, make it just another line in their craft portfolio, and they gave me until the end of the year to decide. I’d work for them. Wes too. But NEBev would own the majority share and all the control. My family already thinks of me as a glorified bartender, and at that point, I would be. My beer wouldn’t be mine, and neither would the marketing decisions, so they could paint me and my company however they want. It was a knee-jerk no fromme, until the number they put up made my eyes bug out. It was enough that Wes hasn’t dropped it.

NEBev calling the shots for my brand feels a lot like ceding my own destiny to someone who couldn’t give a flying fuck about me or what I’ve built. I know I don’t want that—to be the stepkid of some huge corporation. It’s the rest of it I’m not so confident on. Like whether I have any business challenging Wes’s professional advice on this.

His comment about the spreadsheets was fucked up but true. Saying I struggle with numbers would be an understatement. My brain literally doesn’t comprehend them.

Growing up, it was a much bigger issue. I didn’t know why math class felt like a foreign language, or why I couldn’t write my fives and sevens the right way, or outline an essay correctly in English class. All I knew then was I was confused a lot, couldn’t get my brain to play ball, and hiding that was a top priority.

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